18

Shivering, Roxanna replenished her ink and hid the pistol just as the door opened wide to admit a startling retinue. As the Shawnee party filed in dressed in flashing silver and calico, stroud and skins, she watched Cass in profile. He seemed to be assessing and categorizing each one, face firm but not unfriendly, hands clasped behind his back. She felt a swell of pride as respect overrode her fear, and she realized he’d placed her well in back of him to protect her if things went awry. For the moment it even softened her anger over their heated exchange moments before.

A half-dozen Indians faced him, ebony eyes rising from the belts of wampum—one denoting war and the other peace—to his grave, thoughtful face. But Roxanna was no longer looking at stalwart soldiers or stoic Indian chiefs. Astonishment peppered her like buckshot as her gaze came to rest on the first Indian woman she’d ever seen. For a few heart-stopping seconds, she realized every officer stood transfixed.

Even Colonel McLinn.

The woman stood wrapped in a red trade blanket, her lustrous hair spilling in an ebony waterfall to her knees. Finely sculpted features glowed tawny with health, and she kept her eyes down with a becoming modesty, the fringe of her lashes long and black. Small shells and silver rings glittered from the outer edges of her ears and mirrored the jewelry about her neck. Tall and graceful and astonishingly lovely, she seemed the daughter of a chief. Or perhaps a chief’s wife.

Cass drew his sword and laid it across the desk between the wampum belts. The stillness seemed excruciating to Roxanna as she sat motionless with her quill, sensing this was just the start of a long ceremony fraught with protocol. Perhaps she’d been rash to ask to stay on—but ’twas too late to change course in midstream.

Across from them, the tallest Shawnee came forward with an elaborate feathered pipe in his hands. Cass circled the desk to stand before him, and Ben Simmons retrieved a live coal from the hearth. Clouds of rich smoke perfumed the air between them, wafting back to Roxanna on a cold draft. The pipe was then passed to each Indian before Cass spoke.

“Since you have initiated this meeting, I want to hear why you have come. Did the bad birds of the British send you like they have sent so many of your warriors to fight their battles for them? Or are you here of your own accord to talk truth—and peace?”

Roxanna held her breath at such plain speaking, scanning the dark, impassive faces as Simmons translated.

The chief with the pipe spoke again, his face creased in thoughtful lines. “We do not come with British cannon or dressed as Redcoats, as you can see. The gifts we bring the red-haired chief are not from Detroit. We come to hear the truth of why the Bluecoats make war with their father across the great water and in turn make war on us. Since you have come into our country, we have had no peace. We have also heard you will soon cross the Ohio River and trouble us further, like the Long Knives before you.”

As she pushed the quill furiously across her paper, Roxanna was thankful for the frequent lulls in the translation, if only to rest her hand and try to make sense of the proceedings.

“I do plan to come into your country again, if only to find out who among the British are sending Shawnee into the Kentucke settlements to spill blood and take scalps,” Cass said. “My quarrel is not with you but the Redcoats. Burning your towns and destroying your crops is distasteful to me. I know the whole of your people are suffering because of the greed and evil of a few bad birds among the British. If you tell me who these Redcoats are, I will bypass the middle ground and go straight to them, sparing your people much turmoil.”

A second chief spoke, his wrinkled face bearing a hundred hard lines, his silver-streaked hair wrapped in otter skins. “We only know of the soldier chief Hamilton in Detroit. He is the one paying our young warriors for Kentucke scalps. You speak of someone else?”

“Aye, I do. I’ve learned that Hamilton has at least one British officer working among your people, particularly your young braves, bribing them with rum and muskets and goading them to violence. I mean to find out who that is.”

The next hours unfolded like scenes from a tedious play, and Roxanna’s hand cramped from holding the quill so tightly. She wished they would stop and smoke again but sensed this would not happen till meeting’s end, if then. Words flew like sparks between the colonel and the Shawnee—hot, colorful, alarming. Yet her grudging admiration for Cass grew. Not once had she caught him in a lie, though Indian politics, as Papa had often said, was fraught with deceit. Nor did he ply them with drink and gifts to bribe them.

As the clock struck four, the delegation passed outside, into light and fresh air. The Shawnee had brought Cass gifts so generous she was surprised. A fine black stallion prancing just outside the door. Pouches of the finest, most fragrant Indian tobacco. A heavily fringed deerskin coat with a stunning array of painted quills in an artful pattern across the back.

Standing by the shuttered window, Roxanna watched the exchange on the parade ground, aware of the beautiful Shawnee woman still in the room with her. The woman lingered by the hearth, eyes roaming over this strange domain of white men, much as Roxanna’s ranged over the colorful assortment of Indians outside. A bleak February sun was stabbing through the clouds, catching the copper of Cass’s hair so that it seemed to flame. He had since returned his sword to its scabbard but was still wary, she sensed, though amiable and assured in outward manner.

He swung himself up on the stallion’s bare back and, to the obvious delight of the chiefs, took off at a gallop and cleared the low-lying magazine that held Fort Endeavor’s precious powder stores. Dismounting beside the flagpole, he removed his uniform coat and gave it to the chief who’d served as spokesman for the group. The Shawnee donned it proudly, particularly taken with the proliferation of gilt buttons and ornate braid. Cass likewise shrugged on the deerskin coat, clearly as pleased with the gift as the Shawnee chief now sporting his.

The only sticking point in the whole affair, Roxanna reflected, was the Shawnees’ refusal to divulge who among the British was inciting their warriors to raid the frontier settlements. Discovering this was Cass’s burning mission, and he’d not once let up in trying to achieve it, using a clever arsenal of verbal tactics. Listening hard and transcribing till the pain in her wrist rivaled that in her head, she was tempted to believe the Shawnee truly didn’t know. Cass, she sensed, felt they simply weren’t telling.

The only significant piece of intelligence he’d elicited was that the British were planning a joint attack on the remaining Kentucke forts at some shadowy point in future, complete with cannon, in a concentrated effort to drive the settlers back over the mountains once and for all.

“And do your chiefs believe that the British, if successful, will return the hunting grounds of Kentucke to you?” he’d asked them with characteristic candor. “If so, the Redcoat lies are as thick as flies. They want this land as their own. After they drive the settlers out, they will drive you out.”

Simmons translated the forceful words, and there was a profound silence. Peace, peace . . . there is no peace. Unbidden, the Scripture came to Roxanna’s mind in all its desolation. Like the Israelites of old, the Shawnee would one day find themselves without a country once the British and Americans finished fighting each other.

Returning to her chair, she funneled sand back into a jar and looked at the now dried pages of shorthand. Later she would spend hours copying them into official transcripts to be sent to Virginia and beyond. She waited for the men to come back inside, acutely aware of the Indian woman as she walked about the large room, the fringe of her tunic swaying with every graceful step.

The trade blanket she’d worn like a cape now lay in a red puddle on the floor before Cass’s desk. Without it, she was even more astonishing, her doeskin dress snow white, the blue beadwork breathtaking. Her waist was wrapped in a fur belt, its slimness a startling contrast to the lush curves of her hips and chest. She looked, Roxanna thought with something akin to envy, like an overripe pawpaw waiting to be picked.

When the officers and Indians returned, they again gathered around the desk to smoke. The party wanted to be on their way by dusk, Simmons told them in translation, despite Cass’s invitation to stay and eat. Roxanna breathed a prayer of thanks. With the commissary so low, Bella would be hard-pressed and in a fury feeding any more guests.

Thankfully there were few closing remarks. Roxanna put down her quill, only to pick it up again when the eldest of the chiefs stepped forward. “We believe you have spoken the truth here today. Though we have never met before now, we have heard of your exploits as a warrior and chief. The Redcoats fear your shadow will fall over them in the north as it has our people in the middle ground. To show you that we are prepared to turn from the British and bury the hatchet and walk the path of peace, we present you with a final gift.”

Quill idle, Roxanna waited for Cass to respond to the translation. He hesitated, and she sensed an undercurrent of fresh distrust. The officers were darting nervous glances around the room in search of the promised gift—or perhaps a surprise ambush. Cass stood facing the Shawnee party, strangely silent. Roxanna’s attention swung from him to the Indians as tension crackled in the cold air.

The older Shawnee’s eyes seemed to shine with goodwill. “The Great Spirit has revealed to us that peacemaking comes from the melding of body, soul, and spirit. Only then can two peoples truly understand each other. It would be a good thing for the blood of the red-haired chief to flow in our veins. Strength and peace will be shared between us. To achieve this end, I give you my daughter.”

Roxanna’s transcribing ground to a halt. The room grew so still she heard naught but the sudden thrumming of her heart. Frontier politics were often unpredictable and dangerous . . . but this? Simmons had mistaken the translation, surely. Gripping her quill so hard she thought it would snap, she heard Simmons murmuring something to the chief, who simply repeated his offer of before.

How, she wondered, could such a gift be graciously refused? And what did this beautiful woman, capable of winning any man’s heart, think of her father’s outrageous offer?

Stricken, Roxanna looked up, the sympathy welling inside her turning to stark dismay. Though her head was lowered demurely, the Indian woman’s comely features were nevertheless suffused with pleasure at the prospect of such a liaison, a beguiling half smile playing across her lips.

And Cass . . .

Her heart constricted while he stood there, broad back to her as he turned toward this flesh-and-blood gift, the buckskin jacket making him seem taller and even more appealing. Dropping her eyes to the papers on her desk, she waited for his refusal. When it didn’t come, she looked up at him entreatingly.

He raised a long arm, the fringe of his sleeve swinging forward with an easy grace, and laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “What is your name?”

Her response was simply a lovely echo of all the rest of her, softly and gracefully articulated, and when she lifted her dark eyes to look up at him, they held an enticing invitation.

“Falling Water,” Simmons finally said in a breathless sort of wheeze.

Addressing the chief, Cass said, “I accept the gift of your daughter—and I thank you.”

Stifling a gasp, Roxanna pressed her back against the hard rungs of her chair. The sudden movement jarred the lap desk, spilling the inkpot and staining the moss green of her skirts a deep indigo. The quill followed, fluttering wildly to the floor like a wounded bird. She hardly heard the satisfied response of the chief in translation. Within moments they were exiting the room, Indians first, officers following, then Ben Simmons and finally Cass and his prize. Numb, Roxanna sat as if bound to the chair. Visions of copper hair turned loose from its tie, tawny arms, and flashing black eyes made her clench her jaw so tight tears came to her eyes.

Alone in the room, she felt a sudden desperation seize her. Ignoring the mess she’d made, she rushed to the window and unlatched the shutter to take in the scene outside. Twilight was falling fast, casting the parade ground in purple shadows. The front gates were groaning open to allow the Shawnee to pass, and the officers had fanned out around them, ever wary. High above, the banquette was crowded with armed regulars. But Roxanna couldn’t look away from Cass—and her.

She leaned into the window, the crude bulk of the shutter creaking as she sagged against it. She felt like she was five years old, sitting on the lofty branch of that old oak, secure one minute then slipping the next. Down, down, down she’d fallen, legs folding under her like broken sticks, left foot shattering. Then, and now, all the breath flew out of her, and she couldn’t speak or cry or do anything at all. Mere bones had broken then. ’Twas nothing like her heart, which, though she’d forbidden it, had fastened itself to Cass.

She watched in silent agony as he turned to the Indian woman and held out his hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, she entwined her fingers in his. The intimate gesture was done with such a touching familiarity that fresh pain sliced through Roxanna’s heart.

Oh, Cecily, to be in Ireland, unable to see your beloved like this . . .

He was walking toward the sally port now as he did every evening, the guard flanking him, leaving the fetid fort far behind. Everyone—to a man—was watching them go, all those remaining lost in a cloud of bewilderment or blatant envy.

Up the greening hill to the stone house they went. Hank was not there but here, standing with Bella near the flagpole, the new American flag with its stars and stripes outstretched in a stiff early evening wind. At the entrance to the stone house, Cass opened the door and let the Shawnee woman in before shutting it firmly behind them.

Roxanna leaned her head against the shutter, a great emptiness rushing in to rival her hurt. What would they say when alone with one another? How would they make themselves understood? The innocent questions pushed her pain deeper still, and then the wisdom of her twenty-eight years took root. Some things needed no interpretation.

Lovemaking was the same in any language.