Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (15 page)

At week's end, Morrow stood at the edge of the apple orchard,
dipping candles in the coolness of the morning. Wrinkling her
nose at the smell of smoking tallow, she remembered the bayberry candles she and Aunt Etta had made. Nearly smokeless,
they were a lovely green and filled a room with a pleasing spicy
scent. She'd brought some home from Philadelphia in a candle
box to save for a special occasion.

Carefully, she hung another rod from a branch of an apple
tree, leaving them to cool and harden before dipping them again.
It was wash day as well, and she'd nearly forgotten the clean
laundry she'd strung across the fence just beyond the barn.

As she left the yard, a skiff of wind lifted her apron and teased
the knot of hair at the nape of her neck. She could see Pa in
the pasture with the horse the Shawnee had given him when
she'd been in Philadelphia. The stallion pranced about as if his
hooves were on fire, shaking his black mane and amusing her
father. She heard him laugh out loud, and the merry sound made
her smile. He spent an uncommon amount of attention on the
animal, as if keeping it in prime condition in case Surrounded
by the Enemy wanted it back.

He waved to her as she approached, then turned back to the
high-spirited horse. Humming a hymn, she began rearranging
the assortment of lye-scented petticoats and breeches and linen
shirts on the fence, enjoying the feel of the sun on her back. When she turned back around, she nearly dropped to her knees
in the dry grass.

Two lithe shadows were approaching Pa, whose back was
turned. They seemed to sweep across the sunlit pasture like a
breath of wind, neither sensed nor seen, their hands resting on
the tomahawks at their waists. She took a step toward Pa, words
of warning dying in her throat as her fear was tamped down by
their sudden familiarity. Them ... again.

Heavy-hearted, she hurried back to the orchard and resumed
dipping candles, acutely aware of Red Shirt as he passed behind
her and headed toward the cabin porch. Once there he drank
deeply from the water piggin, replacing the gourd dipper on the
rusty nail above it when done. She prayed he'd merely quench
his thirst and go. But his tall shadow soon fell across her as she
hung another crossbar from a branch. Wary, she glanced at the
rifle he cradled in the crook of one hard arm, its barrel pointing
skyward. The stock was curly maple from the russet sheen of it,
the coin silver engraving far finer than Pa's own.

Stiffening, she recalled his standing at the dogtrot door before
he'd slipped away and left her amidst the disarray. And then she
felt a sudden softening as the velvet fabric flashed to mind. Such a
kindness he'd shown. Couldn't she respond in kind just once?

Smoothing her apron, she asked halfheartedly, "Would you
like some meat? Bread?"

"No, I want to talk to you, he said quietly, even carefully, as
if he thought she might fly away from him.

Still, she regarded him with doubt. Today his glossy hair fell
loosely about his shoulders instead of being bound from behind
with a leather tie. Worn so, it softened him somewhat, made him
seem less fierce. This close she could see the stunning detail of his
beaded belt and the intricate work along the fringed outer seam of
his leggings. She'd hardly seen its equal in Philadelphia. Someone
had taken care to craft him such fine things. Who was she?

"There's to be a prisoner exchange at Fort Pitt, he told her.

Her lips parted in surprise. "When?"

"Next spring. The Shawnee will bring their white captives
to the fort, and the whites will release their Shawnee captives
as well:"

She took in the words, a bit disbelieving. "White people have
captives?"

"A few. Sometimes Indian children are taken in raids by soldiers
at the edges of the frontier and sent to schools like Brafferton'

Like you, she thought. "I'm surprised there's to be an exchange
with so much trouble of late:'

"The trouble at Hinkley's Station, you mean?" His eyes left
her briefly to sweep the edges of the woods. "Those are the very
captives the Indian commissioners want returned. Some of the
Shawnee chiefs and American officers see it as a goodwill gesture-a way to promote peace, perhaps avoid outright war"

The news was welcome if surprising. Still, a nagging suspicion
stung her. Had he and his father been part of the fort's fall? Yet
why would he be promoting peace if he had been?

"Will you go?"

He nodded. "I've come to see if your father wants to go with
me."

She looked away, her heart overfull. "Pa is unwell ... coughing
all the time. I wonder if he could even make the trip, or if we'd
even know my brother if we found him:"

He shifted his rifle to his other arm. "What do you remember?"

Color seeped into her cheeks at his scrutiny, and she focused
on a forgotten apple dangling on a branch behind him. Could
she entrust her memories to him? Suppose she did, and he
was able to bring Jess back to them? What an irony that would
be...

She took a deep breath, eyes falling to the tallow kettle. "I ... I remember my brother had red hair-bright as a flame. I can't
remember the color of his eyes:' This had troubled her over
the years. Had they been a queer blue violet like hers? Or more
gray green like Pa's? "He worked hard in the fields alongside my
father. I recall Ma said his hair didn't match his temper. He was
so loving and good. I've often thought.. " She swallowed down
the admission, throat tightening.

"You've often thought .." he echoed.

"I've often thought the Shawnee wouldn't kill him because
he was so pleasing. Everyone favored him. Even the animals
came to him. Birds and squirrels would eat out of his hand. He
could make every birdcall that ever was" As she talked, a torrent of recollection seemed to unleash itself inside her, of things
pressed down and denied, excruciatingly bittersweet. She fell
silent, unable to look at him or say anything more.

She could see Pa and Surrounded walking toward them now
and felt stark relief. Turning away, she abandoned her candle
making and went inside the cabin. She stirred up the fire and
reached for the biggest skillet to melt some bacon grease and
fry hominy. On the porch, Pa and Surrounded were deep in
conversation, their Shawnee words a wall that shut her out.
She felt a little forlorn standing there listening, realizing he'd
left her behind in his quest to find Jess. He was holding his
own admirably, thanks to Trapper Joe's tutoring, though she
sometimes wondered why he bothered with Red Shirt present
to translate. But he'd said he wanted to be prepared if Jess came
back, in case he'd forgotten his first language.

They sat at the table with Pa, surprising her, partaking of the
meal in silence. It was almost a marvel to watch these tawny
men eat without utensils, picking out chunks of meat and
hominy with their fingers, then swiping the bowls clean with
bread. She remained in her rocker, balancing her bowl in her
lap, unable to take the first bite. When they passed outside to smoke, she drew an easy breath. But she'd not rest completely
till they'd gone.

As she satin a pale puddle of lamplight embroidering a handkerchief, she heard Pa preaching on the porch. Amazement
washed through her. What did he hope to accomplish with that?
Hadn't Trapper Joe just told them the Shawnee had a tangle of
gods and deep-seated superstitions? Yet here Pa was sermonizing like it was a Sabbath morning.

When the Indians finally put away their pipes and left, Pa
came inside and set his Bible on the table, smelling strongly of
kinnikinnik. She hoped it had some medicinal properties to help
heal his stubborn cough.

"I saw you speaking with Red Shirt in the orchard;' he said,
clearly pleased.

She nodded. "He told me there's to be a prisoner exchange"

"I plan to go, Lord willing, though spring seems a long time
to wait"

"By then you'll be stronger," she said, forcing hopefulness into
her tone. "I've seen how the harvest has worn you out. You need
to rest and prepare for the trip"

"I'm thinking of having you go with us. Red Shirt is an able
guide. 'Twould be a fine thing to kill two birds with one stone,
getting to Fort Pitt and then Philadelphia'

Aunt Etta's letter flashed to mind, and she looked up in surprise, a retort on her tongue. But spring was too distant to
stew about now. She said nothing and returned to examining
her stitches.

He studied her, taking the chair opposite. "Have you come to
terms with Surrounded and Red Shirt's coming, Morrow?"

Her needle stilled. Had she? Dare she lie to him? "No, Pa

"Unforgiveness is a heavy burden to bear. I wish you had it
in your heart to forgive:"

"There's too much hurt"

"Red Shirt is trying to help us. He saved your life:"

"You saved his long ago"

He leaned back, passing a hand over his beard. "I think he
needs you to forgive him, befriend him. He's grieved at what
the Shawnee have done. I think you could heal by accepting
his friendship:"

Her needle jabbed at the cloth like an exclamation point to
her every word. "He's a British scout, Pa. The son of a Shawnee
war chief. He puts us-and himself-at risk every time he sets
foot on our land. Friendship seems contrary to all that"

"We've done nothing wrong, Morrow, in opening our home
to them. Christ Himself would have done the same. And we
don't talk war:"

She looked up, surprise pulsing through her. "If not war, what
do you talk about?"

"Personal matters. With Red Shirt, anyway. Like a father to a
son. At the risk of betraying a confidence, I'll say no more:"

She examined the tiny flowers she was making in the square of
linen, a cluster of blue forget-me-nots amidst pale green leaves.
"I heard you preaching to them on the porch'

He gave her a wry smile. "I find Red Shirt more responsive
to spiritual matters than most pew sitters"

She looked up, alarm in her eyes. "I don't think your congregants would like to hear that"

"It's the plain truth, Daughter. Or do you, like they, think the
Shawnee beyond the reach of God's grace?"

"I don't know," she said softly, putting her sewing away.

But I wish they were. I can't conscience the thought of Ma's
and Euphemia's murderers abiding in heaven alongside them.
Not even alongside a half-blood British scout.

Morrow continued to work on the velvet dress in the autumn
evenings, her sewing suffused with the delight she always felt
when creating something beautiful. Only the memory of Red
Shirt's recent visit spoiled her satisfaction. Thoughts of the coming prisoner exchange and returning to Philadelphia seemed
to line her soul with lead. She looked down at the half-finished
dress and wondered what Red Shirt would think to see her
plying this extravagance of fabric when she'd not even thanked
him for the gift. Sighing, she cut more thread as Pa lowered his
copy of the Virginia Gazette and looked at her.