Courting Morrow Little: A Novel

  He folded the letter, his eyes still on her. "She says the city is calm now that the British have departed. You could attend finishing school, enjoy the theater, do all the things you couldn't do last time, and-"

  "No, Pa, please:" She'd not tell him all that she didn't miss that the city was dirty and stank, that people threw the contents of chamber pots out second-story windows, that she'd been little more than a slave right along with Aunt Etta, catering to the British elite.

  Shoulders stooped, he took up his pipe again, a pile of shavings at his feet. "There's another reason Philadelphia appeals to me. You'd be out of harm's way:"

  She fought down her dismay. Not with chamber pots flying out of windows and a war on.

  In the still room, his voice seemed ominous. "There's a wilderness war coming, I'm afraid, the likes of which we've never seen. Sending you back to the city would be dangerous but seems a bit safer than keeping you here:"

  She sat down on the bench, forgetting her sewing, grieved by the deep lines of weariness in his once handsome face. Perhaps we should both leave, she almost said. She thought it each time she ventured into the east side of the cabin and stood among the shattered remnants of their lives. She thought it now, beset with worries about McKie and the British and Shawnee. Yet they stayed on. Because of Jess.

  She wasn't supposed to see the letter, Morrow realized. All the Mondays of her life she'd spent dusting Pa's desk-save the two years she'd spent in Philadelphia-never lifting the hinged lid to trespass to the contents beneath. But life was full of firsts, and so today she did. Night after night she'd seen him at work composing on crisp foolscap and longed to ask who the letter was for. She sensed it concerned her, and that is why she trespassed. That it was addressed to Aunt Etta nearly made her shut the desk but for one telling line.

  Morrow seems to have caught the eye of one too many men, both savage and civilized.

  The savage was Major McKie, surely. The lid came crashing down, and she whirled about, certain Pa stood watching her. But both doors were open, untouched by his shadow. The plaintive call of a dove was the only sound that shattered the stillness, and she started dusting again, the stain of guilt shading her features. If he were to enter now, he'd know just by looking at her. She might as well finish the deed.

  Dropping the crude duster, which was little more than a flurry of goose feathers attached to a stick, she went to the front door, eyeing the barn and field and pasture before passing to the back porch and returning to the desk. It took but a few minutes to scan the long letter for the most important points, and when she was done, dismay overlay her shame.

  Morrow is a woman now and in need of further feminine influence. Since she has returned from Philadelphia, I see things more clearly. As you stated in your last letter, the frontier is no place for a motherless daughter, and certainly not a fatherless one. I am, as you know, not well. The settlement men, most of whom are dishonorable, are paying her entirely too much attention, though she seems not to notice. There is but one man and only one to whom I would entrust her, but I shall save that for another post.

  She reread that final line two, three times. Which man? Surely not McKie. Perhaps another soldier or settler? She favored none of them yet found the fact that he did intriguing. And his solution? Leaning on the open lid, she pored over the final paragraph.

  I have decided to return Morrow to Philadelphia-to your care-at the earliest convenience, barring further hostilities between Indians and whites.

  Your loving brother, Elias

  Oh, Pa! She wished he would appear so she could spill out her angst, confess her spying, change his mind. 'Twas only a few months since she'd left the city. Now Philadelphia seemed as far-flung as England and twice the enemy. Would he take her there himself? No, he'd said he would send her at the earliest possible convenience. Did that mean tomorrow? Next week? With what escort? Captain Click?

  The sound of boots scraping the porch steps made her nearly panic. She didn't want him to see her so, tears spilling down like a spoiled child. With furious haste, she disappeared through the dogtrot door into the east side of the cabin. Dust motes swirled like snow as a shaft of sunlight tried to penetrate the grimy panes of glass on the landing above.

  Sinking onto a three-legged stool just inside the door, she put her head in her hands. Perhaps she could just pretend she'd never read the letter and pray that it would get lost between here and Pennsylvania. Or that the war-the wilderness one or otherwisewould move closer and the danger would prevent her from going to the city. She couldn't possibly leave Pa, unwell as he was.

  In time she heard him pass onto the porch and go outside. Likely he thought she was upstairs in her room. The hum of cicadas rose shrilly in the Indian summer heat. Inside the ravaged room came the age-old smells of stagnant air, dust, and disuse. In her haste she'd left the door open, and a gust of wind whipped through the dogtrot, rifling her muslin skirt and pulling strands of her hair free of its pins.

  She was so lost in recollecting every line of the grievous letter that she neither sensed nor saw anyone at first. Silent as a shadow, Red Shirt filled the dogtrot doorway, lowering his head to see inside. His lithe outline was reflected in the looking glass just across from her, and she went absolutely still. He was so close she could have reached out and touched the fringe of one beaded buckskin legging if she'd wanted to.

  He looked down at her, and then his eyes roamed the room, taking in every desolate detail. But as she'd often observed, no emotion crossed his face. How, she wondered, was it possible to look at all the mess and be unmoved? Her own heart hurt anew each time she came here. His father's people had done this. The Shawnee. Not the Wyandot. Not the Cherokee. The Shawnee.

  Without a word she hunkered further down on the stool and wrapped her arms about her knees, shutting her eyes. The wind gusted again, dancing with a flurry of stray feathers. Just like that final day. Thirteen years later she could still recall the feeling-the awesome bewilderment and finality of it all.

  Would it never leave her?

  "Morrow, is that you?" Pa's voice seemed to echo down the dogtrot.

  She stood up slowly, knowing he'd stay well away from the door lest he see the shattered remnants of his old life just inside. Why did she feel like she was a hundred years old? She'd been sitting far too long. Her knees seemed to creak as she got up and shut the ugly sight away, joining him in the late afternoon sunlight.

  "I've been looking everywhere for you;' he told her, removing his hat and running an agitated hand through his hair. "I never figured you'd be over on this side"

  For once she didn't hide it. He might as well know she came here as often as she could, to think, to try to remember, even as she ached to forget. She looked around, feeling a chill despite the warm wind. "Red Shirt was just here. Did you see him?"

  He looked at her like she was addled. "I've not seen him this day, Daughter. Not since he came the last time and had words with you on the porch."

  On the porch ... when she'd all but begged him to stay away. Her face burned at the memory. "He was right here-standing in the dogtrot doorway. Looking inside"

  "Did he speak with you?"

  She shook her head, searching the orchard and the far meadow, the pasture where the horses roamed, and every outbuilding as if she could conjure him up and make Pa believe her. She felt the need to resurrect Red Shirt, to prove she wasn't dreaming. But it was just she and Pa, after all ... and the grievous letter that stood between them.

  "Perhaps he came by to see if we're all right, given the trouble;' he said.

  But she believed none of it. "I'm not feeling well, she said softly. "I'd best go lay down"

  He nodded and began coughing again, and her heart sank at the sound. Before crossing over the threshold, she took a last look over her shoulder, a sense of foreboding following her.

  Where is he?

  It troubled her that Red Shirt could see them yet stay hidden. How many times had he come by and watched them while keeping h
imself a secret? The thought was so unnerving she felt woozy. She climbed the stairs to her room, fighting for composure.

  Did he stand and watch them from the woods ... perhaps linger on her window? One moment he seemed like a friend, another he felt like an enemy. Which was he? Though he'd said he wouldn't hurt her-had even saved her life at the river-she couldn't quite shake the fear that he might turn on her, on Pa. She'd heard of whites befriending Indians to their everlasting regret. A half blood wouldn't be any different.

  She climbed atop her bed and felt the feather tick deflate beneath her weight. At any moment Red Shirt could come up here and do what the Shawnee had done years before-slash the thick tick to ribbons and fill the room with feathers.

  If it happened, she hoped he'd have the grace to tomahawk her first.

  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 so
me 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?"