Rainy Day Dreams: 2

by Lori Copeland

  Thanks to the assistance of many of the ladies who stayed after the tea to help assemble sandwiches, she got an early start. With a jaunty wave that projected more confidence than she felt, she climbed up onto the wagon and picked up the reins. Though a handful of men, like David and Noah, had been working at the blockhouse all day, the bulk of the evening workers would not yet have left the lumber mill, which meant she had some extra time. Might as well get the unpleasant task out of the way first. She directed the horse toward the main road leading to the wharf and flicked the reins.

  The sun had been out all day, and though lower, still dominated the western sky. As she headed down the hill, she scanned the town below her. The avenue down which she traveled was the same one Carter had taken when he delivered her, Helen, and Jason to the Faulkner House. Had that really only been a week ago? She shook her head, chuckling to herself. Seemed like months.

  She followed the length of the road with her eyes to the place where it ended at the wharf. Another road, narrower than this one, ran along the front of the dock to Yesler’s Mill on the left, and to the right…

  Ah, there. She sat straighter on the bench and stretched her sight in that direction. The wooden platform of the dock ended, and then there was a long empty stretch and, beyond that, a line of small, square, steep-roofed houses perched on the waterfront. Shacks, really. That first one must be Princess Angeline’s.

  Imagine, a princess living in a shack and working as a laundress. Actually, now that she gave it some thought, Kathryn found the idea admirable. Presumably the daughter of a chief would enjoy some measure of status had she moved to the reservation with her father’s people. Instead she chose to live here among white settlers and earn her own living. A woman like that was to be commended for her independence, something Kathryn had found more of in Seattle than she anticipated.

  Movement around the house in question drew her attention. She squinted to focus across the distance. Children, if she weren’t mistaken, running after one another around the building. A cheerful stream of white smoke rose from the chimney, creating a homey appearance. A few knots in her stomach unraveled, and Kathryn flicked the reins to prod the horse forward.

  When she rolled through town, she again drew attention from those inside the buildings lining the wide street. Though the men stared with that same hungry intensity they displayed upon her arrival, she must be growing accustomed to it. She even recognized several of them from the restaurant, and nodded a greeting here and there.

  At the end of the street she turned and traveled for a distance with the wharf on her left. No ship sat at the pier, but the Decatur was still anchored nearby in the bay. Whistles and a few shouts reached her, and she saw that the ship’s deck was lined with Marines in military uniforms, all of them staring at her. Feeling a bit less confident where sailors were concerned, she lifted a hand and gave them a hesitant wave, and then schooled her eyes forward.

  When the wooden dock ended abruptly, she drew the horse to a halt. The first of the little huts lay about seventy-five yards in front of her, the road a barren path stretching between them. The idea of leaving the wagon and covering the distance on foot was not appealing. The ground, though moist enough to muddy her boots, seemed solid. It had not rained all day, and the sun had probably hardened the ground enough to handle the weight of the wagon. She flicked the reins and urged the horse forward.

  When she drew near, she saw that she had been correct in thinking of Angeline’s home as a shack. This dwelling could be called a cabin only by the loosest definition of the word. Constructed of split cedar with the cracks filled by what appeared to be crumbling mud, it leaned noticeably to one side. There was no porch and a rough block of wood had been set before the open door in place of a proper stair. On the right a collection of barrels and old lumber, apparently left over from the construction, had been tossed into a haphazard pile. A pungent odor dominated the air, an unlikely blend of rotting fish and lye that set Kathryn to coughing.

  She halted her wagon and sat staring at the open doorway. Someone was sitting inside. Surely decorum dictated that the woman come outside to greet her visitor, but she made no move. After a moment’s hesitation, Kathryn climbed down from the bench and then gathered Madame’s bundle. Though she had not heard a sound, when she turned around an Indian woman stood behind her, arms folded and hands hidden beneath a multicolored shawl that appeared to have been made for someone twice her size.

  “Oh!” Kathryn jumped back and bumped against the sideboard. She emitted a nervous laugh. “You startled me.”

  The face before her did not change in the slightest. Eyes as dark as midnight fixed on her calmly. A wide nose spread across above thin lips with a distinct downward turn at the edges, giving her a grim countenance. Her dark skin had a weathered look that defied age, and her brow held traces of what promised to become heavy creases later in life. Her hair was black without a hint of silver, and she wore it parted in the center and pulled partially back in an untidy arrangement that left the ends to straggle across her shoulders.

  Kathryn swallowed. “P—Princess Angeline?”

  Though the woman before her looked nothing like anyone’s idea of royalty, she held herself with an easy regal bearing that gave Kathryn the urge to drop into a formal curtsy. She controlled the impulse, but when the Indian lady dipped her head, she managed a composed nod in return.

  “My name is Kathryn Bergert. I recently arrived from San Francisco.”

  “I know who you are.” The voice, unexpectedly low, was heavily accented but each word was precisely articulated.

  “You do?”

  Again the regal dip of her head. “Not so big a place, this town.”

  “Well, yes.” Kathryn glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the town. “I suppose news of newcomers spreads rather quickly.”

  “Especially white lady newcomers.” For the first time, the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of those thin, solemn lips. One hand emerged from within the folds of the shawl and gestured toward the bundle in Kathryn’s hands. “For me?”

  “Oh.” She had momentarily forgotten her errand. “Yes, of course. Madame Garritson instructed me to bring her laundry, and asked if you could have someone deliver it tomorrow to the Faulkner House.”

  Again the stately incline of her head, and she waved toward the shack. Kathryn assumed she was being instructed to put the laundry inside. Moving with quick, awkward steps, she did so, though she did not enter the dwelling but merely extended her hand inside to deposit the bundle near the door. The quick glimpse she took of the interior showed a single room, sparsely furnished but tidy and clean.

  She turned to find the woman watching her with that same unreadable, impassive expression. Was she expected to deliver the laundry and leave, or would that be considered impolite? This was, after all, the daughter of a chief.

  “Angeline,” she said after casting around for something to say. “It’s a beautiful name.”

  “Princess Angeline,” the woman corrected.

  “Of course.” Kathryn cleared her throat. Should she call her by a title? Were Indian princesses addressed as Your Highness, as English ones were? “I’m sorry, um…Princess.”

  A twinkle appeared in the black eyes. “That is my white man’s name given by my friend Letitia.”

  “Letitia Coffinger?” Kathryn asked, surprised when the woman nodded. “Then what is your, ur, your Indian name?”

  “Duwamish name,” she corrected gently. “To my people I am known as Kikisoblu, daughter of Sealth. Letitia Coffinger did not think it a name that suited me.”

  Actually, she looked far more like a Kikisoblu than an Angeline, but Kathryn kept the opinion to herself. Something about this lady’s tranquil manner and barely revealed humor put her at ease, and she risked a hesitant smile into the broad face. “Both names are lovely.”

  A string of children, their laughter filling the air, came charging around the house. Catching sight of her, they screeched to a hal
t a few feet away and fell silent. Perhaps a dozen children stared at her with open curiosity. Kathryn gave them a hesitant smile, and then a smaller one pushed through from behind. She saw a flash of white skin and blond hair, and in the next instant the child dashed forward and threw himself around her skirt, hugging her knees with enthusiasm.

  “Miss Kathryn! Did you come to play with me?”

  “Why, hello there.” Surprised, she bent down to return John William’s embrace. “I didn’t know you were here or I would have made a special point to come and play with you. I’m afraid I don’t have time right now.”

  So this was where Will Townsend had been taking his grandson. She glanced up to give Princess Angeline an inquisitive look, but found no answers in her face.

  John William heaved a dramatic sigh. “It’s okay. I left my blocks at Miss Weesa’s house. I miss Miss Weesa.” His smile returned, and he gestured to his companions. “But I have lots of kids to play with today. C’mon!”

  The last was shouted toward the other children, and then they were gone, running off toward the next little shack down the road.

  Straightening, she turned to face Princess Angeline. “I wondered who’d been minding him. I know Louisa has missed him since his grandfather decided to take him somewhere else. She’s had the care of him since they first arrived. No matter how tired she is, she insists he has never been a burden.”

  She mentioned the reason almost as a question. Will’s excuse to Louisa had not rung true from the beginning. No matter how far along with child Louisa was, she rarely suffered from lack of energy. But Kathryn kept her doubts to herself.

  For a moment she thought Princess Angeline would not answer. When she did, it was in the same toneless voice that Kathryn found impossible to interpret.

  “He feels safer knowing the boy is with an Indian woman than a white woman.”

  Interesting. Why did he give a different reason to Princess Angeline than to Louisa?

  The woman paused, as though considering whether or not to continue. When she did, it was in a voice so low Kathryn had to lean close to hear. “Though red skin will be no safer than white in the days to come.”

  Fear blew its icy breath against the nape of Kathryn’s neck, and questions about Will Townsend evaporated. “You mean there really will be an Indian attack?”

  Black eyes held hers while the woman gave a shallow nod. “Klickitats, Nisquallies, Muckleshoots. They are not happy with the white men, or with the redskins who befriend them.”

  Kathryn cast an apprehensive glance behind her toward the knoll where the blockhouse was being built. “How soon?”

  The shawl-covered shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Soon. Already our houses overflow with those who fear living in the woods where they have spent their whole lives.”

  Kathryn looked in the direction the young ones had run. “You mean those little ones are refugees?”

  “I do not know the word. They came with their parents, who hope the white men and their guns will save their children from slaughter.”

  Mouth dry, Kathryn looked again toward the knoll. “I hope that blockhouse is big enough for everyone. Looks like it’s going to be awfully crowded inside.”

  It was a halfhearted attempt at humor but Princess Angeline nodded, her expression serious.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, Kathryn bid her farewell and climbed onto the wagon. She forced herself to restraint and did not push the horse into a run, but her fingers ached from her tight grip on the reins. A strong urge to glance continually over her shoulder at the dark places between the trees possessed her. Were hostile eyes fixed on her from those shadowy places?

  So preoccupied was she that a sudden pitch of the wagon took her by surprise. The horse came to a halt.

  “What’s the matter?” Fright made her voice high, her words pinched. She flicked the reins with impatience. “Come on. Move.”

  The animal made an attempt to obey, but the wagon moved forward only a few inches before stopping and rolling slowly backward. Leaning over the edge, she saw why. The wheels were mired in mud. Apparently she had failed to notice a soggy place in the road.

  “No, no, no!”

  Now she did look back, prepared to shout to Princess Angeline for help. Not a soul in sight. Apparently the lady had gone inside, and the children with her. Besides, she had covered more than half the distance to the wharf. Twisting back around toward the front, she scanned the area before her. A small boat, loaded with sailors, was just approaching the dock from the direction of the Decatur. Relief washed over her.

  “Hello!” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Over here.” Waving wildly, she drew their attention and several waved back. “I’m stuck,” she shouted. “Will you help me?”

  “Hang tight, girlie,” came the answer, along with a few whoops and a loud whistle that made her more than a little uneasy. Still, what choice did she have? She glanced at the ground below her. Perhaps the sacrifice of her shoes wasn’t a bad choice after all. But no, she couldn’t abandon the horse, wagon, and four crates of sandwiches in the mud.

  The rowboat pulled alongside the dock and a group of sailors climbed out. They hurried along the wharf, eager faces fixed on her, and jumped from the platform to the road. Mud splattered when their boots hit the ground. A new kind of fear kindled to life in her at the sight of the intent, almost wolfish gazes some of them fixed on her as they neared.

  At their approach the group parted, encircling the wagon. She was surrounded by what seemed an entire battalion.

  “Over here, girlie.” A pair of hands at her right lifted toward her. “I’ll help you down.”

  Another time she might have informed the man that she hadn’t been called girlie since she was a child in pinafores, but at that moment she found it hard to speak around the frightened lump that had arisen in her throat.

  A lean, wiry sailor beside him scowled. “Shove off, Terry. Ye’ll drop her like you dropped that crate of apples last summer.” He thrust his hands toward Kathryn as well. “Come to me, gal. Old Barney’ll take care of you.”

  “I’d like to take care of her myself,” said someone on the other side, and the sly tone in his voice gave the words a meaning that sent heat into Kathryn’s face. A chorus of snickers answered him.

  “I won’t either drop her.” The first man, Terry, placed a hand on Barney’s chest and shoved. “C’mere, girl.”

  She had better move quickly or a fight might erupt. Forcing a shaky smile, she reached down to take the proffered arm. Instead he grasped her hand and in the next instant she found herself pulled roughly off the wagon and swung up into a pair of surprisingly strong arms.

  The man hefted her as though testing her weight, a most unpleasant sensation that caused her to issue a tiny, surprised exclamation.

  “She ain’t no heavier than a young’un.”

  “I ain’t never seen no young’un with a body like that,” said someone, and this time the comment was met with a chorus of raucous guffaws.

  Kathryn mastered her frozen tongue. “Please, put me down.”

  “You’ll sink in mud up to your pretty little knees,” said Terry with a low, disturbing rumble in his voice.

  Horrified at the mention of her knees in the company of these woman-hungry seamen, Kathryn pushed at his shoulder with a balled fist. “I can manage.”

  He ignored her and started toward the dock. Before he had gone three steps, another man jumped in front of him. “Let me have a go with her.”

  Without warning she was wrenched bodily from Terry’s arms. Startled, she gave a little scream. The others seemed to find that funny, and her face burned anew at the sound of their rough laughter.

  “My turn.”

  Barney tried to jerk her away, an act that so infuriated Terry that he gave a bellow that left her ears ringing. His arms tightened like steel cables and she was crushed against a stone-like chest. Someone grabbed her coat at the back of her neck and pulled, and the buttoned collar pressed against her thro
at. Choking, she began to kick her feet.

  “Put me down this instant!”

  Her command went unheard, muffled by a muscled chest and drowned out by the men’s rowdy laughter. Fear gave way to fury. She balled her fists and began beating her captor’s face. Startled, his grip loosened. That was the moment Barney had been waiting for, and she was jerked roughly away. Drawing a deep breath, she let out a scream, the volume fed by anger.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  The shout rode over the top of the sailors’ ruckus. They fell silent and moved quickly to form a wall in front of her.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” answered Terry, the man whose face she had hit. “You boys go on about your business.”

  But Kathryn recognized the voice. She twisted around, still held tight in the seaman’s grip, and spied Big Dog towering head and shoulders above a handful of millworkers. Apparently their shift at the mill had ended at exactly the right time.

  Red spoke in a voice that held all the menace of a growling wolf. “I don’t know who you are, boy, but you’d better put that lady down real gentle-like.”

  Feeling a bit braver with the arrival of her friends, Kathryn reached up and grabbed Barney’s ear between her thumb and finger. When she gave a vicious twist, he shouted, “Ow!” and dropped her. She stumbled for a step, but landed with her feet moving and pushed her way between two sailors. Never had she been so happy to see anyone as these men who one week ago had been complete strangers.

  “We didn’t hurt her none,” said one of the sailors. “She asked us for help, that’s all.”

  “For help.” Now that she stood in the protective presence of her friends, she gave her anger full head. “I didn’t ask to be insulted and manhandled.”

  Big Dog stepped in front of her and drew himself up to his full threatening height. “Here in Seattle we don’t take kindly to people insulting ladies.”

  “Yeah.” Murphy moved beside him while rolling his sleeve up above a flexing muscle. “Especially not by a pack of bilge rats.”