Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (2 page)

"Morrow, quit your dawdlin," Jess yelled over his shoulder.

She stuffed the grapes into her mouth till it wouldn't close then
filled her pockets for him. His quick grin was thanks enough.

"Why, them's big as marbles-or trade beads, he exclaimed,
filling his own cheeks. "Reckon Ma would want some to make
jelly?"

"We can pick her some after we swim, she said, shucking off
her shift and hanging it from a sticker bush.

At the sight of her, Jess began to snicker. "Morrow Mary Little,
you're fat as a grape yourself. And so white you hurt my eyes"

Truly, she was as plump as she could be. Stout, Pa called her,
like most of the Little clan. Though five years old, she'd still not
lost her baby fat, and only her face and feet and hands were tan.
The rest of her was white as milk.

She grinned, bubbling with glee at his teasing. "You're
so skinny I can see right through you. And you're brown as
bacon"

Only ten, he worked the fields alongside Pa like a man, tending tobacco and corn while she mostly toted her baby sister
around and helped Ma spin. Joining hands now, they jumped
off their favorite rock, shattering the river's calm. Cool at last,
they surfaced, smiling, glad to be free of the fields and Euphemia's fussing.

Morrow twirled in the water. "Ain't it fine-" she began.

But the smile had slipped off Jess's face. He held up a hand
as Pa sometimes did, forbidding further talk. Bewildered, she
looked about. But her brother wasn't looking, he was listening. Beyond the noisy jays and flighty cardinals and whisper
of wind, past the heat shimmers of midsummer and the wall
of woods, came a startling sound. The humid air was threaded
with shrieking and screaming.

All at once Jess began to wade to shore. Morrow followed,
but he turned, his freckled face suffused with a strange heat.
"You stay put-don't even twitch-till I come back"

She watched the woods swallow him up as she sat in the
shallow water, unable to stand up any longer on her trembling
legs, unable to listen to the shrieking and screaming out there
somewhere. With her hands over her ears she waited, and then
when the water turned cold she started up the trail to their cabin,
forgetting her dress. Naked as a jaybird, she flew into the quiet
cabin clearing. The slant of the sun told her it was nearly time
for supper. But where was Ma calling her to come in? Or the
ring of Pa's ax as he split wood? Or Jess reminding her to bell the cow before he turned her loose in the meadow? For once
she even missed her baby sister's wailing.

Her bare feet ate up the dry, dun-colored grass leading to
the cabin porch. There on the steps, like a discarded doll, lay
Euphemia. The dying sun lit her baby sister's wide blue eyes,
only Euphemia didn't blink or cry. Had she fallen down and hurt
herself? Morrow looked around. Where was Ma? Her breathing
was a bit ragged now as she surveyed the toppled churn and
water bucket by the cabin door. Some unseen hand seemed to
tug her ever nearer, but she saw she'd have to step over Euphemia
to get there, and she couldn't do it.

Sweat trickled down her face, yet she started to shiver like it
was winter, eyes on the open door. Frantic, she looked around
for Ma and Jess and Pa. Digger should have been here too, alerting them with his bark, welcoming them home. As soon as she
thought it, she saw his furry body beneath the rosebush to one
side of the cabin, an arrow through his middle.

An Indian arrow.

With a cry she jumped over Euphemia and ran into the ransacked cabin. Ma was slumped over her spinning wheel, but
Morrow couldn't get to her past the splintered furniture and
broken glass and scattered clothes and quilts. A flurry of feathers from the tick that had been Ma's pride were dancing in the
draft coming through the cabin door. They rained down around
Morrow restlessly, soft as a snowfall, almost as white. Standing
there, her heart hurt so fiercely she felt it would burst.

"Morrow!"

Behind her, hard hands scooped her up and tore her away
from the sickening sight. Pa carried her to the barn, away from
the blood and the smell of death and their torn-up things. But he
couldn't remove the gruesome memory. And he couldn't explain
why the Almighty had let it happen in the first place.

Fort Pitt, Pennsylvania

June 1778

Morrow took out a painted paper fan, her gloved hands trembling, and recalled the look of horror on her aunt's face moments
before when she'd embarked, as if she'd stepped into a coffin
instead of a keelboat. Or perhaps Aunt Etta was ruing that she'd
smothered her niece in silk, given the tobacco-chewing boatmen at the oars.

Beneath the wide brim of her straw hat, Morrow's eyes timorously swept the deck. Was she to be the only female on board?
And what of her escort?

Up and down the rickety dock she looked, searching for the
man her father had hired to bring her safely from Fort Pitt to
Kentucke. Even with the summer sun in her eyes, it didn't take
long to find him. Amidst all the folks lining the waterfront, one
man stood out and was making straight for her. Although his
attire was the same as almost every other settler in sight, he
moved with an air of authority that nullified the need for any
introduction. Only Ezekial Click could cause the crowd to part
as decisively as the Red Sea.

"Captain Click!" someone shouted.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the frontiersman turned
toward her, his moccasins making short work of the long plank
that dangled over green water smooth as a ballroom floor. He soon stood before her, his long rifle pointed toward the summer
sky. He was leaner and more weathered than she remembered
and wore a fringed linen shirt that fell to buckskin breeches.
His long yellow hair and eyebrows were streaked white from
the sun, and his fur felt hat was angled jauntily to one side, a
turkey feather atop it. Brilliant blue eyes peered out of a brown
face, instantly taking her measure. "Would you be Miss Morrow Mary Little?"

"I am' Charmed by his use of her whole name, she dropped
a small curtsy, which seemed only to amuse him.

"It's been some years since I've seen you:" His voice was deep
and mellow yet held a hint of command. She tried not to stare
but couldn't help herself. It was this man who had wooed them
into the wilds of Kentucke so many years before. Being a Quaker
and a frontiersman, he seemed to have a fondness for preachers
like her pa. Among all the rogues and ruffians who followed him
onto the frontier, the new Kentucke settlements could stand a
preacher's civilizing influence, he'd said. And so they'd followed
him west and, she reflected, seemed to be following him still.

"I reckon you remember little of that trip, he mused, shifting
his rifle to his other arm.

She flushed, eyes returning to the river. "Just the horseflies
and the heat"

But even as she said it, a bittersweet wave washed over her.
She recalled her mother packing wafer-thin china plates into
straw-lined barrels outside their summer kitchen in Virginia.
Tearful goodbyes to neighbors and the fine brick home she'd
been born in. And then the memory blurred to deep green
woods so suffocating the sun never shone. One sweltering day
atop a rocky precipice called Cumberland Gap, their wagon had
tipped its load and sent those fine china dishes flying like pigeons
into a shady chasm so deep they'd never see daylight again. Her
genteel mother, she remembered, had been pregnant and burst into tears. Was he remembering it too? The smile on his face
told her he just might be, but then it slipped away.

Was he also thinking of that simmering summer years before
when her family's life had been torn asunder? He'd not speak of
it, she guessed. 'Twas far safer to ponder what she knew of him.
The man standing before her was a bit of a riddle, both revered
and reviled in the Kentucke settlements. Rumor was he had a
daughter so wild he'd had to carry her to finishing school in
Virginia and was just returning from doing that. Morrow supposed Lael Click was nearly as well known as her father, what
with her fair hair hanging to her feet. Though they'd never met,
she'd heard enough to make her ears burn.

"This won't be a pleasure trip, he told her, adjusting the brim
of his hat.

The warning in his words made her tense. Once again she
was mindful of her fancy dress and ashamed she'd not had
the sense to wear homespun. Did he think she was all lace
and ribbons, not fit for rigorous travel? She noticed that he'd
already dismissed her and was now perusing the polemen ...
who were perusing her. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped
open her fan so she could hide behind its feminine folds. Feeling flushed, she turned her attention to the rough wood of the
boat, which was little more than a raft with a crude cabin atop
it, the sides peppered with loopholes that bespoke danger. A
floating fort, no less. Perhaps this was why the frontiersman
looked so at home on it.

His voice shifted to a more soothing tone. "You should see
the Red River in two weeks"

Two weeks. A fortnight and she'd be home. But would they
ever make it? Aunt Etta's parting look told her they might not.
Indians were known to lie in wait along the north shore of the
Ohio River, intent on killing settlers who dared venture down
that vast watery road. Her father was well aware of the danger and had hired the famed frontiersman as a hedge against trouble.
If anyone could bring her safely home, it was he.

But no matter how capable he was, Ezekial Click couldn't
take away the fear she felt as the keelboat shuddered and left
the dock, dodging a sandbar as it moved into the sluggish current. He led her to a barrel to sit on, the dark lettering on the
side telling her it held rum. A morning mist hung over the three
rivers that intertwined here, and an eternal wind set the ribbons
of her hat aflutter like the fort flag high above. Softly she recited
the waters' names to test her memory. The Monongahela, the
Allegheny, and the Ohio-Indian words, all.

As she pressed her back against the sun-warmed wood of
the cabin, her eyes stayed true to the north shore, the Shawnee
shore. She heard Captain Click remind the polemen to keep to
the middle of the mile-wide river, well out of rifle range. Her gaze
fastened on the place known as Fort Pitt. Its wooden walls were
receding now, a brown bulwark atop a high hill overshadowing
a scattering of Indian lodges encamped on the plain beneath.
She squinted in the sunlight, remembering Fort Pitt was a place
for treaties and trade goods. A gateway to the west.

How safe was she? The grim set of Ezekial Click's jaw assured
her she'd have been better off staying in Philadelphia. Unbidden, a Scripture learned at her father's knee rushed to mind. I
will call on the LORD, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be
saved from mine enemies. The words wove through her head
like a song. But solace her they did not.

Captain Click served her a wooden trencher of greasy beans
and bacon before joining the steersman, who held the tiller of
a wide-bladed oar aft of the cabin. Night was falling fast, the
stars winking at her like the jewels that adorned the gowns of
the belles back in Philadelphia. But the evening air was still steamy, and the mosquitoes seemed more intent on her supper
than she was. How she wished the Redcoats had evacuated the
city in April instead of the heat of June!