Wilderness double editio.., p.5
Wilderness Double Edition 18, page 5
Winona did not like how his fingers took liberties with her palm but she remained civil and said, “Thank you for having the hot water drawn. My daughter and I enjoyed being able to wash up.”
Proctor grinned. “I know how essential baths are to the female constitution. That’s another reason I had my Harriet provide scented soap.”
Winona looked past the officer at the incredibly attractive young black woman standing to one side. Harriet wore the same smart black-and-yellow uniform Aletha did, but the hem was inches shorter, almost scandalously so, showing her legs clear above the knees, and her ample bosom threatened to spill outward if she were to exhale too hard. Winona thought it a trifle unusual, but she wasn’t familiar enough with the customs of the South, in general, and rich whites in particular, to pass judgment. “I thanked her most sincerely.”
“It was from my own private stock,” Colonel Proctor said. Winona wondered why a man would have scented soap, then dismissed the thought as unimportant. Easing her hand free of his, she looped it around her husband’s arm. “Shall we mingle, my love?”
“Wait for me,” Ezriah Hampton said. His clothes had been cleaned by the servants, his square-toed shoes had been polished, and he had even been prevailed upon to wash his face and hands for the occasion. In his mismatched finery taken from the
Sa-gah-lee, and with the long sword at his waist, he presented quite a sight.
“Mr. Hampton,” Proctor said, shaking the oldster’s gnarled hand. “Thomas told me that you liked the cologne I sent.”
“Is that what the stuff is called?” Ezriah said. Raising his sleeve to his nose, he sniffed a few times. “It’s like a whole field of flowers in one little bottle. I haven’t smelled this good since that time I got into my sisters’ perfumes.”
“I was hoping it would benefit all of us,” Proctor said suavely. “You are a walking bouquet.”
“You hear that?” Ezriah beamed at the Kings. “Anyone wants to, just walk right up and smell me to your heart’s content.”
Nate had to admire how cleverly the colonel had hood-winked the trapper. “I’m more interested in eating than smelling right at the moment,” he hedged.
“Supper will be served in half an hour,” Colonel Proctor said. “I hope you don’t mind it being so late. I wanted you to have the opportunity to mingle and get to know my people before we sat down.”
“Thank you,” Winona said, making a mental note of how he had referred to the lovely young maid as “his” Harriet, and now to the settlers as “his” people. Evidently he tended to treat everyone just as he treated the slaves; as his personal possessions.
Nate was scanning the room. “I don’t see any sign of the Weavers.” Which was regrettable. He had wanted to question them about the goings-on earlier.
“They couldn’t make it, I’m afraid,” Colonel Proctor said. “Something about Molly being out of sorts after their unauthorized gallivant today.”
“They needed your permission to go for a walk?” Nate fished for information.
“Certainly not,” Proctor answered. “But common sense dictated they at least inform someone. What if something had happened? What if they had run into a war party? We wouldn’t have found out until it was too late.” Proctor paused. “I should thank you. Who knows how far they would have wandered if you hadn’t come along? You might well have saved their lives.”
“It’s amazing any of you are still alive,” Nate said. “The Blackfoot Confederacy won’t take kindly to having a white settlement so close to their territory. Neither will some of the other tribes. Once they learn about it, they’re liable to pay your valley an unwelcome visit.”
“I’ve anticipated as much,” Proctor said, “and have taken steps to insure we will be allowed to live in peace.”
“I remember Sergeant Braddock mentioned a big parley coming up,” Nate said.
“One is in the works, yes,” the officer admitted. “I’m trying to establish a truce with the neighboring tribes. Perhaps you can advise me in that regard tomorrow or the next day—”
“It will have to be tonight,” Nate cut in. “We’re anxious to get home. At first light we’re heading out.”
“Really?” Proctor sounded tremendously disappointed. “Well, we’ll discuss it later. In the meantime, my castle is your castle. Mix. Eat. Drink. Make merry. Enjoy New Eden in all her glory.”
“You’re quite proud of your settlement,” Nate said, making small talk.
“Mr. King, you have no idea. New Eden is my brainchild, and mine alone. The settlement might not look like much now, but mark my words, before I’m done, New Eden will rival New York and California for greatness.” Proctor was gazing out a benighted window as if into the mists of time. “Did I say rival? No, I meant outshine! In another year or two, New Eden will be the most talked-about subject in the land. Thousands will flock here to join us, and with each new arrival New Eden’s strength and prosperity will grow.”
“It will take a lot to lure that many people into the heart of the wilderness,” Nate remarked.
“I have just the incentive,” Colonel Proctor said, but did not say what it was. “Now please, enjoy yourselves. I must check on how Harold is faring in the kitchen. Everything must be just right tonight.”
“An intense man,” Winona whispered as the Southerner hastened toward a door at the rear, Harriet a second shadow.
“Military men sometimes are,” Nate said, although in Proctor’s case, he suspected it was more a matter of temperament than training.
Kindly Thomas came toward them bearing a silver tray laden with glasses filled with different liquors. “Would either of you care for a drink?”
Ezriah slid in front of them. “I don’t know about them but I sure do! What do you have, hoss? Anything that will rot the enamel right off a feller’s teeth?”
“Whatever your desire, sir. Whiskey. Scotch. Rum. The colonel’s cellar is well stocked. He has wine for every occasion, as well.”
“Wine is for city boys. Real men don’t drink bubbly grape juice,” Ezriah said. To test a glass, he stuck his finger in and licked it. “Mmm. Mighty fine coffin varnish. How’d he get all this stuff here, anyhow, without busting the bottles?”
“They were packed in flour, sir,” Thomas said.
“He must have brought a ton.”
“It’s a trick emigrants use to keep their eggs and other breakables safe,” Nate said. “One family I knew packed all their fine china that way.” Abruptly, something dawned on him. “Thomas, where are the wagons that brought you here? I don’t recollect seeing any today when we were escorted in.”
“The colonel sent them back for more supplies and stock,” the manservant responded. “They’re not due for another month yet.”
Evelyn, Nate noticed, had strayed over to a knot of children and was merrily playing. Nodding to the manservant, he steered Winona toward the far end of the table where the Braddocks and the Carsons were conversing.
“Mr. King, sir,” the sergeant said crisply. “A pleasure to see you again. I trust you’re finding the colonel’s hospitality to be generous?”
“We can’t complain,” Nate replied.
Cecelia Braddock warmly clasped Winona’s hand. “The other ladies and I have been looking forward to getting to know you, Mrs. King. Come, let Agatha and me show you off to everyone.”
As the women strayed off, Sergeant Braddock chuckled. “Typical. Our talk was probably boring them silly, Luther.”
Luther Carson, the burly blacksmith, nodded. “What do they care about rifles and calibers and whatnot? They’d rather chat about linens and how to cook pot pie. Women are such feeble creatures.”
Nate disagreed but he held his tongue. Living with Winona had taught him women were every bit as strong as men. In some respects they were stronger. He would never belittle a female ever again. “You were discussing guns?”
“I believe the colonel told you I’m the gunsmith,” Carson said. His upper lip was festooned with a bushy mustache, the ends of which hung down past his jutting jaw. “Mike and I have been debating the best caliber for overall use in these mountains. Perhaps you would care to advise us? We want a real man-stopper for fighting hostiles. I was thinking forty caliber should suffice. Mike says forty-five.”
“You’ll need to do better than that,” Nate said.
“I don’t follow.”
“Neither are powerful enough. I’ll grant you forty caliber is adequate for killing a man, and forty-five caliber a step up. But neither are powerful enough to consistently drop elk and buffalo, to say nothing of grizzlies. I’d recommend fifty caliber or higher. The Hawken I’m using is a fifty-five. So are my pistols.” Nate paused. “The same with my wife’s weapons.”
Carson glanced in surprise toward the woman. “She can handle a gun that powerful? I’d have to see it with my own eyes to believe it.”
“Winona is an excellent shot,” Nate said. His equal, if not his better.
Sergeant Braddock raised his glass. “My compliments, then, sir. Your lady is one in a million. Cecelia, bless her, couldn’t shoot straight to save her sweet soul. She couldn’t hit this building if you held the muzzle against it.”
Luther Carson roared with mirth.
“She complains a thirty-six caliber is too much,” Braddock said. “She doesn’t like how gunsmoke stings her eyes, and how black powder gets all over her hands if she isn’t careful.”
“That’s why a woman’s place is in the home,” Carson declared. “They’re too frail for hunting and war.”
Into Nate’s mind leaped the image of a Crow warrior famed for counting many coup and for bravery in battle. Recently, the warrior had led a war party into Blackfoot country and stolen over seventy horses. In the process, the warrior personally took two scalps. That Crow’s name was Woman Chief, and she was as beautiful as she was brave.
“Agatha doesn’t agree with me,” Carson said. “But she never agrees with half of what I say. Wives are like that,” he said, dismissing her opinion. “They always think they know better than their husbands.”
“Sometimes they do,” Nate had to contribute.
“Once every blue moon,” Carson differed. “And we’ve gotten off the track. I wanted your opinion on how best to arm ourselves, not the foibles of females.” He stroked his mustache. “I noticed you tote four pistols in addition to your rifle. Is all that artillery necessary or are you overdoing it a bit?”
Nate briefly detailed his clash with the Sa-gah-lee. How his own weapons had been stolen or lost, and he has chosen those he had from the tribe’s secret cache. “Normally, two pistols would be enough. But with hundreds of miles to travel—”
“Say no more. I understand,” the blacksmith said.
Several soldiers strolled toward them. Privates Latham, Mitchell, and Stewart, the former a shade unsteady from imbibing too much liquor on an empty stomach.
“Mr. King!” Latham said. “The boys and I have been arguing and we’re hoping you can set us straight.”
“I’ll be glad to if I can.”
“It’s about Injuns,” Private Latham said. “Or, to be exact, Injun women. Mitchell, here, claims squaws are as good under the covers as white women. You must have bedded both, and we were wondering how your wife compares—”
Nate punched the militiaman squarely in the mouth.
Latham was slammed back against the table, rattling dishes and silverware and causing all heads to swivel. Latham sagged but didn’t go down. His lower lip pulped, blood trickling over his chin, he started to lunge and was met by Nate’s fist a second time. Soundlessly, he crumpled, and lay on his back with his eyelids fluttering.
Shock gripped the gathering, but not for long. Stewart and Mitchell and other soldiers angrily advanced.
Sergeant Braddock stepped past Nate to protect him.
It was then the dining room thundered to a roar of outrage.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Everyone froze. In the rear doorway stood Colonel Proctor, livid with fury, his face as red as blood, his nose flared like a bull buffalo’s, his big fists clenched into hams. In the bright light, in his splendid uniform, he appeared like some pagan god of old about to visit celestial wrath on wayward mortals.
“I’m waiting!” Proctor boomed when no one responded. Striding to the table, he stood over Latham, his chest heaving from the emotions he was containing. “Sergeant! Report!”
Braddock snapped to attention. “My apologies, sir. Private Latham had a little too much to drink. All he did is make a crude comment to Mr. King.”
“So crude my guest was compelled to assault him?” Colonel Proctor growled. “What did Latham say?”
“It’s nothing,” Nate said. “Let it be.” He didn’t want the festive atmosphere spoiled. Granted, the private had over stepped the bounds of propriety; drunk or sober, some subjects were taboo anytime, anywhere. Bringing up intimate details about another man’s wife was one of them. It had been a veiled insult, plain and simple, and Nate had upheld Winona’s honor. To him that was all that mattered.
Colonel Proctor seemed not to hear. “I’m waiting, Sergeant.”
Braddock glanced down at Latham. Reluctance and responsibility waged a private war, and responsibility won. “He referred to Mrs. King as a squaw.”
“That’s all?”
“Sir?”
“It is a disparaging term, but hardly cause for Mr. King to take violent action. There is more to it, isn’t there?”
Nate moved past the noncom. “Can’t we drop it, Colonel? I handled it myself. There’s no need to involve yourself.”
“You’re woefully mistaken, sir,” Colonel Proctor stated. “As a civilian, you fail to grasp that while New Eden is a settlement, the settlers are military men. These men are militia, under my command. They are subject to rules and regulations, just like soldiers in the U.S. Army. When those rules are broken, it is my responsibility as the commanding officer to insure discipline is swift and just. Now then,” he said, glaring at Braddock, “you stand in jeopardy of being insubordinate, Sergeant, unless you quote exactly what Private Latham said to our guest.”
When Braddock obeyed, some of the women gasped. Colonel Proctor became even redder, which Nate didn’t think was possible. The man was a keg of powder about to explode. Yet with remarkable poise, Proctor calmly folded his hands behind his back and announced, “Twenty lashes. Punishment to be administered immediately.”
“Lashes?” Nate said.
A collective groan issued from the militiamen, and Sergeant Braddock said quickly, “Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, but isn’t that too severe? Ten lashes is standard. Fifteen is more than most men can bear.”
“Severe?” Proctor said. “Private Latham slurred a woman’s honor. He degraded her in public. Would you have me slap him on the wrist?”
“No, sir,” Sergeant Braddock responded. “But twenty lashes—”
“He should consider himself fortunate. Were we in North Carolina, I would add a week in the guardhouse.” Proctor faced his men. “Deem me a monster, do you? There’s no need to deny it. I can see it in your eyes.” Some of the soldiers fidgeted under his withering stare. “I dare any of you to accuse me to my face of being unfair. When you know in your hearts that I have never—never—punished any of you without ample cause.”
No one disputed him.
“Private Bell, you earned eight lashes a couple of years ago for sleeping on guard duty. Did you think that was unfair? Given that had it been in time of war, our garrison might have been overrun?”
Bell shook his head.
“Private Danvers, how about you? You received twelve lashes once for being drunk and disorderly. Was that unfair, given that you were going around shooting out lamps and nearly set a home on fire?”
“No, sir, Colonel, sir.”
Proctor was relentless. “Now consider this. What if it had been one of your wives instead of Mr. King’s? What if Latham had presumed to ask how your wife is in bed? Would you be so forgiving?”
The silence was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.
“I thought not. Yet you would have me do nothing when our guests have been grievously slurred? Perhaps you think a woman’s reputation is only worth five lashes? Or ten?” Proctor’s next pause was masterful. “How many lashes are your own wives worth? What meager quota would satisfy your honor?”
Private Timmons stirred. “If someone insulted my wife, sir, I’d whip him down to the spine.”
“Same here, sir,” Private Yates said.
“Yet all I demand is twenty lashes,” Colonel Proctor said. “Yes, it will be painful. But Latham will live. And I can guarantee, gentlemen, that he will never, ever insult another lady as he has done tonight.” The officer nudged Latham with a toe. “You will never embarrass me in my own home again, either.”
Winona had been a stunned spectator to the sequence of events. Her ears burned, but she was not as offended as the whites made her out to be. She had been to plenty of rendezvous. She knew how white men—and red men, too—became under the influence of alcohol. To her, Latham’s remark was a trifle. Her husband had done what needed doing and now it should be forgotten. “Colonel, might I speak in Private Latham’s behalf?”
Proctor was astounded. “Madam, do my ears deceive me? You want to defend the man who verbally abused you? I find that most irregular.”
“As your guest, and the aggrieved party, I respectfully request that you forgo whipping Private Latham and impose a lesser punishment.”
The colonel gave her a look hard to define. “Your grasp of our language, Mrs. King, continues to dazzle me. You are just what I have been looking for.” Catching himself, he said, “As for the good private, my men will verify that once I have handed down a punishment, there is no canceling it. No lessening its severity. My judgment is law, Mrs. King. My orders are inviolate.”
“A wise leader knows when to be lenient,” Winona tried again. “This is a special occasion in our honor, is it not? Surely, then, it is proper for me to request that you reduce the punishment? As a personal favor to one of the guests of honor?”
