Journey to Respect

  Journey to Respect

  Sweeping Historical Saga of Young America

  Lyn Cote

  Copyright © 2018 by Lyn Cote

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  With fond memories of our times together—for Gary and Marilynn and Elizabeth and Glenn and April and David

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Afterword

  Chapter 1

  Prairie of Eastern Kansas, Early Summer 1825

  Buffalo herd stampeding. Full out on all sides. Deafening. The dust tossed up by buffalo hooves choked Rafe. He leaned forward. His body one with his racing horse. Tall grass brushing his thighs. In the uproar of the hunt, he felt the buffalo hooves pounding the earth all the way up into his teeth.

  To his right, he glimpsed Tristan. Only a flash of darker skin and curly hair flattened by the wind. All around Rafe, his bare-chested and painted Osage cousins threaded in between buffalo. Rafe raised his rifle. Concentrated on the bull he had in his sites. Squeezed off a shot. It hit its target. Heedless, the huge bull plunged onward with the melee.

  Then Rafe felt it.

  His mount stumbling. He’d be defenseless on the ground! Fear screamed through him. His horse fell. He leaped onto the nearest mount—a buffalo. Letting go his rifle. Bouncing, he clutched the thick dark mane. The buffalo, unaware of him, plunged on.

  Then Tristan appeared at his side, keeping pace with Rafe’s mount. “Jump!”

  Rafe raised himself and leaped, just managing to throw one leg over Tristan’s horse. He grabbed Tristan’s belt and hung on. Tristan kept his horse running with the herd. Other braves fired bullets and arrows. Buffalo fell on all sides—thumping the earth.

  Abruptly the hunt ended. The remaining buffalo rushed on while the Osage party turned to the harvest. In the sudden quiet Rafe coughed on the dust in the air and felt the sun blazing down on his shoulders under his buckskin shirt, his heart still pounding.

  Tristan slowed his horse. He glanced over his shoulder at Rafe. “You all right?”

  “Fine.” Then Rafe’s mind went to his horse. He looked over his shoulder.

  Understanding, Tristan turned his mount and headed back over the prairie littered with silent dead or thrashing wounded buffalo. Finally Tristan pulled up his reins beside Rafe’s horse.

  Rafe slipped from behind Tristan and onto the flattened prairie grass around the horse. At first he thought his horse must already be dead from being trampled. Then one eyelid flickered open. The horse Rafe had raised from a colt stared up at him. Stricken, Rafe dropped to his knee beside the animal and stroked his head. The large brown eye stared at him, suffering. Rafe stroked him and murmured his name, “Bon Ami.” Pain gripped his heart. Then shielding the large eye, he drew his pistol and ended his friend’s pain.

  As Tristan removed his saddle for him, Rafe rose, waves of shock rolling through him. Closing his eyes, he raised his face toward the hot sun, letting it dry the moisture in his eyes.

  Washington, DC, Early Summer, 1825

  In her thin, white chemise, Eve stood in the guest bedroom in the afternoon sunlight that filtered through the gauzy sheers over the tall narrow windows. Hands on her hips, she stared defiantly at her aunt Letitia who held up the dress under debate.

  “I don’t like that dress at all,” Eve said with conviction. The dress—fussy, voluminous—was of a watery blue silk, embroidered lavishly.

  Her tone more a military command than a compliment, Letitia said, “You will look charming in it.” Her aunt, a small round woman with silver in her light brown hair, mimicked Eve’s stance, one hand on her hip.

  “I prefer my new yellow muslin afternoon frock. It is a perfectly fine dress for this garden party.” Without taking a breath, she continued, “And I absolutely refuse to wear that.” She pointed to the whalebone corset over the maid’s arm.

  The Negro maid stood just behind her aunt, her head bowed as if trying to be invisible. Corsets had been worn in the past century during the Revolutionary War, for goodness’ sake. Eve had heard they were coming back into style. Well, not into her style thank you very much.

  Her aunt’s expression hardened, became fierce. “Eve, you are going to become a lady of fashion. It’s time you settled down. How can I find you a suitable husband if you refuse to dress in the genteel mode?”

  Eve stared at her aunt. She’d seen this coming over the past year’s visits. Letitia was her father’s eldest sister. “The dragon,” as Eve secretly called her, was set on furthering her family’s fortunes. She deemed Eve’s fair looks and pretty face as assets to be exploited to further her social ambitions here in the capital city.

  “There’s no time for argument,” the dragon said, thrusting the dress into the maid’s hands. “Get her dressed and coifed and downstairs before the guests arrive.” With that command Aunt Letitia swept out the door.

  The maid gazed at Eve, obviously worried.

  Eve took pity on the girl, one of the free blacks who lived in Washington City. Pennsylvania was one of the first free states, and her uncle had abolitionist leanings. Eve sighed. “Very well. I’ll please my aunt today. It is, after all, her special occasion.”

  It was. Her uncle Eustace had been elected to the U. S. House of Representatives from a district of Philadelphia. That occasioned today’s garden party, the ending of the social season that formed around the congressmen and senators’ legislative calendar. At her aunt’s invitation, Eve and her father had come to visit in the large rented house in Washington City. Eve had thought it odd that her father had declined earlier invitations yet accepted this one. And where was he today?

  From behind, the maid slipped the corset around Eve’s waist. “Waistlines are dropping, miss. And need structure.”

  The heat of the day filled the room. Eve pressed a handkerchief to her upper lip and forehead. “I suppose so, but that doesn’t mean I’m forced to like it.” Just forced to wear it—but only for this one event. Eve sincerely hoped so. Her father had left that morning after a cryptic comment: “Uncle Eustace isn’t the only one who’s entering government service.” What did that mean?

  “That’s tight enough,” Eve insisted as she felt the whale bone pressing against her ribs uncomfortably.

  “Miss, the dress is tight at the waist.”

  “If you tighten it any more, I won’t be able to breathe. You’ll have to stand me up against the wall or lay me down on a chaise longue.”

  “But—”

  Eve fanned her face with the handkerchief. “If the waist is too tight, we’ll take out a dart or two from the bodice.”

  The maid gasped. “Oh, miss, I couldn’t do that. This dress came all the way from New York.”

  “You won’t. I will.” In the mirror’s reflection, Eve watched the maid shake her bowed head. But Eve would bend her own wishes only enough to be able to attend this party for her uncle whom she held in affection. She’d even play the part of genteel young lady in the market for an up-and-coming husband, but she would go no further to please the dragon.

  Standing beside Rafe, Tristan held his horse’s reins, his presence comforting. Finally he nudged Rafe’s shoulder. “We must find your rifle and help with the harvest.”

  Rafe nodded and claimed his saddle, threw it over his shoulder, and turned to face the task ahead. The waist-high prairie grass hummed with bees and grasshoppers. They began walking around the downed buffalo, lending a hand where needed. Dust and the smell of blood filled his nose. Under the endless, cloudless blue sky, the sun glared down on them, no shade anywhere.

  Rafe chanced upon his rifle covered with dirt beside the carcass of a buffalo. He lifted it to his shoulder and found it unbent, unbroken. But it would need a good cleaning.

  The Osage brave, Ka’-wa-sab-be or Black Horse, swung down from his mount. His chest, arms, and face painted in red and white bands, he wore fringed buckskin leggings and breechcloth. “Did you enjoy your buffalo ride?”

  Rafe wondered how this man managed to lace this mild question with vibrating hostility. Ignoring the jibe, Rafe merely shrugged as if leaping onto a buffalo were an everyday occurrence. No doubt this feat had stung Black Horse’s pride and no doubt he’d have preferred to find Rafe trampled into the dirt.

  Unable to get a rise out of Rafe, Black Horse turned and strutted away.

  “Have you figured out yet why you irritate him?” Tristan asked, close to Rafe’s ear.

  Again Rafe shrugged and brushed away a fly. Yet Rafe knew. His white blood from his father was what irked Black Horse. Rafe’s late mother belonged to the Osage Earth clan. Since Rafe’s father was not Osage, Rafe’s position in the tribe was uncertain. However, the respect due his mother’s father made a difference. His grandfather was one of the hon-zhin-ga, or “little old men,” who’d been initiated into the clan rituals and had the right to perform such rituals. This distinction usually offset Rafe’s lack of clan memb
ership.

  Two of Rafe’s cousins hailed him, and he and Tristan moved to help them as they worked. They needed to get the huge animals ready to drag back to the hunting camp where the women would do most of the work of preparing pemmican and curing the hides. Nearby, shrieking eagles gathered in a hostile group to eat and argue over the little that the Osage discarded from the buffalo. Flies buzzed over them, loud and insistent. Rafe tried not to think about losing Bon Ami or attending Johnny’s wedding.

  Rafe worked, side by side, steadily with his family, who’d always accepted him. He’d shrugged off Black Horse’s scorn, yet the issue of family still tugged at him. His thoughts drifted to his other family at Beau Rivage, or Beautiful Shore, his father’s plantation just miles from New Orleans. Faces streamed through his mind and then stopped on one...the one he should never think of but the one he always did. Nadine.

  In the end Eve wasn’t forced to open a dart. She merely opened the side seams and gained an inch. She could breathe. After the maid had pressed the re-sewn side seams flat, she’d dressed Eve’s hair. Eve liked to wear her hair braided and circled as a crown. The maid countered that Eve’s aunt had chosen a different style, an arrangement of high knots and side curls. With a glance at the clock, Eve allowed the girl to follow orders. If they didn’t hurry up, the dragon would mount the stairs, breathing fire.

  As the girl slipped in the final hairpin, Eve rose, thanked her, and snatched up her lace gloves. Drawing them on, she hurried out onto the landing and down the grand staircase. As she observed the butler open the front door to guests, she slowed her steps. She was late. She paused in hopes that she would not be noticed.

  But in vain. One of the guests, a young gentleman, glanced up and saw her. Instead of politely turning his attention away, he stared at her. She felt herself blush but straightened her spine and swept down the stairs.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. She walked past the guests and into the large drawing room with French doors that opened onto the large, well-tended rear garden. Aunt Letitia hadn’t been able to afford a house with a ballroom but she’d found one with a “suitable” room for entertaining. The large room with open doors to the garden had been furnished with excellent taste in ivory and turquoise blue. Other guests had already arrived. Her aunt sent her a veiled glare which Eve ignored. She drew a deep breath of the warm air and smiled at her aunt with hidden triumph over not letting the dragon “corset” her in any way.

  The young man followed her as she passed into the festive garden where most guests had sought the cooler shade. The scent of gardenias and French roses floated in the air. The man moved to Aunt Letitia and spoke amid the voices to her. The dragon beamed at him and nodded, drawing him toward Eve.

  Eve stood her ground and prepared to be charming. If she weren’t, she didn’t want to later endure in silence another of her aunt’s tirades. Especially since they always fell on her father, whom Aunt Letitia called “the black sheep of the family” to his face. At the thought Eve gritted her teeth.

  “Eve dear, I’d like to present to you Marshal Phillips. His father is a senator.” Aunt Letitia spoke in such a sugary tone Eve nearly gagged.

  Eve formed her face into a shy smile. “So happy to meet you, sir.” She curtseyed as he bowed over her lace-gloved hand.

  He tried to hang onto it but Eve slipped it from his grasp and furled her fan as if raising a shield. She fanned herself, stirring the oppressive air.

  “Mr. Phillips has offered to introduce you to the other young people here today,” Aunt Letitia said, sending a clear signal with her eyes that Eve go with the man.

  “How nice,” Eve prevaricated. “I’m eager to meet them.” And then forget them.

  The hunting party finally dragged the harvested buffalo into the hunting camp. Women began the work of cutting meat to roast and then more to dry and the work of skinning the buffalo for their hides. It reminded Rafe of harvesting rice or cotton in Louisiana. Everyone working, some chatting, and all busy. Sweating in spite of the constant wind, Rafe worked steadily beside his cousins—two male and three female—and their mother, his mother’s younger sister. The work was messy and hard but Rafe felt the balm of family working together.

  He was aware that Tristan was attracted to one of his cousins. Though Tristan was the mixed-race son of one of his parent’s servants, formerly a slave, he’d been raised almost like a brother to Rafe. It saddened Rafe that the likelihood of Tristan being approved as a suitor for his cousin were slim, not because of his mixed race but because Osage marriages were usually arranged between clans and Tristan was an outsider. Rafe’s father had also been an outsider but had somehow prevailed in courting and winning his Osage bride. Rafe’s cousin giggled at something Tristan said.

  Then the peaceful scene changed.

  Hoofbeats racing—their only warning.

  Rafe wiped his hands in the dirt so he could hold his gun without it slipping. Tristan and the cousins mounted and with a nod, Rafe—horseless—promised to protect the women. He checked his weapons and hurried the women behind him though his aunt and female cousins—not defenseless—kept the knives they’d been using in hand.

  Just beyond the camp, the Osage warriors met the other band head on. Gunfire exploded. Whistling arrows flew. Rafe watched for any brave that might slip past the Osage to penetrate the camp. But the raiding party had misjudged. The Osage warriors shot a few enemies from their horses and then drove the rest into full retreat.

  The skirmish over, Rafe and the women went back their work.

  “Rafe!”

  Hearing Tristan’s voice, Rafe looked up.

  His friend was leading a horse that had evidently lost its rider. “I guess you won’t be on foot after all.” Tristan grinned.

  Rafe returned the grin with warm gratitude. “Merci!”

  After Tristan handed him the horse’s reins, Rafe approached the new horse slowly, murmuring words in French, the language he’d used when training Bon Ami. The new horse, a neat-looking brown and white mare, was skittish but didn’t bolt.

  “So the mixed blood stayed behind with the women.”

  Rafe didn’t have to look up. Black Horse’s voice and sneer were unmistakable. Rafe ignored him. He heard Black Horse swing down from his mount and sensed the man’s glare. Still Rafe didn’t look up, but concentrated on calming his new mount and letting the animal become used to his scent. A cicada shrieked nearby. Rafe waited the other man out.

  Finally Black Horse moved away.

  Rafe’s aunt came close to him. She wore her long graying hair parted and pulled back into a tail and her ears were decorated with many gold rings and ornaments which jingled as she moved her head emphatically, punctuating her words. “You did well. When a man speaks without thinking, it is better to return silence.”

  Rafe sent her a smile in reply.

  Tristan drew nearer and gestured toward the mare. “I don’t think this one is saddle-broken.”

  “No doubt. I’ll ride bareback till she gets to know me and trust me.” Rafe looked over his shoulder toward where the skirmish had taken place. “Which tribe tried to steal our hunt?”

  “Looked like Pawnee,” Tristan responded. “I wouldn’t expect them this far east and south.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Perhaps the Sioux to the north were giving them a hard time and they decided to take it out on”—he infused his tone with humor—“the poor defenseless Osage.”

  Tristan laughed at Rafe’s suggestion. Every tribe with any sense feared the Osage.

  But the situation was not amusing. Whites more and more were pushing westward, breaching even the natural boundary of the Mississippi River. This brought the Osage not only into conflict with the whites but also with the Eastern tribes the whites were forcing westward. The Osage had always occupied the territory of what Americans called Missouri, now a state. In the end, after a bloody battle, the Osage had agreed to move westward into eastern Kansas, but the conflict with whites and other dispossessed tribes continued.