by Laura Frantz
They joined hands again, the only sound the stove’s popping and water sluicing under the hull beneath their feet. One by one they all prayed again, this time for Roxanna, and it seemed she’d never heard such sincere whispered words. But it was Dovie’s petition that lingered the longest.
“Help my friend Roxanna, Mister Eternal. Prepare her a man she can’t take her eyes off of and who can’t take his eyes off her. And let it be right quick, if it pleases Ye.”
2
’Twas the deep lilac of dusk, a dangerous time to be a soldier. Trail-weary, the Kentuckians under Colonel Cassius McLinn’s command were only too glad to succumb to a keg of rum at day’s end. It was a flourishing finish to a successful winter campaign in Shawnee territory—indeed, one that had ended but hours before when the men had split ranks and ambushed a British-led war party in a matter of minutes, bringing an end to the enemy’s planned raid on the frontier settlements.
Colonel McLinn turned away from the barren ridge and tucked his spyglass in a coat pocket, aware of the bound men behind him. Redcoats and redskins made strange bedfellows, he mused. They watched him as intently as he watched them, feathers fluttering and faces smeared with paint and gunpowder.
It had been a mostly bloodless battle. Those were what he was known for. Wars could be won by weapons and wits. What was it the Virginia Gazette called him? “The gentleman colonel”? The Shawnee knew him as something less stellar—the Bluecoat town burner. He preferred the first title by far but acknowledged he’d earned the second. Swinging round to face his fifty prisoners, he wondered, what did they think of him now?
In the winter twilight he knew he cast a Goliath-like shadow. The tattered, stained skirt of his long leather coat flapped about his thighs in the wind, and his silver-spurred boots were firmly planted on frozen ground. He unsheathed his sword, and the bell-like ring of fine steel lingered in the air.
The prisoners were watching him now, perhaps wondering if he’d live up to his reputation. But which one? He paced back and forth in front of them, eyes on the bare trees behind them, wondering when the woods would give up all his men. Wondering too if they concealed the dozen or so Shawnee and Redcoats who’d gotten away.
Perhaps he’d been wrong to send a small party looking for the escaped enemy. He’d placed thirty soldiers under the leadership of Richard Rowan, though Rowan was more scrivener than soldier. Given this, the men would likely get lost—or frostbitten—before they came back. But with his second-in-command sick, he’d had little choice. And Rowan, weary of desk duty, had been more than willing. Cass had watched the woods swallow his men with a tightness in his chest he couldn’t account for. Rowan was like a father to him to boot.
Sheathing his sword, he shoved aside his misgivings as a lieutenant came forward with a pewter tankard. “This’ll take the chill off, Colonel.”
Within an hour no one was thinking of their missing comrades or the elusive enemy as they huddled about the fires and partook freely of the rum. To a man, they were all pondering the comforts of home. Trestle tables piled high with meat and bread. The gentle swish of a skirt. Downy feather ticks. And Cassius McLinn was thinking of Ireland . . . and the estate he hadn’t seen in six years . . . and the fragrant, enveloping arms of Cecily O’Day.
Always, always Cecily.
When daylight had eroded completely, he spotted a flash of movement in the forest. Men—mere shadows—began to emerge with muskets raised. The escaped raiders! With a furious, catlike swipe, he reached for his rifle and sighted. In one single, unforgiving blast, he felled the lead man. All around him, his soldiers followed suit, picking off the approaching men like turkeys at a target shoot. There was precious little resistance—a terrifying silence—then an anguished cry.
His own.
They were downing their own men! Fellow Patriots, all. The soldiers still standing were now running back toward the woods in terror. With a hoarse cry, Cass dropped his musket and sprinted across the icy sheen of grass, the soles of his boots like skates.
Oh, eternal Father, have mercy . . .
Richard Rowan lay faceup, his Continental coat flecked crimson from the gaping wound in his chest. He worked his mouth hard, swallowing back blood, one hand grabbing Cass’s lapel as he hovered over him.
“Colonel . . .”
Cass fell to his knees and reached for his scrivener, bringing his head off the hard ground. He tried to utter words of comfort—anything at all—but couldn’t get past the crushing burden in his chest.
Merciful God, reverse this terrible hour.
Excruciating seconds ticked by, and he cried brokenly, “Richard, I thought—you were—the enemy.”
The grip on his lapel tightened. “You have . . . an enemy . . . but it’s not me . . .”
Cass blinked, tears spattering onto the gray-whiskered face of the man he held. The very ground seemed to reel beneath the weight of what he’d done. Could Richard smell the rum? Did he know such mistakes were easily made at dusk? ’Twas at twilight—traitorous twilight—that one troop of men was nearly indistinguishable from another.
Strangely, Richard Rowan’s countenance held no blame or recrimination. His face seemed to almost clear, and his voice held a stronger cadence than Cass had ever heard. “Take care . . . of my . . . Roxie.”
3
“Yep, that’s a fort all right,” Mariah said between expulsions of tobacco. “The first one I seen for four hundred miles or better. Hope we ain’t in for a surprise once we get there.”
At this, all five women slowed their steps. Nancy crossed her ample arms above her broad bosom and shot Mariah a disgusted glance. “Now explain to me just what you mean by that.”
“I’m just sayin’ Fort Endeavor’s locked tighter than a double-corked jug, so the flatboat captain said right before he dropped dead. We might have better luck at one of them other stations further downriver.”
“Who’s in charge of Fort Endeavor?” Dovie asked.
“Colonel Cassius Clayton McLinn,” Roxanna answered, wondering if she’d gotten every syllable right. “He’s commander of the entire western frontier. I believe he’s from Ireland.”
An Irish Patriot. There were many of them in the colonies, almost as many as the rebel Scots. She tried to resurrect all that she’d learned of him through her father’s letters. Educated at Harrow . . . commissioned as an ensign in the British army before defecting to the colonies . . . awarded a Badge of Military Merit for heroic action at Brandywine Creek. The facts swirled in her weary head before settling and posing yet another question.
Given these sterling accomplishments, what was the colonel doing here?
Looking back over her shoulder, she motioned the women on toward the unfriendly-looking fort.
“Reckon they’ll shoot at us?” Dovie wondered aloud. “Or even unlock them gates?” The entire garrison was now clearly in view, and Roxanna could make out more winsome details of the stone house on the hill. When they’d rounded the last bend that brought them abreast of the smooth river, now turning from dull green to opal as the sun strengthened, she could hardly contain her relief. She couldn’t walk another mile, as the soles of her boots were worn thin as paper.
She guessed Papa would be in the orderly room with the colonel, scribbling his shorthand in myriad ways. Protocol demanded that the sentries at the gates stop them and inquire who they were and then summon her father. Thankfully, her traveling companions were no longer a source of consternation. Somehow, amidst the turmoil of the past hours, they’d united into an unlikely band. Though they’d made it thus far with just the clothes on their backs, they had made it with scalps intact, and this was all that mattered.
“It sure ain’t Virginia,” Mariah muttered at her elbow.
Roxanna took a last look at the woods and river. Truly, Kentucke wasn’t like genteel Virginia. Even locked in early winter, the land seemed to pronounce itself superior in the subtlest of ways—from the curious stands of cane one could hide in to the abundance of springs and
staggering girth of giant trees. They had come across all kinds of animal sign as well, and had nearly stared some buffalo in the face. Overhead an enormous flock of pigeons flew, darkening the sky. Kentucke looked, smelled, and felt dangerous.
Yet every step closer was a step away from the past, and for that reason there seemed to be a small sun rising in her breast, just like the one now pinking the sky over the treetops. She hadn’t felt hope for so long—or excitement—but she felt it now and was hard-pressed to keep the emotion from telling on her face. It was all she could do not to run to the massive gates and fling herself into her father’s arms. Though it wasn’t the life her mother had dreamed of for her, it was an honest life.
The end of the road, such as it was, angled through a clearing large enough for military evolutions. The stubble of fallow cornfields and a small outlying orchard spread east. This was, despite its grim facade, a prosperous place, a garrison where soldiers were never idle. Roxanna was relieved to find some signs of normalcy amidst the wildness. A few lean milk cows were fenced in by the fort’s east wall, and behind this was a chicken house with an enormous red-tailed rooster strutting about. Yet no sound came from the fort, nor could she see any sentries on the upraised banquette inside.
“Looks deserted to me,” Nancy mused as they came nearer.
Roxanna’s joy began to ebb. What if Papa is already on his way back to Virginia? What if his enlistment ended earlier than expected? What if . . .
She was hurrying now toward gates slowly swinging open, her boots rubbing holes in the heels of her stockings, her limp so pronounced she winced. The sentries were looking with a sort of awed delight at the knot of weary women approaching. Had they even exchanged a quick wink? Roxanna’s eyes wandered to the spacious parade ground within and an astounding collection of barracks and outbuildings.
Olympia began to stretch and adjust her cape to better reveal her soiled, cardinal-colored dress. With her brightly clad as a Christmas package, it was a wonder she hadn’t led the Indians after them all the way. Roxanna found it almost comical to watch the exaggerated curtseys that nearly spilled the women’s cleavage from their stays, and the stiff bows and fawning faces of the soldiers who’d begun to appear. Like at a stage play she’d once seen in Williamsburg, she stood riveted, hardly noticing the orderly at her elbow.
“Are you with them, ma’am?”
“I—am,” she stated, tugging Abby closer. “I mean, I’m not—not really. I’ve come here to see my father.”
The orderly looked relieved. “And who would your father be, ma’am?”
“Captain Richard Rowan,” she said in a little rush.
The sudden respect that struck his face was gratifying. “I’m pleased to meet you. Is this your daughter?”
Roxanna looked down at Abby, whose pale, upturned face seemed almost translucent beneath her crown of curls. “No. Abby is in the care of her aunt, Olympia, one of the women from Redstone.”
He nodded. “I’m Private Ballard. Is your father expecting you?”
“I’m afraid not—it’s a surprise. Is he here?”
Her entreating question seemed to unsettle him. “Nay, Miss Rowan. He’s away with Colonel McLinn—on a campaign.”
Away. The simple word seemed to snuff out all the high feeling in her heart, and the poise she’d tried to practice took flight. Still, “away” was better than “en route to Virginia.” Or worse.
She swallowed hard and was a soldier’s daughter again—stoic, composed, practical. “Do you know when they’ll return?”
“Nay, miss, can’t rightly say. They’ve been out six weeks or so. The colonel told ’em he’d have ’em back inside the walls of this fort by Christmas Day. And if he says so, he’ll do so.”
Christmas Day was weeks away. She scanned the fort’s interior, noting the collection of tiny cabins squeezed between blockhouse bulwarks at all four corners. Which was Papa’s? Wary, she lingered on the gathering crowd of soldiers next, dismissing broad backs and blue Continental coats and tricorn hats till she came to a hands-on-hips black woman, her piercing eyes dark as garden seeds. She stood on the fringe of the crowd as a stocky man in uniform strode past her, assessing the spectacle before him as he walked.
“Ladies,” he said warmly, removing his hat to reveal a slightly balding pate. Though dignified, his expression was startled, even a bit bemused. He took in Roxanna at the back of the throng, lingering on her a bit long as if trying to make sense of her puzzling presence. “’Tis ungallant to keep travelers out in this cold. Private Ballard, take these women’s belongings to those empty cabins.”
Olympia hooted at this, drawing her cloak tighter. “We ain’t got no belongin’s, beggin’ your pardon. We’re all poor as Job’s turkey.”
“Indeed.” He looked toward Roxanna as she stood with Abby. “What befell you exactly?”
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her muddy skirts. “We were upriver about six miles from here when a party of Indians in canoes pushed off from the north shore. The flatboat crew panicked, most of the men were killed, and the Indians climbed aboard just as we’d pushed off toward the south bank of the river.” Shuddering at the memory, she covered Abby’s ears. “The captain fled with us but took an arrow to the back. We hid in a cave, where he died—”
“Say no more, please.” He stood a little straighter, eyes roaming over each bedraggled woman. “I’m Captain Stewart, acting commander of this garrison since the colonel is away. Since this is a military post and not a civilian one, we rarely have visitors. But you’re welcome to stay till other arrangements can be made. I’ll send a detail out at once to inspect the damage—see if anything’s left of the flatboat and your belongings. If you’d care to join me for supper, I’d be happy to hear what brings you to Fort Endeavor. In the meantime, you can retire to your cabins and I’ll send an orderly over with hot water and whatever else you wish.”
Olympia sauntered toward him and placed a gloved hand on his sleeve, her voice soft and inviting, eyelashes batting like a butterfly’s wings. “I’m obliged, Captain. What time did you say supper was?”
“Seven o’clock, ma’am—”
“Miss Olympia,” she replied, looking his uniform over and obviously finding it to her liking.
For a moment he stood as if lightning-struck, and a murmur of amusement passed over the men. Watching this display of feminine wiles, Roxanna felt a queer pang. Perhaps if she’d tried the same sort of thing with Ambrose, matters would have turned out a bit differently.
Suppertime found them all gathered around a huge trestle table in a cavernous blockhouse, each woman interspersed between officers. The room was big and cold and damp—a cheerless place to partake of a meal. The fare offered was nearly as bland. A sandy-headed lad poured cider into pewter mugs at their elbows, and Roxanna took a discreet sip. The aged brew fizzled and tickled as it went down and nearly made her sputter.
Venison steak, crusty corn pone, and a few scabby potatoes were set before them on wooden trenchers by the black woman Roxanna had seen earlier. She wondered if a supply wagon wasn’t overdue. Papa had often spoken about the trouble of getting goods from Virginia in a timely manner and so wrote countless letters asking—nay, begging—for provisions.
At one end of the table, Captain Stewart presided, Olympia on his left with Abby, while another captain graced the other end with Nancy, Mariah, and Dovie. Roxanna found herself in the middle between two lieutenants who paid her little attention, fixated as they were on her colorful companions. They’d introduced themselves, but in her befuddlement she’d already forgotten who they were. She’d never been good with names. Strangely, the cumbersome if lyrical moniker of their commander, Cassius Clayton McLinn, wove through her mind like a melody, easily remembered.
Despite the meager food and melancholy surroundings, the women kept up a lively discourse, the officers seeming to hang on their every word. Olympia was, if nothing else, an admirable actress, her voice projecting to the dark corners of the blockhouse,
every expression laced with drama. No wonder Abby didn’t speak, Roxanna thought. With Olympia as her aunt, the child couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
Soon the laughter about the table was explosive, as the women recounted their trip downriver and all the mishaps along the way.
Listening, Roxanna became lost in her own silent version of events, none of them remotely amusing. What began as an uneventful journey in late fall, starting at the Redstone settlement on the Monongahela River, had snowballed into something else entirely. She’d been traveling with a Kentucke-bound family of ten—former Virginia neighbors—when three of the children had suddenly taken ill. A stop was made at Redstone and the family disembarked, their places soon taken by this collection of women.
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.