by Untamed
3
The officers’ mess was situated in a cluster of buildings on the grassy flats outside the pallisade enclosing the blockhouses, armory and enlisted men’s barracks. The one-story log structure served as a communal dining area, gaming room and social gathering spot for the officers assigned to Fort Gibson.
Whitewash brightened the interior walls, and a somewhat frayed carpet covered the plank floor. The furnishings included a well-scrubbed oak table set astride two barrels and two rows of cane-back chairs. An open-shelf cupboard displayed a stack of pewter plates, eating utensils, an assortment of dust-covered brandy bottles and each officer’s silver drinking mug. Since graduates from every West Point class after 1825 had seen service at Fort Gibson, a good number of the mugs were engraved with that institution’s insignia as well as the officer’s name and regimental arms.
When Zach entered with Hattie, the mess was empty of everyone except the hulking private who served as its steward. The Polish recruit could speak barely five words of English but his incredible way with a ragout had earned him the coveted post of mess steward over others with more fluency and time in service.
Sure enough, Walenowski had just brought a pot of venison stew in from the kitchens behind the mess. The tantalizing aroma set Zach’s mouth to watering and the woman in his arms to gulping convulsively. Carefully, he lowered her into one of the chairs.
“Rest easy a moment, Hattie, and Private Walenowski here will fetch you some fresh-baked bread to have with that stew.”
The private quickly supplied her with the requested items, along with a flagon of ale. She fell on the food like a starving wolf, her spoon clattering against the tin plate. Sympathy for the wretched woman tugged at Zach as he watched her down every morsel before sopping up the broth with a bread crust.
“Would you like another serving?”
“Yes, please!”
She started to swipe her mouth with the back of her hand, but stopped with her arm halfway to her mouth. Coloring under her mask of bruises, she reached for the linen square Walenowski had placed beside her plate.
“I’m forgetting my manners. My mam taught me better, but living these past years with Thomas…Well…”
With a daintiness that surprised Zach, she patted away the drop of broth at the corner of her lip.
“Will you be comfortable with Private Walenowski if I leave you for a while?” he asked, reluctant to abandon her yet again. “I must make my report to my colonel, then call on Mrs. Nicks to see if she’ll take you in.”
“You’ll come back for me, won’t you? All these strangers…” Her voice trailed off helplessly.
“I’ll come back.”
The promise reassured her. Zach left her with a second plate of stew. Rasping his palm against his chin, he decided he’d best rid himself of some of his trail dirt before attending to his errands.
Since the rangers bedded down in tents some miles distant from the overcrowded fort, Zach made a quick detour to Nate’s quarters. Along with his abundant mustaches and side-whiskers, Prescott possessed the most extensive collection of personal linens west of the Mississippi. He wouldn’t mind if Zach borrowed some shaving soap, a clean shirt and a fresh stock. Not a great deal, anyway.
Scrubbed, shaved, pomaded and smelling considerably more aromatic, Zach once again made his way toward the post headquarters. The officer of the guard had already advised Colonel Arbuckle of the rangers’ return. He now awaited Zach’s formal report.
At the colonel’s gruff command, Zach marched into his office and offered a smart salute.
“Lieutenant Morgan reporting back from patrol, sir.”
Arbuckle returned it and leaned back in his chair. “Let’s have your report, Lieutenant.”
Matthew Arbuckle was a good man and a fine officer, one of the best Zach had served under. He’d commanded the Seventh Infantry Regiment for more than a decade and Fort Gibson since its construction eight years ago. Assigned the almost impossible task of resettling the eastern tribes and keeping peace among the warlike Plains people, he took great pride in the fact that not one of his soldiers had killed an Indian during his tenure as commander. Zach knew he wouldn’t be best pleased to learn one of his officers put a bullet into a white squatter.
The bewhiskered colonel took careful note of Zach’s account of the Pawnee raiding party, nodded when he reported the return of the three Osage captives to their tribe and scowled as Zach described the incident with Billingsly.
“This selling of false deeds to land in Indian Country must stop,” Arbuckle muttered. “Where did you say this Billingsly had settled?”
“Only fifteen miles northwest of here, sir, on the land reserved for the Cherokee.”
Zach pointed out the spot on the hand-drawn map nailed to the wall. Frowning, Arbuckle tapped a stack of opened letters Zach guessed had arrived by steamboat only this morning.
“Although that stretch of Indian Country is sparsely populated as yet, I’ve just received a dispatch from the War Department. We may expect additional emigrants for that area any day now.”
The information surprised Zach. “I thought Chief John Ross swore no more Cherokee would leave their homes now that the Supreme Court has ruled that Georgia law doesn’t hold over them.”
The ruling had been a controversial one, to be sure. Ever since gold had been discovered on Cherokee land in northern Georgia, that state had been among the most vociferous in attempting to force the provisions of the Indian Removal Act on its native populations.
Just last year, the U.S. Supreme Court recognized the Cherokee Nation as sovereign, thus rendering them immune from Georgia laws. The ruling had infuriated Andrew Jackson. The president was committed to moving all eastern tribes to land west of the Mississippi. Angrily, Jackson had declared that if Chief Justice Marshall insisted on making the law, he could damn well enforce it.
Various states had interpreted his denouncement of the ruling as a signal to increase the pressure on their native populations. Lootings, beatings, even killings went unpunished. Yet the Cherokee had vowed to continue to fight the Removal Act through the courts. Or so Zach had thought.
“It appears there is increasing division among the Cherokee Nation,” Colonel Arbuckle now informed him. “Some of their leaders believe they must bow to the inevitable and move west. Others have vowed to fight removal.” Sighing, he tugged on his side-whiskers. “I don’t have to tell you, Morgan, this is a bad business.”
“No, sir, you don’t.”
“All these damn treaties only make it worse,” Arbuckle grumbled. “No one can say with absolute certainty what land belongs to which tribe. Those unscrupulous land speculators back East have taken great advantage of the situation. They’re selling false deeds as fast as they can print them. Ah, well, perhaps the commission President Jackson has appointed will sort through the mess.”
“Perhaps.”
Privately, Zach held little hope that the three-man commission expected to arrive at Fort Gibson any day now could untangle decades of conflicting negotiations.
“In the meantime, we must continue resettling the eastern tribes as best we can. I’ll expect you to make yourself and your company ready for escort duty after you deliver Lady Barbara to Morgan’s Falls.”
The lines of worry faded from the colonel’s face. A fatuous smile replaced them. A longtime bachelor, Arbuckle nevertheless had an eye for the ladies.
“You’ll be most grateful to me for assigning you this task when you encounter the lady, Morgan.”
“I’ve already encountered her, sir.”
“Indeed? Is she not utterly captivating?”
“Utterly.”
“She was most surprised and interested to learn the woman she’s traveled so far to find had a son under my command.”
“Did the lady indicate why she’s come in search of my mother?”
“I didn’t wish to pry, but I formed the impression it has something to do with one of your mother’s business interests.
”
Zach supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. His mother was a shrewd trader and financier who’d invested in a number of enterprises over the years. Her varied interests included a steamship line operating out of New Orleans, timber sales to several sawmills and a tannery that cured the beaver, mink and muskrat pelts she’d once trapped with her French-born first husband. Yet somehow Zach couldn’t envision Barbara Chamberlain being concerned with the fluctuating price of beaver pelts.
“I’m sure she’ll explain all when you speak with her,” Arbuckle said.
“Yes, sir.”
After promising to deliver a written copy of his report before departing for Morgan’s Falls, Zach crossed the grassy flats and made for the establishment of Mrs. Sallie Nicks. He didn’t doubt the generous-hearted widow would take Hattie in, but he didn’t want to just show up on her stoop with the woman in tow if her house was as full to overflowing as Prescott had indicated.
The gregarious Mrs. Nicks was the widow of General John Nicks, who’d secured the lucrative license to sell provisions to the garrison at Fort Gibson. Upon her husband’s death, Sallie had taken over duties as supplier to the garrison. She was a merry-eyed, shrewdly competent woman much courted by the officers and visitors to the post. The rumor that she’d inherited an estate valued at more than twenty thousand dollars from the general along with the right to continue operation of their store only added to her charms.
She occupied a two-story plank house close by the river and the warehouses where she stored her goods. As Nate had warned, the residence was full to overflowing with visitors who’d arrived via the steamboat. And with every officer in the garrison not currently on duty, Zach soon discovered.
They crowded shoulder to shoulder in the parlor where Mrs. Nicks presided over a silver tea tray. Zach presented himself first to the widow, then to her guest. Sallie acknowledged him with a warm smile, Lady Barbara with an infinitesimal dip of her chin.
“I’ve come to beg a favor,” he said to the widow. “I hate to ask it when you’re entertaining so many guests, but I wonder if I might impose upon you to take in one more. I brought a woman back to the post with me.”
Sallie’s eyes twinkled. “A woman? Your mother will be pleased to hear it, if every unmarried female in Indian Country will not. Who is this woman?”
“Her name is Hattie Goodson. She’s the indentured servant of a squatter we were forced to evict. I should tell you, ma’am, she had a rough time of it at the man’s hands. Could you find a corner for her until I can make arrangements to send her home?”
“Of course! Bring her here at once.”
“Thank you, I will. But first…” His glance went to the blonde surrounded by scarlet and blue uniforms. “Lady Barbara, may I beg a few words of private speech with you?”
His fellow officers responded to his request with a round of protests. Nate Prescott led the chorus.
“I say, Morgan! You’ll have the lady to yourself when you escort her to your parents’ place tomorrow. Surely you wouldn’t be such a dog as to snatch her from us tonight!”
“It’s about the journey that I must speak to her,” Zach replied. “If she can tear herself away from your company, that is.”
“I shall contrive to do so,” she returned coolly before turning a brilliant smile on Nate. “You will remember you’re taking me in to dinner this evening, will you not?”
“How could I forget!” He threw a smug glance Zach’s way. “Too bad you won’t be able to join us, old fellow. I know you don’t have a decent frock coat here in camp. Although…” His eyes narrowed. “I must say, that shirt looks as though my tailor might have sewn it.”
“He did.”
Ignoring his friend’s sputter of indignation, Zach escorted the lady to the small back parlor Sallie indicated they might use. It was crammed with the bedrolls and backpacks of the visitors she could not squeeze into the rooms upstairs, but otherwise unoccupied.
With a show of bored disinterest, the Englishwoman twitched the fringe of her shawl into place. Zach realized he’d have to grovel like a mud-bellied carp before he was restored to her good graces. If then!
“I must offer an apology for my earlier behavior,” he began.
“Save your breath, sir. I consider your conduct inexcusable.”
“All I can do is plead a misplaced sense of the ridiculous and beg you to forgive me for funning the way I did.”
“Let me be sure I understand you. You beg pardon for allowing me to think you the oafish boor, but not for kissing me in that detestable way?”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I’ll be sorry indeed if you found that kiss detestable. I, for one, found it most enjoyable.”
Barbara didn’t doubt it for a moment. He’d molded his mouth to hers with an expertise that bespoke long practice. Seeing him now with his prickly whiskers gone, most of the dirt scrubbed from his person, and that roguish smile in his eyes, she suspected more than one local miss had allowed him to steal a kiss.
Well, Barbara was no local miss. Necessity had taught her to select with great care the men she allowed close to her. She didn’t base her choice on their rakish smiles or, as in this case, admittedly splendid physique, but rather on their bank accounts and family holdings. And this man’s family holdings must of necessity be the sole focus of her interest.
“May I have your assurances you’ll refrain from such funning during our journey to your parents’ home?”
“You may.” In direct counterpoint to her coolness, the smile in his eyes deepened. “But I give them reluctantly.”
“Very well. If it is convenient for you, perhaps we could depart after breakfast tomorrow.”
“It’s quite convenient, but curiosity compels me to ask why you want to go to Morgan’s Falls.”
Curiosity and a son’s desire to protect his dam, Barbara guessed.
“My business is with your mother,” she said with a shrug. “I will discuss it with her.”
The smile left his eyes. Without moving so much as a muscle, he went from affable to hard and still and somewhat dangerous. She guessed this must be the face he showed his men.
Or his enemies.
“I’ll escort you to Morgan’s Falls,” he said slowly. “But only if you give me assurances you mean no harm to me or mine.”
“I resent both your tone and your inference, but if it will ease your mind, I will assure you I mean no harm to you or yours.”
The lie came easily, like the many others Barbara had uttered over the years. And so naturally, the lieutenant stared at her for only a moment or two longer before accepting it.
“Very well. I’ll take you to see my mother.”
She hid her relief behind a polite smile. She would have made the journey with or without his assistance, but much preferred to travel in the company of a man who knew his way about this wilderness.
“The trip will be faster if we go by water,” he told her. “I’ll arrange matters and come for you in the morning, just after mess call.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Barbara would make every attempt at it, anyway. She had yet to master the art of packing her trunks and valises with the same efficiency her maid had. Perhaps she could beg the assistance of the servant who took care of Mrs. Nicks’s personal needs. With luck the attendant might have some skill with arranging hair, as well. Barbara had grown quite tired of drawing it up herself in this unsophisticated cluster of curls.
With a nod to the lieutenant, she allowed him to escort her back to the crowded parlor. His dashing friend with the silky mustaches jumped up at their return. While Prescott and his fellow officers jostled for position, Morgan took temporary leave of his hostess and promised to return shortly with Mistress Goodson.
True to his word, he reappeared a short time later with the bruised woman. Mrs. Nicks’s manservant admitted them just as Barbara and her hostess were preparing to mount the stairs and dress for dinner.
With a gentle hand, the lieutenant nudge
d his charge inside. The timorous woman had found time to brush the red soil from her skirt, Barbara noted. And to knot her hair in a thick, smooth coil of some intricacy. Her interest piqued, she took a keener inventory while the lieutenant introduced the woman to Sallie.
“This is Mistress Hattie Goodson, ma’am. As I said, she’s had a rough time of it.”
The widow clucked in sympathy. “So I see. You may leave her with me, Zach. I’ll see she’s made comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
Hattie clutched at her rescuer’s arm. “You won’t forget the paper you promised to write for me?”
“I’ll draft it tonight and deliver it to you in the morning.”
With that, he sketched a bow in the direction of the other two women and departed. Mrs. Nicks bustled back down the stairs.
“Come with me, Hattie. I’ll have the servants make up a pallet for you in the pantry room. It’s cool and dry and will afford you a measure of privacy.”
“I…I can’t pay for my keep, ma’am.”
“I’m not expecting payment, my dear.”
Overhearing the exchange, Barbara made an impulsive offer.
“I’m in need of a maid. Mine chose not to journey to America with me. Do you think you could attend to me?”
Hattie threw her a surprised look. “Attend to you?”
“Help me with my hair and wash out my linens. I’ll pay you for your services.”
“How much?”
“We’ll determine that when I see how handy you are with a brush or curling tongs. Should I be pleased with your efforts and you choose to accompany me when I leave Fort Gibson with Lieutenant Morgan tomorrow, the arrangement could prove beneficial to both of us.”
“You’re leaving with Lieutenant Morgan?”
“He’s escorting me to the home of his parents. Do you wish to try your hand with my comb or not?”
