by Laura Frantz
“You’re a long way from home, Colonel McLinn. May I ask what makes this war your war?”
He looked at her then, so keenly she wanted to wince beneath his blue gaze. “Half the Continental army is Irish, Miss Rowan. There are twenty-six Irish-born generals serving under Washington, not to mention lesser officers like myself. We’re committed to ending the tyranny of England whenever and wherever we can. If not in our homeland, then here.”
She nodded, shamed at her ignorance of the world at large and the war. Mama hadn’t allowed her to read the Virginia Gazette or indulge in politics. What little she’d gleaned came from her father’s letters and her time spent tutoring. “So England has long been the enemy of Ireland.”
“Aye, not only Ireland but Scotland and other parts. Now we have a chance to fight back.”
“My father mentioned you have an estate in Ireland.”
“Had. The Crown confiscated our ancestral lands when I joined the Americans. But ’tis a loss well worth bearing for liberty’s sake.”
She detected a bite of bitterness beneath his gentlemanly tone and imagined there to be far more to his losses than the privation of his estate. But she warmed to the conviction in his voice, and her eyes moved from his face to his uniform coat, lingering on the fine gold epaulets atop his wide shoulders, the eagle insignia on his left collar, the blue riband worn across the breast between his coat and waistcoat. Yet for all her looking, she failed to find the distinction she sought.
Where, she wondered, was his Purple Heart?
“You’ve done a day’s work all in one morning,” he said abruptly, returning his cup to the tray. “After this you’re at your leave. I have to interview the Shawnee prisoners, and I don’t want you present.”
She merely nodded and finished her coffee, tucking the biscuit discreetly into her pocket for Abby and seeing a flash of amusement cross his face as she did. He missed nothing. Little wonder his men couldn’t get away with the slightest infraction.
“I’ll finish the correspondence in my cabin and have it ready for your signature in the morning,” she said, lifting the lap desk and wishing he wouldn’t ask an orderly to carry it for her, which he promptly did. She hoped he wouldn’t forget about the Redstone women, and then discarded that notion as well. She’d worked with him for a wee three hours, long enough to know he overlooked little.
“Good day, Miss Rowan,” he said, standing till she was beyond the blockhouse door.
An icy blast of air sent stinging particles of snow into her face and threatened to pull her hair free of its pins. Her eyes moved to the quarters where the Shawnee were being held, then Olympia’s cabin just across. She could see Abby’s pale face in the square of window, and her heart twisted. After she’d finished her correspondence, she’d invite Abby to the cabin. Waving a hand, she moved on.
Just outside the kitchen blockhouse, Bella’s wash stood at stiff attention on the sagging clothesline. Smoke from a dozen chimneys hung over the parade ground like a dirty linen shroud. Everything was cast in shades of gray—somber, bleak, distressing. Despite her high feeling about her morning’s work, thoughts of her father crowded in and snuffed out her satisfaction. She felt her mood plummet with every step.
All I need is a cup of tea. And a good cry.
She thanked the orderly at the cabin door and slipped inside, surprised to find the fire blazing and Bella stabbing it fiercely with a poker.
Whirling, her dark eyes exclamation points, Bella sputtered, “Why, I thought you’d not be shed o’ McLinn till midnight!”
Roxanna set down the lap desk and hung up her cloak. “Bella, you don’t have to fuss with my fire—not with all the other work you have to do.”
“It was the colonel’s doin’, tellin’ me not to let yo’ fire go out while you were workin’ with him over in the blockhouse.”
Truly? Hearing it, she felt a tad lighter in spirit, touched by his concern. “I have some good news. The colonel’s decided to let the Redstone women stay till spring—if they’re willing to work.”
Bella snorted then scowled. “I doubt even McLinn could get a guinea’s worth o’ work out o’ any o’ them doxies, or even thought to try. I bet this is yo’ doin’.”
Sheepish, Roxanna ladled water from a bucket into the teakettle and hung it over the fire. “I thought you’d be glad. You could use the help.”
Bella perched on the edge of a chair and eyed the porcelain cup Roxanna set out. “So how did it go with the almighty McLinn this mornin’?”
“Well enough that I don’t believe a bad word said about him.”
Her lips pursed in a pout. “Well, the honeymoon ain’t over yet. I give it till the end o’ next week.”
“So far I find him a prodigious worker, uncommonly astute, impeccably mannered—”
Bella glowered. “I don’t know a one o’ them words. He’s dangerous as a keg o’ powder, and you’d best see him for what he is.”
“I think you need a cup of tea,” Roxanna said, pouring the hot water through the strainer and watching as pink liquid sloshed into the fine cup. “Sassafras.” Taking the biscuit out of her pocket, she placed it on the table. “For Abby.”
“I thought this cup was for you,” Bella protested as Roxanna handed her the steaming brew.
“I just had coffee at headquarters, remember?”
Bella took the cup, peering at Roxanna with fresh intensity. “Maybe McLinn’s smitten.”
The notion was oddly pleasing, if ludicrous. Roxanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Why would you think that?”
“Cuz he’s behavin’ hisself.”
“Soldiers and naval men prefer blondes, Bella. Isn’t that how the popular military saying goes?”
Bella looked down at her steaming tea. “I did hear somethin’ ’bout an Irish lass o’ his.”
Roxanna sat down opposite her, surprised by the tight feeling blooming in her chest. “I expect he has someone waiting somewhere.”
“How ’bout you?”
“Me? I was betrothed . . . once. But he married another.”
“Then you is free.”
Free? Roxanna’s eyes roamed the dark cabin walls with its sole stingy window, the savage woods just beyond. “I don’t feel free locked inside this fort. I think everyone outside these walls is free, but not me . . . not us.”
Bella pondered this and sipped her tea. “Hank tells me there’s trouble brewin’ on account o’ them two Indians McLinn’s got locked in the guardhouse over yonder.”
Roxanna held back a sigh, having wondered the same. “Did Hank tell you what the colonel plans on doing with them?”
“McLinn ain’t one to blat his brains out even to his second-in-command.”
“And who would that be?”
“You mean you ain’t met him? He’s never far from the colonel’s side. His name’s Micajah Hale. Major Hale.” When Roxanna didn’t answer, Bella pursed her lips. “You ain’t heard a word I been sayin’ for a full five minutes. You thinkin’ ’bout that little gal again?”
“I am,” Roxanna admitted, sitting down opposite Bella and digging in her knitting basket.
“I don’t know for the life o’ me what that child is doin’ with such women.”
“’Tis simple, really. Olympia is her aunt. Her mother died not long ago of a fever.”
“Oh, I know all ’bout that. Who’s her pa?”
Roxanna lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Some passerby, Olympia said. She was born and raised in a tavern in Redstone, remember.”
“Why don’t she speak?”
Roxanna sat back, a half-finished rag doll in her lap. “She’s missing her mother, I suppose.”
“I bet that child’s seen things no child should. Olympia sure lords it over her, hardly lettin’ her out o’ her sight.” Bella’s dark eyes landed on the doll and shone with rare sympathy. “I been watchin’ how you try to draw her out . . . get her to smile.”
“I thought maybe this doll would help. Why don’t we have a little tea
party—just the three of us? I imagine Olympia is sleeping and wouldn’t even miss her—”
Behind them the door cracked open as if on cue, and two inquisitive blue eyes fastened on Roxanna. She turned toward the sound and her smile widened. “Why, Abby, come in!”
Looking furtively over her shoulder, the child slipped inside, hovering as if unsure of the invitation. Roxanna said quietly, “I have something for you—two things, actually.”
The light of curiosity sparked in her face and she took mincing steps across the small cabin, eyes on the biscuit Roxanna gestured to. “I can make you a little tea with cream and honey too.”
Bella got up to fetch another cup as Abby slid onto the bench beside Roxanna. Taking a bite of biscuit, she lowered her eyes to Roxanna’s lap.
“I’ve almost finished your doll, but I need to know what color you’d like for her hair.” Rummaging again, Roxanna held up a hank of cochineal-dyed wool and then one of yellow and brown. Lovingly, the little hand stroked the red in silent communication.
Was her mother’s hair red? Roxanna wondered. “Red it is, then,” she said, wishing she could elicit a smile. But the little face was locked tight, pale as frost beneath her unruly red cap.
“I had me a doll when I was young and in Virginny,” Bella said, setting Abby’s pewter cup in front of her. “My mammy made it for me.”
Roxanna looked up from braiding the doll’s hair, touched by her poignant tone.
“I wished I still had it sometimes. It was nothin’ but corn husks, but I loved it.”
Abby chewed the last of her biscuit, then took a sip of tea. When Bella offered her the honey spoon, she licked it almost daintily, her chin spotted with sticky drops.
Roxanna softened at the whimsical sight. Why on earth is such a beautiful child in such a forbidding place? she wondered for the hundredth time. She made a mental note to mend Abby’s worn frock—the calico was so tattered in places it was nearly transparent. But she’d have to speak to Olympia first, as she was so touchy about anything concerning Abby.
While they sipped their tea, Bella began to talk about supper and LeSourd’s foray for turkeys and the overdue supply train. Roxanna listened absently, eyes drifting to her lap desk, the thought of her father’s journal worming its way into her thoughts. Shifting uncomfortably, she tried to dismiss it, but the cryptic words seemed burned into her brain, kindling the need to look again and unravel its mystery.
In this isolated, forgotten outpost, intrigue swirls on every side . . .
With some difficulty, she returned her attention to Abby and wondered what would happen to the girl. Though Olympia hadn’t said, Roxanna guessed the child was about five years old. Time she learned her letters. But to what avail? This was no safe Virginia village, but hostile wilderness. Folks weren’t concerned with schooling, just survival. She could well imagine Colonel McLinn’s reaction if she were to broach such a civilized topic.
Unbidden, he seemed to lurk in the corners of her mind, making a mess of her yarn.
Oh, Lord, please help Abby. And me. And all the broken people in this broken place.
11
Cass stood with Micajah Hale as the two Shawnee prisoners were brought in, their chains clinking with a lethal rattle that cast him back to the twilight eve when he’d ruined Roxanna Rowan’s life. The fact that a head chief of the Kispoko Shawnee now stood before him seemed less a coup than hollow victory. The young chief had to duck his head to enter the blockhouse door, and the flash of black eyes seemed to probe the dim room for an escape before assessing and dismissing each officer. At last his icy gaze leveled on Cass and lingered like a predator fixed on its prey.
Cass met the dark eyes without wavering, knowing he was as revered and feared among the Shawnee as the young chief was among Kentucke’s settlers. It was this Indian, backed by the British, who’d destroyed a Kentucke fort and two stations and taken a host of white prisoners. Cass’s task was to arrange a prisoner exchange, if it could be done. In retaliation for the destruction this Shawnee and his warriors had wrought, he had crossed the Ohio River with his men the previous summer and destroyed five Shawnee towns and six miles of corn.
Lately it seemed almost a game of sorts between them, albeit a dangerous one. Only now Cass had the upper hand. He wondered how long it would last. He wouldn’t turn his back on the man for the slightest second, even guarded. He motioned for the regulars escorting them to seat the captives on a long hickory bench in the center of the room.
His translator, a bearded half blood named Jim Bear, surveyed his kinsmen through squinted eyes. Despite their being confined in the guardhouse and in chains, they’d not been denied the basic necessities. They were clean and well fed. He didn’t want to alienate them completely before forcing their cooperation, if they could be forced.
The older Shawnee was looking around in undisguised curiosity, but the younger chief had turned inward, almost brooding, and Cass stepped in front of him, motioning for Jim to begin.
“Ask him his name.”
The Shawnee translation was swift, even musical, and completely unnecessary. Cass well knew his name was Five Feathers, not simply owing to the eagle feathers affixed to the silver disc above his left ear. Tales of his misdeeds had spread clear to the colonies and beyond. The Virginia Gazette even carried a regular column about his exploits, which, Cass rued, needed little embellishment.
Jim Bear repeated the question, but the answer was a stony silence.
Cass moved to stand in front of the two Indians, hands clasped behind his back, and addressed them directly in English. “Do you know why you’re at Fort Endeavor?”
Jim repeated the question in Shawnee, and there was a protracted silence. Finally the older Indian answered slowly and Jim translated. “Why has the red-haired chief brought us here?”
Why indeed? The question—coupled with their name for him—nearly elicited a wry smile. They were here so he could ascertain if the captives from the burned-out forts had been tomahawked, assimilated into the tribe, or sold to the British in Detroit for bounty. Equally vital was his learning which British officer was behind the attacks on the settlements and supplying the Shawnee with what they needed to do it. But he’d start small.
Cass crossed his arms and fixed his eye on the clock across the room. “I mean you no harm by bringing you here. Just as an enemy can come peacefully into a Shawnee town and remain unharmed, so too you can come here and expect fair treatment.”
Jim Bear took his time with this, speaking as much to the younger Shawnee chief as to the elder. But Five Feathers sat as if deaf, his tawny face so impassive his fearsome features seemed cast in stone. Cass felt a spasm of impatience. He hadn’t the time to waste with silence. He looked toward the regulars who had escorted them in.
“Increase their rations and give them both a gill of rum.” A goodwill gesture, he didn’t add, thinking it might do little good at all. As they left he said to an orderly, “Send for Miss Rowan.”
Within minutes the orderly returned. “She’s not in her cabin, sir.”
“Check the kitchen, then.”
Sheepish, the young private shut the door, and for a few seconds the cold weight of remorse and grief rushed in to fill the empty space. Cass eyed the crystal decanter of brandy on a corner table and then the clock. A quarter till three. Too early yet to take the edge off his emotions.
When the door creaked open again, he tamped down an incapacitating rush of regret as Roxanna entered the room, her arms full of papers, the orderly trailing behind with her lap desk. Shoving the memory of Richard Rowan aside, he recalled the gown he’d last seen Cecily wearing. Not the simple, spinsterish brown Roxanna wore, but an extravagant silk the hue of a ripe peach with a ribbon of the same winding through her honeyed hair . . .
“You sent for me, Colonel.”
Even with his desk between them, he could see a slight dusting of flour on her cheek and chin. His mouth quirked wryly and he said, “You’ve been baking.”
She colored slightly. “Yes.”
“What have you been baking?”
“Pumpkin pies.” At his intensity, she cradled her papers in one arm and lifted a hand to smooth away the flour, her eyes hugely blue in her pale face. “Fort Endeavor had a fine garden last year, Bella tells me. Pumpkins, anyway.” His gaze slid to the papers she held, and she added, “These need your signature before folding and sealing.”
He leaned across the desk and took them from her, resisting the sudden urge to brush the remaining flour from her face. Had she ever been properly courted by a man, he wondered . . . kissed? Kissed by a man who knew how to do so? Thinking it, he nearly forgot the matter at hand. The sheaf of papers held a hint of . . . was it violet? He found the documents impeccably transcribed, the elegant slant of each letter as appealing as the one who penned them.
Sitting down, he took up his own quill and scrawled his signature in bold black six times across as many documents. As the ink dried, he watched her settle the lap desk on her knees and take up her quill, though she didn’t look at him. Since she’d arrived, she seemed to be trying not to look at him, he realized.
Perhaps the sight of him pained her as much as her presence did him. Their distressing situation only strengthened his resolve to quit his post. Since the eve he’d shot her father, he’d been a hairbreadth away from resigning his commission. Every morning of the past three years he’d considered it, hardly believing he was still in this crowded, filthy fort with two hundred surly, affection-starved men and half as many horses, in constant danger from illness and Indians, and with repulsive rations to boot. This was his punishment for a crime he hadn’t committed. General Washington had sent him west, saying it was his salvation. Sometimes he wished they’d simply hanged him instead.
“Colonel McLinn . . .”
The gentle voice brought him back, and he grabbed for the first rational thought he could, saying tersely, “Next letter will be to the Continental Congress. ‘Dear Sirs: It is proposed to carry the war into the heart of the country of the Shawanoe, to burn their towns, destroy their next year’s crops, and do them every mischief which time and circumstances will permit. This I have done with less than two hundred able-bodied men, few supplies, and no reinforcements.’ ”