Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (3 page)

She slapped at a particularly large insect, thankful the army
had finally evacuated at all. What was supposed to have been
a simple six-month visit to her father's sister in Pennsylvania
when she turned sixteen had stretched to two years. Morrow
had arrived in that great city with the Redcoats on her heels,
and the cozy visit she'd envisioned had changed into one of near
servitude as the British took Philadelphia. Aunt Etta's humble
dress shop in Elfreth's Alley had become an astounding success
as officers' wives and the local ladies flocked to have gowns made
for the weekly balls, horse races, and theatrical events.

Remembering, she smiled wryly and looked down at the
dress she wore. When the English ladies had left the city, they'd
neither paid their bills nor collected their dresses, so Morrow
was the beneficiary of this entrancing gown and a good many
more. Aunt Etta's fine hand could be seen in all the feminine
details of the ecru silk she now wore, from its silver thread to
the blue sash about her waist. A veritable garden of flowers in
full bloom adorned the hem of the full skirt, sewn with such
stunning detail that Aunt Etta had been forced to make a half
dozen of them. Morrow had soon been pressed into service,
her humble sewing skills transformed as she assisted her aunt
in catering to the high-minded women of the scarlet and gold
regimentals.

Dazzled at first by all the finery and fuss, she soon grew tired
of the wearisome work. But it was more than this, truly. While
Sir William Howe and his mistress led the unending gaiety in
the city that first winter, General Washington's ragtag army was
freezing and starving not twenty miles away at Valley Forge.

Now, amidst the monotony of the boat, snippets of her life
in the city returned to her like scenes from a play, full of color and drama in retrospect. Was it just a fortnight ago that Aunt
Etta had all but begged her to stay?

She'd been minding the shop when her aunt returned from
the printer, her face a deep poppy red beneath the lace veil of
her hat. 'Twas the heat, Morrow guessed, as June had bloomed
so hot one could cook an egg on the cobblestone walk.

After shutting the door so hard the shop bell jingled for half
a minute after, Aunt Etta removed her hat, an elaborate concoction of raspberry silk and faux pearls and flowers, and arranged
it on a wooden stand in the storefront window. Impeccably
dressed, she was as much an advertisement for her services as
the shingle embellished with the image of a needle and thread
outside her door.

"There's a new mantua maker six doors down;' she said, shedding her lace mitts and dropping them onto the countertop.
"This woman is boasting she can sew a gown in one day! The
printer showed me her advertisement himself, though I scarcely
believed it"

"One day?" Morrow echoed. "Perhaps a child's dress or an
infant's christening robe. Certainly nothing like the gowns you
turn out"

"Not I, Morrow. We. The gowns we turn out. Just this morning Lady Richmond stopped me on the street and asked if you
would embroider the hem and sleeves of her sacque gown for
the coming officers' ball. I didn't dare tell her you'd be on some
sinkable contraption halfway down the Ohio River by then'
She began walking about the shop, stopping to straighten a
stack of ladies' magazines on a tilt-top table. "Though there is
still time, you know."

Morrow paused in placing some silk masks on a shelf.
"Time?"

"To change your mind about. . " She hesitated, lips pursed
sourly as if the very word was lemonlike. " Kentucke'

Morrow expelled a little breath. "But the plan is in place. Pa's
expecting me"

"I daresay my need of you exceeds his need of you:'

Biting back a reply, Morrow turned to the shelf and tried to
change the subject. "Captain Keene and Mr. Marcum came in
while you were away and purchased some things"

Etta rounded the counter, eyeing the shelves of fabric. "My,
but those two are running up quite an account. They're here
nearly every day. I wish one of them would ask for your hand
and be done with it. Then you'd have to stay on"

Morrow tried to soften her aunt's agitation with a smile. "Mr.
Marcum is more interested in shoe buckles and sleeve ruffs
than me. And Captain Keene is said to be betrothed to a lady
in England. Besides, I told them I was leaving."

"And?" Etta paused, green eyes sharp.

"Mr. Marcum bade me farewell. And Captain Keene.. " She
felt herself go pink at Etta's probing stare. "The captain said he'd
not frequent Elfreth's Alley quite so often once the sunlight of
my presence had left this place"

"Ah, I knew he was smitten!"

"For all his pretty poetry, Aunt, the man is twice my age"

"At four and thirty he's quite a catch. And a respected officer
in the king's army, to boot. What prospects have you once you
return to the wilderness?"

"Prospects?"

"Lice-ridden frontiersmen? Rum-soaked trappers and traders? Your father should be ashamed calling you home at such
a marriageable age"

As she remembered it afresh, Morrow's stomach clenched
tight. What if Aunt Etta was right? What if she was making a
terrible mistake returning to Kentucke? Sighing, she set down
her half-finished plate and let the steersman's dog finish her
supper, her thoughts turning toward home. She'd not seen her father in two years. Two years. Though her homesickness had
been acute, the British occupation had kept her rooted to the
little shop and house on Elfreth's Alley until today. But now she
was free. Free! The stench of the city was fading away, and she
could draw an easy breath. If notfor.. .

Shutting the thought away, she lay down on a pallet in a
corner of the keelboat's cabin behind a muslin curtain. Captain
Click was never far away, his gun trained on more than Indians.
He'd let no one take liberties with her, she knew. Perhaps he was
thinking of his own daughter tucked safely away in one of the
finest finishing schools in the colonies. Morrow wished he'd
talk about her and ease the boredom that hung between them.
But she'd heard that the frontiersman was a man of few words.
Besides, he had little time for idle chatter. Though he lounged
against the house of the keelboat like the most indolent loafer,
his beaver felt hat pulled low over his astonishing blue eyes, his
surveillance never ceased.

The next morning, beneath the brim of her own hat, she
stole a discreet look at him in the brilliant sunshine. Not a twig
snapped along the north shore or a leaf stirred in the gentle wind
that he wasn't unraveling its source. Sighing, she took out the
volume of poetry Aunt Etta had packed and turned her attention
to a bit of lighthearted verse. Only she wasn't lighthearted.

Moments before, Captain Click had escorted her to a crate,
its top softened by a beaver pelt. Here she sat and partook of
breakfast-some cold journey cake and lukewarm coffee. The
rising sun skimmed off the water with an emerald shimmer, and
she peered over the rim of her pewter cup, watching a heron
take flight. The land was beginning to assume a familiar shape,
like an old friend she'd been missing and was coming to know
once more. They were rounding a bend in the river, slipping
toward the southern shore, and it seemed she could reach out
and touch the brush-laden bank.

So lost was she in its wild beauty she started when Captain
Click sat down nearby, rifle at the ready. But what was one gun
against a canoe full of Indians? Though the polemen had pistols
in their belts, she felt taut with tension, eyes returning to the
north shore-the Shawnee shore-again and again.

"I don't recollect putting you on watch this morning."

The quiet comment took her by surprise. Did he miss nothing? "I'm just ... remembering, I guess" She read kindness and
concern in his face and blinked to keep the sudden welling in
her eyes from spilling over.

He settled his gun across his knees. "Best think of the future,
not the past:"

"Yes;' she said, looking to the book in her lap. But how was
she to do that when the past cast such a shadow?

Last night she'd dreamed about Ma and Euphemia and Jess.
The closer they drew to the Kentucke settlements, the more
vivid were her memories, as wide and deep and dark as the
river they now ventured down. They seemed to take her by the
shoulders and shake her, making her recall every single detail
she tried so hard to forget.

It seemed her life had just begun when the warring Shawnee
had come on their killing and kidnapping spree. She'd been but
five then; now she was nearly eighteen. During those barren
years, something else had occurred that continued to upend
her. Something so frightening and memorable it had marked
her like ink upon paper. She had been ten, and it was just her
and Pa then, and Jess's shadow. A blizzard had been busy burying the cabin, and every so often she'd peer past the shutter and
wish it would stop. It reminded her of the day her family died,
when the fluffy tick had been torn open and feathers whirled
like snow in the ransacked cabin.

This night Pa was hunched over his Bible at the trestle table
near the fire, preparing the Sabbath sermon. With Ma's apron wrapped twice around her, she worked near him, humming a
little tune, setting out some salt and three pewter spoons badly
in need of recasting. Venison stew bubbled over the fire, and
she stirred it with a careful eye, thinking she'd made too much
yet knowing why. For Jess, in case he came. Surely after just
a few years he would not have forgotten the way home. Each
night, she set a third place at the table, and when supper was
done, she put his unused cup and plate away. If her brother did
come home, she wanted him to feel welcome and see his place
waiting, reassuring him they'd not forgotten.

"Heavenly Father, we beseech Thee to forgive our sins as we
forgive those who have sinned against us. Bless this food to our
bodies. And please bring our boy home. Amen:" Pa finished with
a shine in his eyes, and she was glad he didn't look at her lest
she bubble over herself.

They ate in silence as the snow and wind worked to bury them.
At least, Morrow thought, there'd be no Indians about on such
a night, and she could rest easy for once. She was glad to see Pa
eating heartily, helping his thin frame flesh out a bit.

"You're getting to be a fine cook, Morrow," he said, taking
more bread.

Smiling, she refilled his bowl, but before she sat down, something thudded on the porch. Had the wind toppled the churn?
She lit another taper, surprised to find her hands shaking. A
second thud caused Pa to pause, his spoon suspended in midair. Their eyes locked as they weighed what to do. A third thud
sounded, and they both stood.

She scooted into the shadow of the corner hutch as he cracked
open the cabin door. There, as if frozen to the porch, was a tall
figure in a buffalo robe, the thick fur edged with ice. A trapper caught in the storm? A lost settler just shy of the fort? Not
Jess. Disappointment covered her like a cloud. Pa welcomed
the stranger in, then wrestled with the wind to shut the door. Through the stingy light of three candles, she stared as the man
shed his wrap and let it drop, the heavy hide looking like a bison
just felled in a hunt.

Her lips parted, but she couldn't make a sound. A blur of beads
and buckskin assaulted her, and she backed up further. In the
tall Indian's arms was a smaller Indian. She watched as Pa took
the boy and laid him across the clean feather tick of his own
bed in a cabin corner. Dismay trickled through her dread. She'd
just opened that tick and cleaned every feather before sewing it
shut again. And now this dark and dirty boy ...

"Morrow, get this man some stew and cider and I'll see to
his son;' he called to her.

His son? How did he know? Not a word had been exchanged.
But the boy on the bed did look like the man who came to sit
cross-legged by the fire. She served him, and he ate her thick
stew with his fingers like he was starved to death.

"Bring some clean rags-and put on a kettle to boil:' Pa said
next.

She did so, and then, without being asked, she went to the
medicine chest mounted on a far wall. Truly, no words were
needed to see that the boy was sick. His feverish face was the
color of dried blood, and she could see small spots, like a hundred
bee stings, covering his flesh when Pa removed his buckskin
shirt.

Standing over him, she finally found her voice, but it was as
shaky as a windblown leaf. "Boneset tea will break a fever."

"Aye, Morrow, so it will:"

"Is he bad sick, Pa?"

"I'm afraid so:"

What if he died in their care? She cast a look at the fierce
Indian again. Would he hack them to pieces with the tomahawk
hanging from his belt? Fear chewed a hole in her stomach, and
she thought she might be ill herself.

Beside her, Pa ran a hand over his sandy beard. "Empty the
water bucket and fill it with snow. We've got to pack him in it to
bring the fever down. Then we'll try to break it with boneset"

The wind had driven a foot of snow against the cabin steps,
and she scooped some of it up, filling the bucket. She heaved it
to the bed, so addled she left the door open. Finished with the
stew, the tall Indian shut the door for her, then stood at the foot
of the bed watching them, his face like brown granite. Under
his scrutiny they worked, packing the boy in new snow, the icy
shards shining like broken glass against his dusky skin.

"Strain the tea and we'll ease it down, Pa told her.

She worked carefully, efficiently, trying to still her shaking.
Using a small spoon, they slowly fed the boy the tea, only to have
it come up again. She remembered Aunt Sally, the settlement
midwife, saying, "Boneset tea will nearly always break a fever, but
makes you ill when taken hot:" In her befuddlement, Morrow had
forgotten. She surveyed the mess, about to burst into tears.