Scalpdancers (24 page)

“I could have you hanged for striking a British soldier,” Black finally said. “However, Sergeant Chadwell is one man who needs striking from time to time. He is a bully and a drunkard. Still, it would be terrible for the morale of my command if this incident went unanswered.”

Black studied the two men a moment and then glanced at Emerson. He nodded at the reverend, who at that signal rose and stood alongside the prisoners. He tucked his Bible beneath his arm.

“Dr. Emerson intends to build a mission upstream on the south bank of the Columbia. To that end you shall be paroled into his custody. And you will remain in his service until his mission is built.”

Morgan's eyes widened in amazement; he looked at Emerson, then at the captain, as if expecting them both to break out laughing. Neither of them did.

“Or I could just have you hanged,” Black said. “Either way, old boy, we simply must have the use of the tack room.”

“It will be a cold day in perdition—” Morgan snarled. Temp cut him off and stepped forward.

“Before we break parole, Captain. You can count on us,” Temp exclaimed. “Me and the younker here will see to rounding up a wagon from McCorkle and loading the reverend's things aboard.” Temp knuckled his forehead in a hasty salute and, taking Morgan by the arm, all but dragged the younger man from Black's office. Emerson started to follow them, when the captain called him back.

“The second favor I've granted you,” Black said.

“God will reward you. ‘Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers that you do unto me,'” Emerson replied, nervous despite himself. Something about the Englishman disturbed him. Perhaps it was just the way Black kept turning the conversation around to Julia.

“I am an impatient man, Dr. Emerson. God often takes too long. Perhaps I shall come calling when the church is completed—and Julia will receive me, eh?”

“We will always be glad to see you, both of us.” Emerson started toward the door.

The corporal and the captain's aide were warily keeping tabs on Morgan and Temp. Emerson hastened to join them on the porch and together the threesome hurried across the stockade.

“Dr. Emerson, that was a smooth trick,” Temp said once they were through the gate. Fifty yards away the mighty Columbia rushed to the sea, completing a journey that had covered hundreds of miles and dropped thousands of feet in a chain of pristine waterfalls and plunging cataracts.

“It helped that we are both admirers of John Wesley,” Emerson added. “And I like to think the Holy Spirit had something to do with it.” They climbed the hill toward the Sea Spray.

“Tell me, Dr. Emerson.” Morgan drew up. Anger in his voice, he caught the missionary's arm and spun him around. “Was it the Holy Spirit or maybe just the notion of free labor that brought you to Captain Black?”

Emerson met Morgan's angry gaze. “It was my daughter who forced my hand, sir.” Emerson fished a clay pipe from his pocket and clamped it between his teeth. “I've a wagon to load. I expect you'll be helping me, gentlemen.”

“Now that's how it should be,” Temp Rawlins said, glancing over his shoulder at Julia and Morgan walking together well back of the dust kicked up by the wagon. “The young'uns walk while the elders ride.”

“There's times I'd sooner it be the other way. Or in the least, have my daughter at my side,” the reverend said. He kept his eyes on the twisting set of wheel ruts Reap McCorkle had shamelessly referred to as the West Road. Road indeed! The wagon lurched to the right, then leveled sharply with a thump that popped their spines.

“Careful of that boulder,” Temp muttered through clenched teeth. Though a bit tardy in his warning, he felt compelled to make a point. He glanced at the tempestuous surface of the Columbia River as it spilled over massive chunks of basalt and broken tree trunks near the banks. A half-dozen nearly naked Indians maneuvered with catlike grace, dip nets in hand, across slippery boulders at river's edge and paid no mind to the wagon inching its way up the shore trail.

“Clayoquat,” Emerson guessed. He had chosen a mostly cleared knoll about a quarter of a mile from the settlement and halfway between Astoria and the Clayoquat village. “I hope to bring them the Word of God.” He looked around to check on his daughter.

“Whether they want it or not,” Temp observed. He pointed toward a rain-eroded gap in the trail. “Mind the path here.”

“I see it,” Emerson curtly replied.

“I wasn't sure, the way you keep checking where we've been.” Temp clapped Emerson on the shoulder. “Relax, Dr. Emerson. After all, Morgan behaved right proper aboard the
Magdalene
, now didn't he?”

“Yes,” the reverend grudgingly admitted. “But things are different now.”

“They sure are. And nothing you can do to change things back to like they used to be.”

“I do not know what she sees in that man,” Emerson sighed.

“Maybe the same things you oughta be looking for,” Temp said. “Or have you been reading Scriptures for so long you've forgotten how to read people?”

Emerson touched his whip to the rumps of the mules as they hesitated at the last moment. The animals balked; Emerson cracked the whip and popped the stinger inches above their heads, displaying a skill usually attributed to freight men. Temp appraised the missionary with renewed interest and respect.

The wagon rolled across a nasty gully, almost dislodging Temp and the reverend, then righted itself as the mules hauled their burden on to firm and level ground. Once safe, Emerson checked on his daughter again. She and Morgan were about a hundred feet downriver, voices drowned out by the noisy rush of the rapids.

Julia matched her stride to Morgan's slower pace. “Papa's story is kind of like Paul's on the road to Damascus. The Emersons owned a good deal of property around Boston and a coal mine somewhere in Pennsylvania. He was an only child and the sole heir to his family's estate.

“But like Paul, one day Papa experienced a revelation. He heard God's call. He studied in the Methodist tradition and became a minister. About the same time he met and married my mother. When his studies were complete, he sold everything and he and mother left together, to bring the light of Christ to the dark corners of the world.” She watched the shadows melt and re-form with the passing sun. “China was the first dark corner. It cost us mother and most of his fortune. This is the second, and the last, I suppose, and no telling what it will cost. But I am willing to pay it.”

Indeed, this was beautiful country; it inspired her. Julia looked forward to the challenge, even more so because Morgan would be close at hand. She sensed him studying her. “My, but it is warmer here than I would have imagined,” she softly exclaimed as if to herself. She untied her bonnet and let her auburn hair spill across her shoulders.

She turned and met his gaze. “I do hope you prefer a few weeks of indentured servitude to hanging, Captain Penmerry.”

“Maybe it will be an education for us both,” Morgan said.

“Remember, you promised my father you'd be the perfect gentleman.”

Morgan glanced toward the wagon, saw that Temp and her father were preoccupied, and then in a single fluid motion pulled Julia to him and planted a kiss on her sensuous mouth. He released her. Julia gasped, completely at a loss for words.

“We aren't aboard the
Magdalene
now,” Morgan said.

He resumed walking. Julia hesitated, then joined him. They continued in silence. But Morgan noted the absence of a protest or any display of disapproval. He had a feeling he was going to like indentured servitude.

Reap McCorkle was waiting on the hill as Emerson's mule wagon climbed the last fifty feet of the shore trail and rolled out onto the shaded summit through the lush grass and past a cedar grove. The clearing was ringed on three sides by towering firs. There would be plenty of timber close at hand for the mission.

Reap McCorkle had tethered his mount to the branches of a fallen log. He had already started a camp fire and smoke coruscated upward into the pristine sky. The trader was not alone. He had been joined by several Clayoquat braves and their chief, a barrel-chested, white-haired man wearing a woven-grass shirt, a loincloth, and hide leggings. A string of brightly colored shells encircled his neck. He wore a headdress of feathers and wood inlaid with shells that gave him him the appearance of a barbaric monarch. The other braves were more simply attired, and though all were armed with spear or club, their casual attitudes were reassuring to the newcomers.

Reap gestured to the fire and the black enameled teapot on the edge of the coals. “Your first cup of tea at the mission, Dr. Emerson. With some members of your new congregation,” he said.

Emerson climbed down from the freight wagon. Temp had no use for “savages,” even supposedly friendly ones, and kept his hand close to the pistol jutting from his belt as he alighted. He kept the wagon between himself and the closest man with a spear. Behind him Morgan and Julia reached the clearing. The missionary's daughter hastened to stand at her father's side as Reap handed the man a cup of strong tea. Morgan went to the camp fire. He stood alongside Julia.

The Clayoquat natives seemed to take a special interest in Julia's auburn hair. The braves drew closer; their chief came within arm's reach. He reached out and touched the girl's hair, nodded appreciatively, then turned to Emerson.

“I am Comcomly,” he announced. “These are my people.”

Emerson, surprised at the chiefs mastery of English, glanced quizzically in Reap's direction.

“You'll find most Indians speak a smattering of English or French. The Jesuits have been all through the north country. Also, Canadian voyagers have traded with many of the tribes,” Reap said.

“And you are a medicine man,” the chief said. “The trader has told me. You speak of the Above Ones?”

Emerson appeared momentarily caught off guard. No telling what McCorkle had told the chief of the Clayoquats. “I pray to the Lord. I suppose that is speaking in a way. So yes, I do talk to God the Father and the Father speaks to me.”

“The All-Father? It is good. You may tell us what the All-Father tells you.” He motioned toward one of his braves, a young man who immediately trotted forward carrying a rack of smoked salmon. The orange-pink flesh glistened in the sun. He set the rack by the fire.

“My people will teach you the ways of the Great Water, our mother. We will learn from each other.” Comcomly handed Emerson a wooden pipe that had the carved head of a seabird for the bowl. “Keep this with you and all will know you come in peace.”

“Thank you, Comcomly,” Emerson said. He turned and signaled to Temp. “Mr. Rawlins, please bring the blankets, now there's a good man.”

Temp dug a half-dozen coarsely woven blankets out from under one of the reverend's trunks. They were rough blankets, heavy and warm. Temp grudgingly came forward and passed them over to one of the Clayoquat men. He immediately retreated to the corner of the wagon and once more took up a defensive position.

Comcomly seemed pleased with the exchange of gifts and held out his hand, as Reap had once shown him. With a dramatic flair he shook Emerson's hand. Up and down, up and down, he almost dislocated the missionary's right arm. The other braves continued to eye Julia. And when Morgan took up a position close by the girl, the braves frowned angrily at the bearded white man. When their chief turned to leave, the braves fell in line behind him.

“You did well, Dr. Emerson,” Reap said, watching the Indians depart. “I think Comcomly likes you. At least he'll let you stay. Just see you keep clear of his daughters,” Reap added with a wink.

Emerson blushed, taken aback by the trader's suggestion.

“It appears I'll not have to warn your young friend, however,” Reap said, taking quick note of the way Julia and Morgan looked at each other.

Emerson glowered at Morgan. “Unload the wagon. There's enough of the day left to lay out the groundwork.”

Morgan for a moment was locked in a contest of wills with Emerson, a contest that Julia put an end to by stepping between him and her father. She took the cup of black tea from her father's grasp, took a swallow, and passed it to Morgan.

“Drink,” she said. Her expression added “please” and the man could not refuse her. He tilted the cup to his lips and drained the last of the contents. The liquid warmed his gullet.

“Now we have drunk from the same cup. We are in this together,” Julia said. “All of us.” She looked from Morgan to her father while, above, the lonely lemon sun drifted westward. “‘Blessed are the peacemakers,'” she said.

“‘For they shall see God,'” Emerson finished, surrendering to his daughter's appeal and unable to escape the wisdom of the Scripture.

“Will you help us please, Master Penmerry?” It wasn't an order this time, though Emerson nearly choked on his own pride to address this rogue in such a fashion.

Morgan let his actions speak for him. He walked around to the rear of the wagon and hefted a heavy roll of canvas onto his shoulders.

“Where do we pitch the tents?” he called out.

Emile Emerson hesitated. Could he really trust this man enough to lower his own defenses? It seemed a leap of faith was required.

“I believe my daughter can show you the way,” said Emerson.

14

In the waning days of June, in the time of the Faltering Moon, Singing Woman rested her tired limbs and sat back upon her heels as she squatted in a patch of sunlight filtering in through the waterfall, lulled into a trance by the rippling patterns upon the cave's stone floor. Like shadow snakes they writhed and coiled, and though her eyes remained open, she entered the dream.

She saw mountains with craggy summits tipped with ragged wisps of clouds. She saw darkness and a full moon and silver light. She saw red glaring wolves and blood on a patch of pine nettles—and even in her sleep, if sleep it was, she began to chant, for she knew at that instant all that was revealed to her came from beyond the Backbone of the World.