The Colonel's Lady (3 page)

From the time the Redstone women spilled out of the public house along the rickety waterfront and set foot on the flatboat, one calamity after another began to occur. Soon the polemen manning the vessel began to murmur that the women aboard were nothing but Jonahs sent to sink them. Snow began spitting and the boat bobbed along on chunks of ice as the river threatened to freeze.

Two of the crew fell ill and were left at another isolated place. Roxanna’s alarm had spiked when the captain broke into the store of spirits and became too inebriated to man the sweep. Toward dusk one snowy eve, a slab of ice snuck under the bow and nearly upended the entire vessel, sending kegs of rum and flour, seed sacks, and crates of chickens flying into the water.

Knowing other boats had sunk in these shallows, she’d gotten on her knees in the tilting shanty and started to pray. Hard. The cursing, seething rivermen, armed with axes and pikes, fought chunks of ice as it collided with the hull, their acid eyes on the Redstone women as if they’d turn on them next. But then, to her astonishment, the vessel began to right itself and a warm wind kicked up, thawing the road of river. In the end, they’d sailed out upon the river’s calm middle, leaving the ice jam behind, the lights of a dozen lamps of bears’ oil shining on the water’s smooth surface and assuring them all was well.

“Seems like we should celebrate,” Olympia announced inside the overheated shanty. She disappeared from sight and returned with a fiddler, and all the women began clearing the space of chairs and cargo to make room for a dance floor.

Standing in a corner by the potbellied stove with little Abby, Roxanna listened as the lively strains of a jig coerced the rivermen inside. Soon the flatboat seemed threatened with a different kind of danger. Was anyone manning the tiller?

No one seemed to care as the men and women were now four deep, leaving little room for the whirling dancers. Roxanna could hardly believe that the same rivermen who had given them such venomous glances but an hour before now pranced and cavorted like long-lost lovers. One man even began doing a dance of sorts on his hands.

If there was a queen present, it would have to be Olympia. Perched atop a whiskey keg, she presided over the festivities, a pewter tankard her scepter, bestowing a sip or two to whomever she pleased. Beside her, the captain allowed it, his gray eyes growing more glazed as he swigged from his own jug. Soon the stench of sweat and spirits was stifling.

Breathless, Roxanna went out onto the deck, Abby in hand, and leaned over the gunwale. The wind that had helped save them was strangely warm, toying with her cape and the inky hair she’d pinned so neatly that morning. Behind them a stranger was at the sweep, whistling along with the fiddling. The sky above seemed wild and untamed, violently black with stars like saber points—so many her head swam. Water burbled beneath the hull, hurrying them ever nearer to Kentucke.

Drawing the trembling child closer, she said, “Everything’s going to be all right now, Abby. You needn’t be afraid.”

But she looked down and saw that her own hands were shaking. She hardly believed her own reassurances. All her senses seemed muddled, as if she’d given in to the whiskey now emanating from the crowded shanty. She was on the edge of her emotions tonight, the strange sights and sounds all around her making her feel lonesome and upended. Perhaps it was wrong leaving Virginia so soon after Mama died and Ambrose jilted her.

Had it been only a year or so ago that all was well? Mama had been in high spirits if failing health. Roxanna was betrothed. Letters from Papa were arriving regularly via post, assuring them he’d soon be home, promising he’d never enlist again. He wanted to be by her mother’s side, so he’d written—enjoy his future grandchildren. And then everything began to alter, subtly at first, followed by a veritable avalanche of trouble and heartache.

Now, listening to the Redstone women entertain the men at table, she wanted nothing more than a cup of steaming tea and a quiet corner, thinking of the cabin waiting two doors down. An orderly had taken her there earlier and she’d stood on the threshold to find Papa’s tobacco-laced, masculine scent pervading every inch of the shuttered, shadowed place. There he seemed larger than life, even when absent.

She pondered that as she pushed an underdone potato around her plate. Soon Papa would come and they’d sit together around the fire and look at maps and dream of where they’d settle next. Perhaps farther south on the Green River. Or the idyllic valley to the west known as Angel’s End. Smiling to herself, she became aware of the officer on her right watching her.

“You’ve said little since your arrival, Miss Rowan. Not that you’ve had the chance,” he remarked, eyeing the chattering women while sawing at the leathery cut of meat on his plate. “But I see you smiling, so all must be well.”

“A journey’s end is always a pleasure,” she said, reaching for her cider.

“I’m sure your father will say the same once he returns.” He took a bite of meat and glanced toward the blockhouse door. “You do know where he’s gone, I suppose?”

“Into Indian-infested woods, so Captain Stewart told me,” she said quietly, her tone a trifle wry. “’Tis a wonder you didn’t go with him.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I wanted to—madly. But the dysentery stopped me.”

Flushing, she rearranged her napkin in her lap. Papa had had more than his share of this miserable malady and so might she, given the close quarters of this fort. Her smile faded, eyes sweeping around the long length of table, aware of the heightened hum of conversation and heady bursts of laughter.

The acting commander was pouring brandy now, and it promised to be a late night. She was so tired she didn’t know if she could string two words together if this kind officer kept her talking. But the serving woman was coming around with a steaming pot of chicory coffee laced with blackstrap molasses, and Roxanna gave her a grateful smile.

What if Papa were to come in right now and I was abed? Best stay up a little while longer.
But her eyes, despite the bracing coffee, refused to stay open.

“Miss Rowan, might I have the pleasure of walking you to your cabin?”

She drained her coffee cup and now looked at the man on her left for the first time, forgetting his name, wondering about his intentions. But he was old enough to be her father—was a friend of her father’s. Relieved, she blew Abby a kiss, bid goodbye to her supper companions, who were hardly aware of her going, and slipped out into the chilly, star-laden night.

Once inside Papa’s tiny cabin, she built up the fire and began shucking off her soiled blue calico dress and the clumsy shoes that helped disguise her limp. The left boot heel was a good inch higher than the other, making her walk with a near-normal gait, if no one looked too closely. But since her trek in the woods, the heel was missing a shoe nail or two and in danger of coming off altogether. Her other pair was aboard the flatboat, perhaps gone for good. Papa had always seen to her shoes. Since he’d soon be back, she wouldn’t worry about them.

Shivering, she decided to keep her stockings on, garters and all, along with her shift and petticoat. Her nightgown was missing too, locked in the leather trunk bearing her initials. Captain Stewart had sent out a scouting party as promised to inspect the damage and salvage what they could. She prayed they’d return on the morrow, scalps intact.

Tonight she’d forego the nightly brushing of her hair, given she didn’t have so much as a comb. Nor did her father, she discovered—just a rusty razor lying beside a wash basin. The unfamiliar corn-husk tick seemed seeped with cold, and she struggled to bring the thin quilt up to warm her, too tired to say anything but the childhood prayer she’d learned so long ago.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .
She lay on her back, looking up at the firelight dancing on the crude ceiling, teeth chattering.
If I should die before I wake, at least I’ll leave this dismal place.

4

The snow was spitting, the wind punishing every man present. Cassius McLinn stared hard at the glowering sky and ordered his men to make a bonfire over the burial site. They would have to thaw the unforgiving ground before they buried the six soldiers they’d mistakenly shot at dusk. And they’d be making twin fires this morning, he directed. Two of the prisoners—a Redcoat and a redskin—had died in the night from wounds received from yesterday’s skirmish, and he vowed they’d not share the same grave.

His men were watching him warily, watching the herd of prisoners, waiting for orders. He was bone weary—and feverish—and trying to hide it. He was having to think everything through twice to surmount the foggy miasma in his brain and hide the swell of emotion behind it.

“Major Hale!” He looked around for his ailing second-in-command and found him on the edge of the wood with some men, bringing in deadwood for fires.

Micajah Hale came running. “Colonel, sir,” he said, his pale face pinched more from grief than the dysentery. His own cousin had been mistakenly shot in the gloom, and though the regular hadn’t killed him, they both wished he had. Gut-shot he was, and bleeding to death in the makeshift shelter behind them.

“Make sure the prisoners are fed so they’ll be able to march. I’m sending Simmons out with a scouting party to make sure we aren’t being followed. We’ll set out as soon as we see to this.” He gestured toward the struggling fires and stingy smoke.

Turning away, Cass crouched and entered the lean-to where Hale’s cousin lay completely still. Was he already gone? Before the hope kindled, it was smothered as the wounded man moaned and moved an agitated hand. “Colonel?”

“Phineas.” He said the captain’s name as he’d said it a thousand times—but never with such regret. Phineas’s dull eyes fluttered open and—could it be?—still regarded him with respect and affection.

“I—I—”

“Don’t try to talk,” Cass intervened, his own insides wrenched with pain. “Bail o Dhia ort.”
The grace of God be with you.
The Gaelic rolled off his tongue effortlessly, though saying it nearly made him wince.

Where was God’s grace in
this
?

Phineas’s eyes rolled back and he moaned. Reaching inside his cloak, Cass brought out a silver flask and uncapped it, holding it to Phineas’s wan lips and letting it dribble down to the last medicinal drop.

“Thankee, Colonel.”

Cass put a hand on his sagging shoulder, saw the once-pristine shirt spattered red, and it seemed he could feel the life ebbing out of Phineas beat by beat. Cass’s own cold fingers slid to his wrist and found the pulse weak.

“Guess I get to go home—to Eire
—
sooner than you.”

Cass’s throat tightened. “Aye, it does seem you’re about to be promoted. If the Almighty hadn’t beaten me to it, I might have made you a major.”

A glimmer of a smile appeared, and Phineas gripped Cass’s gloved hand harder. “Ye don’t have t’ tell ’bout this, Cass . . . ’twas just an accident . . . it might go badly after all your trouble . . . back east.”

A blinding rush of emotion made the man before him a blur. Cassius McLinn had never felt less like an officer in his life.

Phineas was shaking now, more from the shock of blood loss, he guessed, than the bitter cold. Taking off his camlet cloak, Cass draped it over Phineas, but before it had been tucked under his chin, Phineas drew a final ragged breath. Unseeing amber eyes stared back at Cass and he moved to shut them. After drawing the cape over his friend’s bent head, he half crawled out of the shelter, standing so suddenly he nearly toppled.

The snow was swirling now—his head was swirling—and the icy whiteness was up to the ankles of his boots. If they didn’t dig the graves fast, they’d be caught in the belly of a blizzard and not make it back. He knew that was what his prisoners hoped—to be stalled here till word reached the upper Shawnee towns of the ambush and more British and Indians could come streaming down to skewer them.

Striding a bit unsteadily to where twin bonfires blazed, he took Major Hale aside and told him to dig an extra grave. That done, he walked over to the fallen men at the edge of the woods where they’d been laid. Studying the linen sheet covering them and weighted down with heavy rocks, he felt equally burdened. He knew each man simply by the sight of his boots.

At the very end was Richard Rowan. Kneeling, Cass uncovered him slightly, trying not to look at his face. Quickly he moved stiff fingers over the coarse wool of his uniform, feeling like a pickpocket as he searched for any personal items. Richard had had a fine watch once, and Cass had sometimes seen him reach into a hidden crevice of his coat and retrieve something else in a rare idle moment. Something small and silver that snapped when he shut it.

Strange how a body was so heavy once the spirit left. And cold . . . so cold. Cass felt half alive himself, doing this terrible disservice to a man who’d been hale and hearty but twelve hours before. He tried to think of anything but touching the familiar coat in this unfamiliar way. His mind kept returning to Cecily. Always Cecily. And the dress she’d been wearing when he’d last seen her. ’Twas the same color as this Continental coat—but dark blue silk, not wool, its folds slipping through his hands like water . . .

What would she think of him now?

When he’d nearly given up searching, his fingertips felt something smooth and round just above Richard Rowan’s still heart.
Forgive me, old man.
In the harsh pewter light, he withdrew a piece of silver on a fine chain. A locket. The sight made his eyes sting, and he swallowed past the knot in his throat.

He remembered Richard had a wife in Virginia who’d died the previous year. For a week or so after receiving the news, he’d been unable to work, and Cass was struck by the depth of his grief—or regret. Soldiers had all kinds of regrets, mostly having to do with being away from hearth and home. Likely this silver locket contained his wife’s portrait. Without thinking, he flicked at the tiny clasp and it sprung open in his hand. Just as suddenly, a speck of decency stung him and he moved to close it—but couldn’t.

In his palm he held a woman . . . a girl. Not all gossamer and golden like Cecily. Nay, the likeness looking up at him seemed as finely made and enduring as the surrounding silver frame. He felt a strange twist of sentiment. How could an artist contain so much in such a small space—an even smaller face? For a moment he forgot he was kneeling and the wind was whipping the tails of his coat and the snow had frosted the russet queue of his hair.

Hair like black coffee. Eyes like blue trade beads. The oval face seemed entreating even in miniature, the full, unsmiling mouth a brushstroke of rose. There was something terribly alive within that lovely face, something so vibrant and far-reaching it couldn’t be confined to a locket. Richard Rowan had never shown him this . . . girl-woman. But he knew who she was without a doubt.

Roxie.