by Kelly, Carla
“Miss Blue Eye, we have some hardtack and sow belly. Do you want to eat it in the wagon?”
“I’ll be right out,” she whispered to the corporal, so as not to wake the sleeping private. Lemaster startled her by opening his eyes.
He grinned at her and said, “Shhh.”
She ate quickly by the fire, happy to warm her hands around a tin cup of mashed hardtack and bacon, with a sprinkle of salt. It tasted better than she thought it would.
She took a similar tin cup to Private Lemaster, who grimaced and rose up on one elbow to eat. He shook his head over more than three spoonfuls, wanting water instead. He drank with his eyes closed and her arm under his neck. “That’ll do,” he said finally. She laid his head back on the cornmeal sack, and he sighed. She didn’t want to alarm him, so she said nothing about the flush on his cheeks and his warmth.
She moved slightly, mostly to make herself more comfortable, but he must have thought she was leaving. He put his hand out to stop her, and she held it. He was warm.
“I’m staying here,” she said. “I wish I could make you some chicken soup. My mother calls it the white man’s elixir.”
He smiled at that, but just barely. “I’ve thought about reenlisting, because my five is almost up, but by golly, I miss Maine.”
“Five years for one enlistment?”
“Yep.”
“Sergeant Blade has two stripes on his sleeve. Does that mean ten years?” she asked, curious.
“Yep. He started pretty young in the war and stayed in. I think he’s about due to reenlist.” He closed his eyes. “Said he’s been thinking about getting out.”
“What would he do?”
He opened his eyes at her question. “My word, oh, wait, you haven’t been here in the spring, have you?”
And I won’t be, either, she thought. “What does he do in the spring?”
“Anytime there is an extra-duty detail that involves building or making cabinets, Sarge gets put in charge of the extra-duty men. Doesn’t matter where we are—Fort Davis, Fort Abercrombie, Fort Shaw . . .” His voice trailed off, then came back. “He can build anything.” His eyes closed and he slept this time.
Her worry grew as his fever mounted. The corporal brought her more water, and she continued to wipe Will Lemaster’s face and neck. She wanted to check under his bandage but contented herself with touching the lovely calico she had wound around his thigh. It was dry, and there was no fresh blood on the brown paper underneath. She would have done more if she had known what to do, even as she admitted to herself she had nothing to do anything with. Rowan had been right to ride for the surgeon.
The one bright spot in the long afternoon came at dusk. She heard horses approaching and sat up, thinking that somehow the surgeon at Fort Russell had got the message through mental telepathy and rushed on ahead. That was stupid, but she indulged herself because she was Mary Blue Eye and never minded laughing at herself.
“Mary . . . Miss Blue Eye . . . come out now,” she heard the corporal call.
She climbed out of the wagon and stared up at Smooth Stone’s mother and father. “Hello,” she said, not afraid.
“Hello you,” the warrior said. “Shell gives this.” His wife handed down a parfleche even more beautiful than the one Lieutenant Masterson wanted to hang on the wall in their quarters, though Victoria wouldn’t allow it. “Take.”
She took, and it was heavy. She opened it and saw a large hunk of meat wrapped in what looked like deerskin, so it would not drip on the parfleche.
“Good food,” the warrior signed, hand straight out from his heart, then fingers to his lips.
He handed down the empty pail. “Wait,” Mary said and climbed back in the wagon. She scooped out more raisins, all the while thinking how good that meat would taste and what nice broth there would be for Private Lemaster. She held up the full pail to Shell, who took it with a smile.
Mary stepped back, her heart full, wishing she could say something to them, or sign something. To her further surprise, Shell leaned down and handed her one elk tooth. She pantomimed for Mary to put it in her medicine pouch.
Mary pulled the pouch from her shirtwaist and dropped in the elk tooth. On a whim, she took out Sergeant Blade’s brass button and showed Shell, who put her hand to her mouth, her eyes lively. She spoke to her husband.
“Good man blue coat,” he said. “Put your blanket around him.”
She nodded, fully aware what he meant because she remembered a longhouse story told when Mama thought she slept. Mary stood beside the wagon until her benefactors were out of sight, then handed the meat to the corporal, who whistled and exclaimed, “No sow belly tonight, men!” He bowed elaborately. “With your permission, Miss Blue Eye.”
“You have it,” she said, her heart so full that the good feeling seeped into her soul, too, where she needed it even more. “Save some broth for Private Lemaster, if you please.”
Will ate a little, then shook his head. One of the connoisseurs in G Troop told Mary it was elk meat, as good as any he ever ate. “You have some friends there, Miss Blue Eye,” the private told her. She saw respect in his eyes and friendship, all she ever wanted.
After Casey saw to Private Lemaster’s basic needs, Mary climbed back into the wagon and stayed the night by his side, holding his hand, praying, dozing when she could, and wiping his face. He never complained. When daybreak came and she heard what sounded like a wagon and a troop of horses, she closed her eyes in weariness and gratitude.
Mere minutes later, Captain Julius Patzki from Fort Russell introduced himself first like the Polish gentleman he was, then climbed into the wagon. He nodded to her, his eyes on his patient, lying as comfortable as Mary could make him. With her help, the surgeon peeled back the calico bandage.
“Lovely fabric, Miss Blue Eye,” he said. “Sergeant Blade told me he picked it out. What talent in a sergeant.”
Mary laughed. Why feel shy or reticent around a surgeon as they crouched beside a grown man’s bare leg? “It was intended for a calico ball,” she said. “The ladies at Fort Laramie want to help the women rendered homeless by the Chicago Fire.”
Maybe it was the way she said it. Papa had chided her once about her sly humor. Captain Patzki sat back on his heels and gave her his attention. “I sense some skepticism.”
“Captain, people need help right here.”
“They do. I wish you all success in trying to convince some officers’ wives of that,” he said. He looked down at Private Lemaster. “I’m taking you back to Russell. I think there is some cloth festering in the wound, and I need to get it out.” He patted the private’s shoulder. “You’ll feel better when I’m done.”
“I’d feel braver if you came along,” Lemaster told Mary.
“I wish I could, but if I don’t get back to Fort Laramie and start sewing, things will get ugly with the wives of your commanding officers,” she joked.
“Take good care of Sarge.”
Her traitor face felt warm. “I think he can take care of himself.”
“Not really.” Private Lemaster closed his eyes.
Come to think of it, where was the sergeant? Mary got out of the wagon so two troopers carrying the stretcher could climb in. She looked around. No sergeant.
“Please, sir, where is Sergeant Blade?” she asked the surgeon, hoping to sound offhand and casual.
“He said he had some paperwork at the fort and then something to do in town.” The surgeon turned to the corporal. “He told me you are to start out and he will catch up.”
“But . . . but we were set upon by Indians only yesterday,” Mary said. “Surely it isn’t safe to just . . . just . . . go off and leave him.”
“He told me about the Sioux. Miss Blue Eye, you are quite the asset. He also told me you would worry.”
Tears filled her eyes, which probably would have startled any man except a surgeon. He touched her shoulder. “He didn’t mention you would worry that much. He has two privates with him.”
&n
bsp; Captain Patzki turned his attention to his patient. “I promise to take good care of Private Lemaster,” he told her over his shoulder, and she had to be content with that.
But she wasn’t. All her mental lectures about being a little braver did her no good, and it must have showed on her face. In the middle of the afternoon, the corporal rode back by the supply wagon and took a look at her.
“He’ll be around by the time we get to Hunton’s,” he promised.
“He had better,” Mary replied. “He has no idea that the Iroquois League, of which I am a member, raised scalping to an art form.”
The teamster she sat beside laughed so loud that the troopers riding ahead turned around and joined in the laughter, even if they hadn’t heard her joke. It was funny. Mary laughed along with him and considered it another lesson learned. She would grow up one way or another.
Looking both tired and dirty, Sergeant Blade and the two privates showed up at Hunton’s as the proprietor was passing a platter of fried chicken down the table.
“I was about ready to start gnawing on my left leg,” the sergeant said to the corporal, who grinned at him and made space on the bench. “How are you, gents?”
His men chuckled and continued with the weighty business of chicken, canned green beans, and biscuits in front of them. “And you, Miss Mary Blue Eye?” he added. “I passed Captain Patzki, and he had nothing but compliments for your nursing and the calico bandage.”
She wanted to smile and toss off a joke like the others, but there was no stopping the tears of relief that slid down her face. She bowed her head and let them fall quietly, another lesson learned from Mama. No Seneca ever made any noisy tears. Her tears dropped on the oilcloth in a suddenly silent room.
“I’m sorry. I was worried,” she said simply, as she stared at the plate in front of her.
“Oh, Mary,” was all the sergeant said.
The room was too small. Mary excused herself and made a beeline for the back door. You never have to leave New York again, once you get home, she reminded herself. Someone else can keep that western door.
What a relief it was to step outside and take a deep breath of . . . corral. Mary shook her head at her own folly and walked around to the bench by the front entrance. She toed the spittoon out of sight under the bench and sat down, trying to pretend she was on her own front porch, snapping green beans with Mama.
Sergeant Blade was so quiet. She started when he sat down beside her, then turned her head away, embarrassed. “I really was worried for you,” she said finally.
“I was, too,” he admitted, “right up until Mrs. Shell gave you that medicine pouch.”
She had to smile at that. Who wouldn’t?
“Let me fill you in on Shell,” Rowan said. “After I routed out Captain Patzki, I went to the barracks where I knew another troop of the Fifth was quartered. When I told Thad Mueller—he’s another sergeant—about the whole experience and mentioned Smooth Stone and Shell, his eyes nearly bugged out.”
“Why?”
“She’s the favorite wife of His Pony, quite the warrior among the Brulé.” He moved closer to her on the bench. “Rest assured that no one in that jolly band would have dreamed of bothering us further, not with Mr. and Mrs. His Pony on our side.”
Mary produced a smile from somewhere, wondering if she could lean against his shoulder a little. She was tired of feeling alone and useful for nothing except for a minor talent in dressmaking.
She took a grand chance and leaned, which had the remarkable reflex of causing his arm to go around her shoulder as he pulled her closer. She took another chance and tipped her head against a suddenly available chest. It was just a small lean. He didn’t have to think anything of it.
“I don’t belong here,” she said. “I’m tired of officers’ wives convinced I am just another Indian in a dress and shoes, who maybe thinks she is higher in station than is legally allowed.”
He chuckled at that. “Mary, they’ve never met anyone like you. I’ll give them that, but just barely.” He hesitated, as if he had his own doubts. “But you don’t mind being here on this porch?”
She took another chance. “Not a bit.”
He must have taken one, too, because Rowan Blade kissed her. She took another chance and kissed him back, wondering how it was that a body could feel so miserable a mere twenty seconds earlier and then feel this way.
The kiss came to a natural conclusion. He kept his face close to hers, which meant he was out of focus, blurry but reassuring. She knew down to her marrow that this was not a man to kiss and tease.
He sat back. “I haven’t kissed a lady in ten years,” he said. “My goodness, Mary Blue Eye. It’s nice to feel human again.”
“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Then you have a natural talent.” He leaned against the bench but kept his arm around her. “I’ve complicated things, haven’t I?”
She thought about his comment, thinking of the many times she had blurted out words that fell with a thud, and her father’s patient reminder to think once, think twice, and then speak or don’t. She was leaving Fort Laramie when her six months were up; she had fifteen dresses to make in two weeks; army life was never going to be to her taste. On the other hand, there was this man seated beside her.
“That remains to be seen, Rowan.”
“Fair enough.”
They pushed hard and arrived at Fort Laramie the next evening, just as a snowstorm of daunting proportions rolled in. Sergeant Blade helped her from her horse and walked her to the Mastersons’ quarters, two troopers carrying the fabric and her valise.
Victoria Masterson opened the door, her face wreathed in smiles to see the fabric. She told the privates to set the fabric in the dining room. When they looked around, she frowned and jabbed her forefinger at that portion of the meager sitting room designated as the dining room.
Aren’t we pretentious, Mary thought, and felt like a servant once more.
Sergeant Blade must have noticed how her face fell. He moved closer and even stepped slightly in front of her, as if to shield her. The gesture was instinctive; she knew it.
“We had quite a return trip, Mrs. Masterson,” he said. “Indians attacked, Mary tended a wounded man, and she gave away enough commissary raisins to placate a whole bunch of Brulé Sioux.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “As long as the fabric came through! No wonder Captain Hayes’s wife said I should not go! Mary, we’ll set up the sewing machine in the kitchen lean-to. I’m having a card party here tonight, and you would be in the way.”
Humiliated, Mary walked Sergeant Blade to the porch as quickly as she could, because she saw the slow burn rising north from his uniform collar. “At least I don’t have to sew outside,” she joked. “Two weeks and I’ll be done with those blasted dresses for a calico ball no one needs.”
“I’d like to wring her neck,” he said.
“That would land you in the guardhouse and then off to Fort . . . Fort somewhere.”
“Leavenworth. I’m throwing you to the wolves, and I don’t like it.”
He stood on the porch, which meant she had to stand there, too, feeling more cheerful than he did, because she had realized something: Victoria Masterson had never been her friend. There was no point in thinking otherwise, so she needn’t waste any more energy on the matter. Over and done.
“Rowan, let me tell you a longhouse story that my great-grandfather told me once when I was impatient about something I can’t even remember now.”
“A longhouse? You told me you live in a regular house.”
“I do, but every year we travel to the longhouse, eat too much, laugh a lot, and listen to our elders tell stories. I have one for you: There was Spider, who spun a beautiful web. She would get it nearly completed, and bad-tempered Badger would break it and stomp away laughing. She began again, and the same thing happened. Over and over, she worked on her web, each part more lovely than the time before.” She folded her hands in front of her
. “That is the end of the story.”
“That’s no ending,” the sergeant argued.
“It is if you are an Indian. She persisted, and so must I.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll think about that story.”
Mary watched him cross the parade ground, head down against the snow, with that purposeful stride she had become accustomed to. He stood still a moment on the other side by the guardhouse, then turned and walked toward the stables. Still she watched, and smiled when he waved to her and made ushering motions, as if doing more than suggest she go inside. He was a sergeant, after all, and used to obedience.
She watched until Rowan was out of sight in the swirling snow. She thought of Shell, Smooth Stone, and His Pony and hoped they were at least close to Spotted Tail’s agency.
As tired as she was, she knew she would lie in bed and think about Sergeant Blade, and getting kissed, and helping Smooth Stone, and worrying and maybe, perhaps, falling in love. Sleep could wait.
The first thing she did in the morning was select the light-blue and yellow calico—the one for Victoria—and put the others out of sight.
Hers was a simple plan: she would make one dress at a time and not muddy up her sewing area with other calicos. When each dress was done, she would reward herself by choosing her next favorite color. She was Spider, spinning her web over and over, despite silly interruptions from Badger, also known as Victoria.
She yearned to see Sergeant Blade again, just see him. She contented herself with sewing in the lean-to and remembering his features. She had seen handsomer men, to be sure, many among her own people. What she had not noticed in those otherwise excellent men was anyone with so much capability. True, his nose was probably too long, and his lips almost but not quite chiseled enough to make any other girl take notice. His cheekbones weren’t as high as hers, but not everyone could look as fine as an Indian; she was willing to make allowances.
His eyes were distinctly blue, which amused Mary no end, considering that she was the one with the Blue Eye name. He had long legs and a pleasant walk, better seen from the rear, although she would never admit that to a soul.
