Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (49 page)

Colonel Clark rose from his desk when she entered. The stale
room stank of tea and whiskey, leather and gunpowder. A knot
of officers turned to look at her, their worn, wrinkled uniforms a
striking contrast to their clean-shaven faces. They didn't glance
away even when her eyes skimmed over each one, dismissing
them without expression. Somehow she remembered her manners, thanking the colonel for the chair he offered her and then
the tea he poured to ward off the room's chill. The hearth fire
directly behind him seemed to hold no warmth, though it looked
robust enough to set the whole garrison on fire.

She tried not to study him, but he was a curious sight, young
for an officer despite his air of authority. His hair was a rusty
red, his heavy brows a dash of white, and she fancied his eyes
were a washed-out green, but when he looked up at her, she
found them fiercely blue.

"I trust you and your baby passed a peaceful night;' he
said, passing her a china cup so at odds with their rough
surroundings.

She nodded warily, holding the cup away from Rosebud, who
slept in the crook of her arm. Somehow she'd thought he'd meet
with her alone. She felt ill at ease with these other men and was
thankful Hester remained standing behind her.

The towering commander took a seat behind a desk cluttered
with papers, a compass, and a spyglass. She felt a nudging to try
to sway him with the considerable charms that Jemima once
claimed she had, but doing so seemed deceitful somehow. Desperate as she was, she'd plead her case honestly or not at all.

She took in the shadowed corners of the room and wondered
where the Bluecoat chief was who'd brought her here. His lies had
already done their damage, she guessed, and she wondered how
much trouble she'd have unraveling them. She looked straight
at the uniformed man before her and said quietly, "I want to tell
you the truth about my leaving Kentucke'

He looked up, surprise softening his clean-shaven face. Had
he wanted to lead? Did he expect her to be a mouse? Cowed
by her supposed captivity? Running a hand through his hair, he
nodded and gestured for her to continue.

She swallowed, distracted by the clock on the mantel behind
him, unable to recall what day it was. Was Red Shirt already on
his way back to Ohio? Would he ever be able to find her? She
had no idea how long ago she'd left Loramie's. Days? Weeks?

"I'm not a captive, Colonel Clark, no matter what you've been
told"

He looked at her with unflinching eyes. The men about the
room moved closer, obviously intent on hearing what she had
to say. Colonel Clark cleared his throat. "What is your name
and who is your husband?"

She felt a tremor of unease. Looking into his weather-hardened
face, she sensed he already knew. "My maiden name is Morrow
Little. My husband's name is Red Shirt, a half-blood Shawnee"

"One of the warring sept? And a British scout to boot?"

She set the teacup down on the edge of the desk, not trusting
her trembling hand. "He's a man of peace now and has been for
some time. We were wed a year ago by my father, who was a
preacher in the Red River settlement:"

His eyebrows rose, but his gaze remained steadfast. Two officers took chairs on either side of her. Another man-one she'd
overlooked when she entered-moved to stand by the hearth just
in back of the colonel but in her line of sight. He wore the garb
of the woods, a long linen hunting shirt and buckskin leggings,
his hair plaited and clubbed in Indian fashion. He reminded her
of Captain Click ...

"Is that your wedding ring?" Colonel Clark asked, eyeing her
hand.

She looked down at the narrow band, the Celtic cross catching
the light, and remembered that soldiers had taken Red Shirt's.
"'Twas my mother's before me:"

"Is she still living?"

"She was killed by Indians long ago. My father died of consumption last year."

"After wedding you to the half-blood Shawnee?" A sliver of
a smile touched his face, and she shifted uneasily, realizing he
didn't believe a word she was saying. Had her captors been so
convincing, then?

He leaned back in his chair, never taking his eyes off her.
"Surely you have some Kentucke kin:"

"No ... just an aunt in Philadelphia'

This seemed to trouble him, and he looked at Rosebud pensively. Was he wondering what to do with her and her baby?
Thinking no white man would want her-and no relative?

Reaching past the inkstand on his desk, he took up a document, untied the leather string, and unfurled it. "I wish to
acquaint you with Article 3 of the last treaty made with the
Shawnee, Miss Little"

His use of her maiden name stung, as it seemed to slight her
marriage, but she simply looked down at Rosebud and waited.

"`If any Indian or Indians of the Shawanoe nation shall commit
murder or robbery or do any injury to the citizens of the United
States, that nation shall deliver such offender or offenders to the
officer commanding the nearest post of the United States, to be
punished according to the ordinances of Congress:" He paused.
"Do you remember a Major McKie, Miss Little?"

Oh, please no ... not McKie.

The name stirred a deep well of worry inside her. She forced
herself to look at him, to meet his hard eyes. "I do"

He leaned back in his chair. "I've been informed that this
officer was murdered by your husband in violation of this very
treaty. The Shawnee scout in my employ-a man who calls himself Talks About Him-is merely acting in accord with Article
3 to deliver the offender to the officer commanding the nearest
post. That would be me, you understand:"

Is this where her Shawnee captor had gone? To search for Red
Shirt? Or lure him here by telling him where she was?

She swallowed, panic flooding her. "My husband is not the
man he was"

"Is he not a murderer?"

Unbidden, Red Shirt's poignant words at Loramie's came
rushing back to her. I am a murderer and a horse thief, but I
have been forgiven.

She clutched Rosebud tighter. "My husband is no guiltier
than Major McKie, who killed a peaceful Shawnee chief and his
men along the Kanawha:" Though her voice seemed to warble
with every word, exposing her turmoil, she pressed on. "Must I
acquaint you with your own treaty articles, Colonel Clark?"

Remembering what Joe had told her, she reached out and
took the document from him with a trembling hand, scanning
the paper through tear-filled eyes. "`In like manner, any citizen of the United States who shall do an injury to any Indian of the
Shawanoe nation shall be punished according to the laws of the
United States:" She paused and looked at him. "I recall Major
McKie's punishment being more a promotion, Colonel ... and
I dare any man in this room to argue otherwise:"

The ensuing silence was sharp as glass. Not an officer stirred.
No one seemed to breathe. Every eye in the room was upon her,
but none so fixed as Clark's. She felt she was fighting for Red
Shirt's honor-his very life-with words.

The red-haired giant across from her smiled a tight little smile
and took the treaty paper from her hand. "Ah, Miss Little. What
a clever little minx you are. I do seem to recall some trouble
along the Kanawha. And perhaps Major McKie has received his
punishment in full. But your husband. . "

She said nothing, her thoughts whirling, scattered, like windblown leaves.

He continued quietly. "I don't have the manpower to hunt for
half-blood offenders. Not with a war on. The tactics we use to
bring criminals to justice must be particularly ingenious here on
the frontier, thus the raid on Loramie's Station. We've killed two
birds with one stone-ridding the Ohio territory of an American
enemy and rescuing you. Now I can turn my attention to other
matters. I am told your husband is quite clever, extremely elusive, and rarely lets his guard down, except, perhaps, where you
are concerned"

What could she say to this? Except pray Red Shirt would not
come for her?

Rosebud awoke, and Morrow brought her against her shoulder, sensing she might cry. She breathed in her daughter's soft
scent and felt smothered by helplessness. Did her anguish show?
Surely it did, for Colonel Clark leaned back in his chair and said
a bit less forcefully, "I had not thought to kill your husband, just
question him:"

Her voice turned entreating. "What if he doesn't come?"

"Oh, he'll come. And when he does, we will ... parley"

Oh, but he was smooth as butter, she thought. Their eyes
met, but he was the first to look away. The danger she'd felt
upon coming here seemed to quicken, and she felt as helpless
as the baby in her arms. In this cold room with this cold man,
her hopes seemed little more than ashes. Clearly, Colonel Clark's
mission wasn't to listen to half bloods or Indians, or to those
defending them, just be rid of them. This was why his garrison
was standing on lands secured by treaty for the Shawnee.

She looked down at Rosebud, who gave her a sleepy smile.
One chubby hand grabbed at the kerchief of her borrowed dress,
just like her brother had often done. The memory nearly shattered Morrow's composure. In a heartbeat the room became a
blur of timber, erasing the buckskin-clad man before the hearth,
and the colonel as well. Finally she felt Hester's hand on her
shoulder, telling her it was time to go.

Upstairs she gave way to her fear and exhaustion, rocking
Rosebud and crying as she sat before the fire. Hester padded
away on soft feet, leaving her to sleep, but she couldn't close
her eyes. Crossing to the window, she looked out on a crude
scaffold made more hideous by gentle swells of snow. Red Shirt
would come, and they would make an example of him. The
love that tethered them-and the truth-would bring him to
this once beloved and now terrible place. And she was captive
till he came.

The days passed, and she was imprisoned in the blockhouse, the
view of the gallows blocking the beauty of the surrounding forest.
'Twas nearly New Year's, Hester said. Morrow had been at Fort
Clark a fortnight, but it seemed far longer. The blizzard that had
brought them there had been washed away by a warm wind.

She placed a hand on her swelling waist, feeling life within.
What had begun as a faint fluttering was now an unmistakable
nudge. Truly, there was no such thing as one kiss. She was now
tired enough and plump enough to prove it.

Hester kept her company by bringing her meals and tea,
fussing over Rosebud, washing Morrow's clothes, and doing
her hair as if she was the colonel's lady. "Colonel Clark is sure
taken wi' you;' she said. "Neither man nor beast ever talks back
to that man, but you shore put him in his place over that bad
business at Fort Randolph. And lo and behold, I think he liked
it. But for one little thing"

Morrow looked up from nursing Rosebud.

"He just can't figure out why a beautiful woman like yo'self
would settle for a savage"

The slight wasn't surprising, and she said nothing, just asked
if she might borrow a Bible. The thought that Pa's had been
destroyed in the fire at Loramie's grieved her as much as the
lost miniature of her mother and Jess. But this was nothing
when weighed against her other losses. Day and night her son's
small, startled face returned to her as it had been just before
the smoke and darkness separated them. What if she never saw
him again? The bruising thought seemed to push her toward
the edge of some terrible, irreversible darkness, and she grew
more afraid.

Oh Lord, keep Red Shirt away from here, even if it means I
never see him again. And bless my little son, wherever he is ...

It was New Year's Eve when Hester came to fetch her. Colonel
Clark had requested her company at the holiday dinner. Would
she join them? Her heart sank, and she was loath to leave the
hearth fire. A fiddler played across the common, and she smelled
roast beef and chestnuts but had no appetite.

"Perhaps just go and have a little toast;' Hester urged. "It might
do yo' cause some good:'