Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  Even from a distance, the crispness and flair of the captain’s uniform arrested the eye of the beholder. His waist-length, skirted coat of dark blue wool faced with red covered a white linen vest. Neither coat nor undergarment showed nary a spot of dirt or the first wrinkle. The same was true of the white pantaloons that stretched downward to black dragoon boots whose silver spurs sparkled in the light of the fire. The metal buttons of his black neck stock glistened just as brightly. And atop his head rested a billed helmet adorned with a most sensational cockade. Unlike the cockades of plain round leather I had seen on officers in the past at Limestone, the captain’s displayed a white core surrounded by circles of light blue, then dark blue. I would later learn the entire insignia had been sewn from individual loops of dyed silk. If one hadn’t known the contrary, you would have sworn the captain was but a step removed from the shop of the finest military tailor east of the Alleghenies.

  The hard rap on my arm nearly broke that limb above the elbow. The rumbling voice that sounded following the blow was as familiar as that of Tap Jacobs. “That red hair, high cheekbones, an’ fine shape has every jackanapes for a hundred miles in the rut, they truly do, Ethan.”

  Bear Watkins’s blunt remark bore the mistress no malice or personal rebuke. He was, as usual, describing exactly what he saw with neither frills nor omissions. He wrapped a thickly muscled arm about me and squeezed heartily by way of greeting as he had since my oldest memory. “An’ from what she’s telling, lad, you’re quite the hero.”

  I looked amid overhanging brows, flattened nose, and abundant beard and found not the tiniest glint of humor in Bear’s eyes. He winked and gave me a second hug. “Tap’s gonna be damn jealous, don’t yuh know.”

  The last thing I wanted was for my chance rescue of Erin Green to cause discord twixt the scout and me. But before I could express that sentiment to Bear Watkins, Tap spotted me from where he knelt beside the mistress. He rose and pointed me out, shouting, “By all that’s holy, here be our hero, come for to receive the glory due him. Step forward, Ethan, step forward!”

  There was no running or hiding. There was nothing I could do except hang onto my rifle and gear and march through the cheering crowd. I guessed some might not be so delighted once they learned I was Caleb Downer’s son. I could only hope that might somehow happen later.

  Tap’s moon-shaped countenance, with its cleanly shaven upper lip and whiskered jaws, creased into a grin. He pounded my shoulder, the fringe on the sleeve of his doeskin frock bouncing and jumping. “I’m godawful proud of you, an’ Erin’s mother surely desires to thank you.”

  New cheers erupted when the mistress motioned me closer. Not certain what to expect, and nervous as a convert who hadn’t yet learned his prayers, I found enough of my manners to remove my hat without dropping my flintlock. The mistress smelled out my hesitation, clasped my forearm, and pulled me alongside her. “Mother doesn’t bite,” she murmured.

  Molly Green’s smile would have warmed a heart of stone, for even the deep lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, lines like those of my mother’s face, softened. Though her calico dress was faded and much worn, and her woolen shawl snagged here and there, she gave the impression she was greeting you at the entryway of a grand public hall rather than before an open fire in the middle of the Ohio wilderness. “Young man, I’m in your debt,” she said, extending a callused hand. “I will be eternally grateful for your bravery.”

  I squeezed her fingers gently and managed a stiff bow that amounted to a quick dipping of head and shoulders. Despite the fluttery feeling of my innards and the big crowd watching and waiting, I somehow spoke without tripping over my tongue. “I was headed thisaway anyhow . . . ma’am.”

  My response, honestly and humbly wrought, tickled the fancy of all those listening, and the resulting uproar lasted a full minute. If anyone missed what I had said, his neighbor was most happy to repeat it at the top of his lungs. I had no way of knowing it that night, but my five words would be repeated around campfires and in front of tavern hearths for years to come. I would thank the Lord more than once that he hadn’t allowed me to act the blithering fool and spout something I had to live down the rest of my days.

  None laughed and carried on any harder or longer than the broken-nosed, black-bearded soldier at Molly Green’s left elbow. He now offered his hand. “Well enough lad, and will you accept the thanks of me ownself, Sergeant Torrance Devlin, Second American Regulars?”

  I walked the safer path this go-round, returning the sergeant’s firm grasp with a polite nod and venturing nothing with my tongue. I was grateful the mistress then interceded, for I was at a loss as to what was expected of me in the ensuing silence. She looked sharply at the soldier flanking Molly Green opposite Sergeant Devlin. “And will you not put forth your hand also, Miles?”

  The dragoon officer in the nearly spotless and wrinkle-free uniform drew to his full height and knuckled his forehead instead. “Captain Miles Starkweather at your service, sir,” he announced. “I congratulate you on your rescue of Erin. Many, including me, are envious of the feat.”

  A cackling giggle shot from behind Miles Starkweather. “You bet you be, captain. You want the bold vixen for your own. Every soul here, if’n they ain’t blind, knows that for chrissake.”

  Tap Jacobs spun and confronted the speaker. “Careful what you say, Annie Bower, or you’ll sleep in the woods without a blanket.”

  “Don’t fuss with me, you runt of a woodser. One kiss an’ you’ll snuggle up an’ keep me warm, no matter where I be!”

  A wave of hooting and derisive laughter descended upon Tap Jacobs. He could only wave a dismissing arm as if he wasn’t the least disturbed at having been bested by a quick-witted female. Captain Miles Starkweather lacked both Tap’s patience and his tolerance. “It’s a sad day when a washerwoman insults her betters with no fear.”

  With that, the mistress became riled. “Annie means no harm, Miles. And remember, if not for Sergeant Devlin, mother and I would be washing uniforms with her at the creek every dawn.”

  I edged backward. I had suffered the attention of strangers long enough for one evening and wanted no part of any disagreement twixt Erin Green and her supposed suitor. The savory meal from the mistress’s mother I was craving didn’t seem as tempting as it had a short quarter hour ago. Which just proves that a man can lose his taste for victuals even though his belly be growling.

  But if Erin Green had other designs, escaping her wasn’t easy. She tugged on my sleeve, halting my backward movement. “Stay a while longer, Mr. Downer. You must sup with us. Please don’t refuse.”

  She laid a neat trap, the mistress did. A refusal of her offer would be an outright rebuff, and she was trusting I was mannerly enough not to spurn her openly. I didn’t doubt either that she was counting on her attractiveness to win me over. And it did, for looking at her across a plate of the poorest victuals beat jerk and parched corn with Tap and Bear Watkins every time. Not surprisingly, I was suddenly beset by a ravishing hunger.

  “It will be my pleasure, Mistress Green,” I said with a firm nod of the head.

  With a smile dazzling as sunshine reflecting from a mirror, she wound her arm through mine and led me toward the fire. “Come, I’ll serve you myself, and please call me Erin. Will you be staying, Miles?”

  The captain hitched the silver-plated sheath of his cavalry sword higher on his hip and touched the curved bill of his helmet. “Not tonight. Jared will have my plate set and my reports for General St. Clair can not wait.” He bowed in the direction of Molly Green. “Till tomorrow.”

  If others watched the departure of Miles Starkweather, I did not, for I was totally distracted by the warm female flesh pressing against me as the mistress guided me to a seat on bare ground on the opposite side of the fire. My ears were working, howsomever, and I didn’t miss hearing Tap, walking behind us, mutter, “That Miles can’t abide a meal less’n he’s sittin’ at the table in front of his private tent.”

  Ser
geant Tor Devlin also excused himself. “I must see that my men are properly settled, Molly,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Then I shall return.”

  The excitement having waned sufficiently, the crowd slowly dispersed, trailing off in every direction. I never regretted my decision to remain and partake of Molly Green’s culinary skills, for dining of any quality—or quantity—would later become damnably scarce more days than not.

  The mistress’s mother was well schooled in cooking out of doors. A deep bed of glowing coals topped by dry oak branches nestled twixt two logs. A metal pot hung by its handle from a tripod over half of the fire. Lazy-wife beans soaked in the pot for one night, seasoned with salt pork and molasses and boiled and baked the second night, then reheated the third, teased the nose. In another metal vessel long of pan and resting on clay bricks, a beef roast dotted with quartered onions steamed in its own juices. And the last portion of the evening’s fare smelled best of all. The bread browning in the reflector oven squatting at the rim of the coals was a far cry from common johnnycake prepared by heating rounds of flour dough on a flat rock within a fire’s ashes. The whole spread left little wonder why, female company aside, wise men continually sought the invite of Molly Green and her daughter.

  Joined by Bear Watkins, we dined with the hurry of ill-trained louts, eating more with fingers than spoon and swiping at our tin trenchers with slabs of bread for the leavings. The cups of cold cider served by the mistress from an earthen jug were an added treat. With a gigantic belch, Tap leaned against an unburned log and groaned with happiness. “You may not own pewter dishes like Miles, but you’re the best, Molly,” he proclaimed, “the very best. Never a scorched bean, ever.”

  “Well, my dear Mr. Jacobs, since you never ever find the wherewithal to skim or turn while the cooking is under way,” our female host related, “you may scour the plates at the creek. And I’ll suffer no dragging of the heels, thank you.”

  Tap could do nothing else, of course, but gather trenchers and spoons and march for the creek. Whatever disgruntled comments followed, and given Tap’s distaste for what he considered woman’s work some were surely tendered, he mumbled them behind a jaw tightly clamped. A moocher like Tap never wore out his welcome at any fire or any table. Which was why and how, as Bear Watkins frequently reminded him, the irascible scout had grown a large, rounded, beginning-to-droop belly, a mound of fat that shortened his wind on the trail. Which, Bear conceded, was no real cause for alarm long as there was never an occasion when the redsticks were hot on your heels and you might be thinking of asking your fellow runners to carry you out of danger. It was then Bear swore that Tap would satisfy the piper from his own purse.

  Three women approached Molly Green from the woods nearby, garishly rouged cheeks red beacons in the firelight. Dirt encrusted the collars and wrists of their dresses and the once-white stockings that flashed with the rise and fall of their skirts. Their laughter was overly loud and rivaled the squawks of startled hens. The middle member of the trio I recognized as Annie Bower, who had silenced Tap prior to our evening meal.

  “Is there anything left for hungry doxies from afar?” Annie blurted. “A crumb will suffice.”

  While the mistress’s mother greeted the new arrivals without hesitation and offered them what little could be scraped from pot, pan, and oven, I saw stern disapproval narrow her daughter’s eyes before she caught herself and reached for the cider jug. “I’ll fetch cups all around.”

  “No need to fuss with such,” Annie crowed. “We drink from the spout liken our men!”

  “Not at my fire you won’t,” Molly Green admonished. “You don’t need a roof to act the lady in front of my guests.”

  “Bring on the tins, Erin. I’ll not have the cook insulted an’ sleep with pain back of my belly hole tonight,” Annie chimed.

  Eating like wild dogs without benefit of trenchers, the latecomers attacked the cooking vessels with the spoons Molly Green provided them. Honest truth was, they supped more on cider than anything else. It was mighty lean fare for three grown folks.

  The jug was dry by the time Tap reappeared. “Oh, Ethan, me lad,” the scout near shouted, “ain’t it the Lord’s blessing to learn that the tart mouth must beg for the nourishment provided the sweet!”

  “Don’t you slander me, you randy old goat,” Annie Bower countered, cocking her head defiantly. “My skirt’s been prim enough for you to lift many a night, hasn’t it?”

  Tap’s accuser allowed him no response. She was on her feet and at my side before the scout’s jaw could so much as open. “And what’s the liking of your well-knitted hero here? Perhaps he has a pocket full of oblongs to pay for his pleasure.” Annie preened, rubbing a breast suggestively against my elbow, then leaning to kiss a neck I was too surprised to move.

  The clang of pan and pot banging together snapped the bold harlot’s chin sharply about. Annie Bower’s rouged cheeks paled in comparison to the deep crimson darkening the skin of Molly Green from forehead to lower throat. But despite our irate host’s unbounded anger, her voice when she spoke was level and controlled. “One more word, just one more, and you will never sleep under my cart or tarp again, nor will you ever again taste a morsel of food at my fire. I will not be embarrassed by lewdness in the presence of a stranger who has this very day done me the greatest of favors. Do you understand me?”

  “Say yes, Annie, by all that’s holy, say yes,” pleaded the taller of the harlot’s two companions. “We don’t want to starve within the fortnight, for good God!”

  Had she wiped her features clean of paint and donned a silk gown, Annie Bower could not have been any more the lady born suddenly and completely of necessity. She stepped away from me and lowered her carriage in a perfectly wrought curtsy, and I freely admit my mother had seldom equaled her grace and balance greeting guests before our Kentucky hearth. “Monsieur, you have my sincere and heartfelt apology. I will not have you think poorly of Molly or her child on my account.”

  All present looked to me. Without undue thought, I reached downward and clasped a hand broken of nail and rough of palm. As I lifted, Annie Bower rose to her feet, and with flair I didn’t know I possessed, I kissed her fingers not once, but twice. “Your apology is accepted, madam. Tap and I have suffered no lasting hurt from your funning.”

  A brief blush rimmed the garish paint decorating Annie Bower’s plump cheeks, the same rouge through which a single tear tracked an instant later. She blotted that wet line with her thumb quick as she could, whispered, “I’ll owe you forever,” and turned to offer her apologies to Molly Green. Though I knew not what would come of it, if anything, I had a hunch I had just participated in the launching of a friendship that would never falter.

  Molly Green, her previously flaming face by now mostly reduced to its natural hue, graciously forgave Annie’s misdeeds. Her mellowing mood put a lilt in her tone as she next addressed Tap. “And so you will sleep peacefully, Mr. Jacobs, I hope you won’t begrudge any slight paid you this evening and avoid my cooking in the future.”

  “Ain’t no danger of that when a man is wedded to his own belly,” the delighted scout boasted.

  “Till later then,” Molly Green said, granting Tap a conspiratorial wink. “Annie, you and the others fetch your blankets. It promises to be a cold night.”

  I gathered my gear and, joined by Bear and the still grinning Tap, circled the fire. As was our habit, we would sleep near the animals in our charge.

  In the hubbub of evening’s end, Erin Green unfortunately disappeared among the women gathering around the cart belonging to her mother. Built with a cargo box four feet in width, six feet in length, and two feet high at the sideboards, the cart was supported by carriage wheels and could be hauled either by hand or drayage horse. I watched the women grab the cart’s long poles and maneuver it closer to the fire. My curiosity prompted a question I directed at Tap. “All those women sleep under that thing at once, together?”

  “Yep, they does. Ain’t nothin’ like hot flesh t
o keep a body warm on cold nights. And the colder it gets, the less concerned they be about who’s in the mix. Sort of awesome, ain’t it, so much of what a man desires day and night piled ’neath that wee cart. Makes you ponder what a treat it would be to sneak into the middle of ’em in the dark of night, don’t it, me buckos?”

  “Even if’n you snuck in there without an invite, come mornin’ or sooner, what’d be left of yuh for them to throw out wouldn’t be enough to draw life’s breath,” Bear opined. “An’ that Erin, the youngest of the lot, would be downright unwilling and do you harm, believe you me. Ain’t no man gonna touch her ’thout her say-so.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me about that,” I affirmed. “Molly Green’s daughter walks her own path, regardless.”

  What I said was indisputably true. What it didn’t change was another truth: Erin Green was the offspring of a common camp follower, an unmarried female whose survival was dependent upon scampering from dawn to dusk hoping not to fall behind an army seeking its enemy. She had no father, perhaps didn’t know who that individual might be—now or ever. She slept in the open with her mother and females of such loose virtue they would sell themselves to the devil or his henchmen for any cut of coin or federal note with no fear of the consequences.

  And being bluntly honest with myself, the mistress, beautiful as she was, would not be welcome at my mother’s table. The Downers of Kentucky, late of Pennsylvania, were not so overcome with themselves they snubbed those of lesser station. But neither would the lady of the house accept a stain on its lineage that couldn’t be washed away, no matter how strong the soap.

  None of these understandings and admissions made for an easy night’s sleep. Burning hair and sky-blue eyes and swelling bosoms and wasp waist and tapering legs are what they are—stunning and distracting.