Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (48 page)

Miraculously, Rosebud slept, never making a sound. She was
heavier now, all rolls and dimples, so unlike the fragile baby at
birth, and her bulk made Morrow's neck and back sore where
the sling cut across. But somehow, strangely, Rosebud seemed a
sort of buffer between Morrow and these men. Wicked as they
were, they seemed reluctant to lay a hand on her. She sensed a
skittishness about them as they traveled. Often she caught them
looking over their shoulders as if fearful of being followed, and
this gave her comfort.

But as the hours unwound, they seemed to grow more confident, emboldened by the flasks they passed around. The smell
of rum was near constant now, and she shook her head when
her guardian offered her some, though she wondered if it might
help warm her. Snow and ice crusted their blankets one morning, and as the daylight dwindled, it became so cold they had
to make camp in a cave above a frozen slip of creek.

Oh Lord, where am I? Who are they? Where are we going?

To keep her spirits up, she began to sing. She crooned a
French lullaby no more than a whisper in Rosebud's ear, unsure
from whence it came. Perhaps Ma had sung the same to her or
Jess or Euphemia. It seemed to solace Rosebud and settle her
to sleep. Morrow tensed for another slap of the whip to shush
her, but the men seemed oblivious to her murmurings in their
haste south.

Soon she lost track of time. How many days, nights? She ached
for Red Shirt, craved her son's sweet smile. The mere memory
of them, blurred though it was by exhaustion, made her weep.

"You are slowing us. I don't know what to do with you.

Half-asleep, she straightened, her back pressed against another
damp cave wall. The Bluecoat chief stood over her, reeking of
rum. The other men were asleep, or pretending to be. She said
nothing, so weary she felt sick. Was this how it had been when
Jess was taken captive? Desperate? Exhausted? Without hope?

"Colonel Clark is waiting for you. I would kill you otherwise"

Colonel Clark? She seemed to recall something about his
being at the Falls of the Ohio. But her exhaustion and fear were
so profound the details blurred to nothingness in her brain.

He continued, his face hidden in shadows. "You will bring
me a fortune in trade goods, perhaps a new horse and musket.
And plenty of rum. The child is worthless but seems to keep
you quiet"

Worthless. The gibe loosened her tongue. "What do you want
with me? I mean nothing to you"

He snorted and stepped back, taking out the flask again. "Perhaps you are not as stupid as most white faces. You are right in
saying you mean nothing to me. But you do mean something to
the soldier chief Clark. He has come into Kentucke to make the
Shawnee abide by the treaty terms and return white captives"

"I'm no captive"

"Captain Click says you are. I was with him at the Fort Pitt
treaty-making. He found out you were at Mekoche Town and
then at Loramie's Station"

Captain Click? Did he truly think she'd married and gone
north against her will? Her mind leaped back to their journey
downriver some two years past. She'd been all lace and ribbons
then, looking like a Philadelphia lady. Was it any wonder he
doubted she'd wed a half-blood scout?

Spirits ebbing further, she looked again at the warrior before
her. She knew better than to try to reason with him, but a biting resentment spurred her on. "Colonel Clark will learn the
truth"

I will listen to no white woman, he spat, finishing the flask
and sinking down opposite along the wet cave wall. For a time
it seemed he brooded, his head tilted toward unconsciousness
or sleep. Her guardian slept beside her, but the familiar rawhide
tug that usually bound them didn't rub her wrist raw tonight.
He'd forgotten to tether her.

Slowly, she glanced out of the mouth of the cave. The world
was white, the wind howling like a wolf. She might escape if she
dared. But where? And what of Rosebud asleep at her breast?
The sour-milk smell of her was nearly overwhelming, and her
bottom and thighs were red-splotched from a rash. Morrow had
been unable to keep Rosebud clean, but under their guardian's
watchful eye, she sliced off pieces of an old trade blanket with a knife to keep her dry. Her violet eyes were open now, absent
of all joy. She seemed to study Morrow with the intensity of
her father, reminding her of Red Shirt in every striking line of
her little face.

Swallowing back a sob, Morrow began to hum again, and
the long-lashed eyes drooped shut, the tiny pink mouth opening to emit a ragged breath. Rosebud had caught a cold that
seemed only to worsen in the chill. Her tiny hands clutched at
her mother's filthy bodice, now soiled with mud and stiffened
by milk. Bending her head, Morrow's tears fell on her flushed
face, her lips moving silently.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil ...

They were in the belly of a blizzard now, so white it hurt
her eyes. To fight snow blindness, the men slashed black paint
beneath their eyes. Morrow remembered how Red Shirt had
done the same-tenderly-planting a kiss on her cold lips when
done.

The Bluecoat chief continued on, his stamina staggering. She
could no longer feel her fingers or her toes, and she worried
without end. Rosebud... always Rosebud. Her breathing seemed
labored, and she'd not so much as whimpered since dawn. As
Morrow placed a frigid hand against Rosebud's soft cheek, her
fingers felt stung from the heat of her face.

The mare Morrow rode became lame and was shot, so she
was hefted behind her guardian. His bulk sheltered her from the
bitter bite of wind and hedged the baby like a wall. Soon after,
she saw smoke and heard the roar of water not yet frozen by
winter. A ghostly memory returned to her, beloved and bittersweet. Could it be? Wasn't this the same place she and Red Shirt
had first come together, conceiving the baby she now held? The sight of pickets made her insides ache, as did the ugly stumps
littering the once lovely island just below the falls. This was the
wilderness beneath the white man's hand. But it wasn't at all as
she remembered, and she shut her eyes to block it out.

A warrior at the advance of the column hoisted a stick with a
white rag high in the air in case some hasty soldier mistook them
for hostiles. The gates swung open with a groan. Once inside
the garrison, she stumbled off her horse and onto her knees,
snow covering her with furious flakes from her bare head to
her frozen hem. There she sat and rocked Rosebud and made a
spectacle of herself before the gathering soldiers. They regarded
her with solemn eyes in the gloom of twilight and made no
move toward her.

"Is this the preacher's daughter?"

The voice behind her was distinguished, even aristocratic,
and held more than a hint of command. In answer, one brave
jerked her to her feet, turning her to face the man she guessed
was Colonel Clark. He stood tall in his fine Continental coat,
dwarfing the gawking soldiers surrounding him.

"Well, don't leave her standing in this weather! Take her inside at once," he bellowed, squinting in the bitter wind. "Is that
a baby? Good heavens, the woman looks frostbitten. Call for
Dr. Clary."

Making haste, an orderly led her into a blockhouse and up
some stairs where a bath and bed waited. Morrow struggled
to make sense of the dimness after the blinding whiteness of
the snow. There, upon the landing, a plump black woman regarded her with wide eyes and reached for Rosebud, but Morrow
wouldn't release her.

"Now don't you pay me no never mind. It's only Hester here
to help you and the babe, iffen you let me." Her voice was so
kind that Morrow felt a thawing, wooed further by the steaming
tub Hester gestured to near the hearth. "It was a heap of trouble totin' all that water for what should have been a fine bath for
Colonel Clark. But you needs it a sight worse than him-and
all my hard work ain't gonna go to waste'

Never had anything looked as fine as the steam rising off
the tub's top like a coveted cup of tea. Numb, Morrow stood as
Hester stripped off her soiled clothes and took Rosebud from
the filthy sling. "Well, ain't she a purty thing. And those eyes!
Ain't no Indian baby ever had eyes like that:"

She set Rosebud on Morrow's naked knees in the tub, chuckling as she came wide awake and splashed and kicked. The water
swirled around them, stinging Morrow's skin and melting away
the dirt. Taking out a bristle brush, Hester began to scrub them
with soft soap, thoroughly but gently. "Ain't gonna let Dr. Clary
see you till you gets cleaned up. Now close your eyes and hold
that baby high while I rinse you off."

Afterward Hester took Rosebud and laid her on the bed,
swaddling her while Morrow waited in the hip bath. The sight
of an Irish linen dress gave her pause. It was for a small woman
with an impossibly small waist, but Hester fixed that too, untying
the blue sash so that it fell unhindered about her blossoming
body. "You sit here by the fire and nurse yo' baby while I get you
some victuals. It ain't much, just soldiers' fixin's. The doctor'll
be here shortly."

Morrow obliged, her back to the fire. Rosebud nursed hungrily, her little smacks belabored as she coughed and sputtered.
When Hester delivered the promised plate, Morrow fell on it
as if famished, scraping up the venison and gravy with a large
spoon and eating three biscuits in as many minutes. She drank
the hot cider down, marveling at the peculiar taste before she
realized it was laced with whiskey.

"It'll shore you up and ease the baby's breathin," Hester said.
"Now I think I hear the good doctor on the stair."

The doctor entered, reeking of snuff and rum. Dare she trust him with Rosebud? But he took her with practiced hands, examining her gently from head to toe. "A bad cold, 'tis all; he
announced, handing her to Hester to rock by the fire. The doctor turned to Morrow next, examining her hands and feet. The
tips of her fingers were slightly discolored, and she'd yet to feel
her toes.

"You've come close to frostbite. By jigs, but you've barely
escaped it. You need rest-a great deal of it;' he pronounced,
shaking his head warily. "I told Colonel Clark'twas madness to
bring a woman here in such weather.. "

He soon took his leave after instructing Hester about the
medicines he'd left. She began to hover again, turning down the
bedcovers and placing a warming pan between the sheets. Morrow didn't bother getting undressed, just lay down and pulled
the bedding over herself and Rosebud, her damp head on the
feather pillow.

Hester clucked. "Go on and get to sleep. You'll need yo' rest
so you can face Colonel Clark in the mornin"

In the cold light of midmorning, Morrow was ushered into an
austere office in an adjacent blockhouse. She realized Colonel
Clark had given up his bed for her-and his bath as well. But this
speck of generosity in no way removed the sting of what he'd
done in bringing her here. A bitter storm brewed inside her at
the thought that this man had separated her from her little son,
leaving her to wonder where he was ... if he was.