Westward Hope

by Bailey, Kathleen D. ;

  “Let’s get you to the mission,” he said around a sudden dryness. “See how you like it there, see how you like Mrs. Whitman, and then we can decide.”

  27

  The days were warm and the nights cold. There was no longer any need to speak of Oregon country; it was all around them now as they climbed into the Blues. They were on the last part of the journey.

  Almost there, Caroline thought, and wondered why she wasn’t more excited.

  And as they jogged along beside each other—he wielding the goad from horseback, she perched on the wagon seat—she and Michael talked as they never had before.

  “It must have been unbearable,” he said one afternoon.

  No need to pretend not to understand. They were beyond that. And no need to pretend to be brave. “It was,” she said, concentrating on the broad backs of the oxen. “If my parents had been alive…but they weren’t, and there was no place to turn. Until Dan stepped in.”

  “What about my uncle?”

  “Michael, he was chairman of the School Board. No help there.”

  He was silent for a minute. “And after?”

  “Danny was like a covering,” she said. “When he died, people went back to treating me the same as before. In fairness to them, there weren’t that many people left, and they had to pick up their own lives. The epidemic took half the town.”

  Michael stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed. “If I’d been half the man Dan was—”

  “No.” She reached out and touched his flannel sleeve, soft from many washings. Seeing and knowing. Her words tumbled out. “Michael, don’t you see? God gave you free will. It’s wonderful, and it’s messy. He made you to be who you are. And me. He made us able to choose.”

  His eyes were dark, almost black, as he looked at her. “Lass, we made the wrong choices.”

  “We did. Me, as well as you. I could have said no. I should have said no. I’m no better than Jenny, but I’m no worse. In His eyes, we’re all the same. And He still made something beautiful out of it.”

  “Daniel.”

  “And this,” she said, in a voice he had to bend close to hear.

  And this. No, she wasn’t sorry for any of it. Not anymore.

  Michael watched her as if hypnotized. “You said something like that,” he ventured. “Away back, at the beginning of the journey.”

  “Yes.” She tried to summon those days, another country, the Missouri sunshine warm around her. And she spoke more carefully now, feeling her way, as she tried to get it just right. The blind leading the blind, until they both could see.

  “In His perfect will, we would have married…and waited for marriage,” she said slowly. “But we’re not perfect, and we didn’t. And God used it anyway and he brought me Daniel. He loved me that much.” She shivered a little, though the day was warm, as the reality of it unfolded around her. “And when Dan died He kept his hand on me. He brought me Martha, and Ben for a while, and Jenny.” And you, she added silently.

  Michael looked at her for a long moment. He seemed about to say something. The moment hung between them, shimmering like a morning spider web, until he shrugged and turned away. “I’m after catching up with Jenny, to see what’s ahead.” Spurring his horse, he cantered ahead of the wagon and was soon lost in the trees.

  Alone, she drank in the beauty of the autumn afternoon and the presence of her God. The pain, the grief, the loss, He had used every bit of it. Like Martha with one of her scrap quilts. And now the final triumphant piece had been stitched, with meticulous care, into the quilt top.

  In the thin mountain air she felt her former life falling away, like an unneeded coat. Whatever she’d been, the best and worst of her, it didn’t matter anymore. It had served its purpose. She was ready for a new life.

  And if that new life held love, so be it. It wouldn’t be Michael, unless he changed, but that was all right too. Michael would have to find his own way home.

  She bowed her head in the stillness of the afternoon, a stillness broken only by birdsong, and said her final goodbyes to Daniel.

  And looked up, too quickly, at the pounding of Michael’s hooves. He reined in at her side. “Steep grade up ahead,” he said, “and you know what that means. Get ready to walk.”

  She knew what that meant—they all did—and her heart sank.

  The oxen, which had performed so stoically on the flat prairie, labored over these sharp hills. And the crew labored with them.

  Moving stiffly after a long morning, Caroline clambered down from the wagon seat. She prayed that they wouldn’t have to throw anything else out. On the last hill, they’d dumped all but the most essential cookware. Back on the trail she’d distributed her fine clothes, all but the blue delaine, to Rose and Loretta. She had nothing left but housedresses and nightgowns. Whenever they came to a slope, she exchanged glances with Michael. “My books?” she’d mouth, dreading the answer.

  And he’d always shake his head, ‘no’.

  She took up her goad, ready to prod and wheedle her oxen up the rocky slope. There were just two of them now, two dead from alkali water back on the plains.

  Jenny, high on Rebel’s back, prodded the pair from the other side.

  “You thinkin’ we’ll need the winch?” Michael called as Pace dismounted.

  The former trail boss scanned the hill ahead of them. “Naw. Let’s try it without. Ain’t that high. Remember, last year we got the whole company over this one. Didn’t take but an hour.”

  Jenny took the reins of Pace’s horse, Caroline held Michael’s with her free hand. The two men put their shoulders to the back wheels, both grunting like women in childbirth.

  As she murmured to the great beasts, Caroline remembered the other group. Was the larger party in the Sierras now, pushing their wagons up that mountain range, outrunning winter? Were the Harknesses all right, was Ben managing? Had Ina been forced to part with more of her treasures on some lonely mountain trail? Best to travel light, Caroline knew now. If one didn’t place a lot of value on things, it didn’t hurt when they were taken away.

  She had survived floods, heat, disease, and drought—and buffalo chips. Survival was the tool she would take to her new life. If Mama could see her now. She wouldn’t understand it, but she’d be proud.

  The animals strained, their heavy shoulders hunched forward. The sun slipped behind a cloud. A flock of geese flew by overhead in formation, their cries high and faint. The rocks were sharp under Caroline’s worn boots. And her stomach growled. Wasn’t it noon yet?

  Then Fred stumbled, weak from the trail, and pitched forward. The yoke slipped from his neck and the other ox, unbalanced, lost its footing too. The wagon lurched backward. Pace flung himself to one side, splayed out in the dirt.

  Michael moved, but not as fast. He tripped on a root, and the huge prairie schooner slid backward and over his leg, coming to rest against a boulder.

  Michael’s cry of pain blended with Caroline’s scream as they ripped the silence of the afternoon.

  28

  Was that Caroline crying? Was that her body straining as she tried, with her barely one hundred pounds to push the wagon off him?

  A taller form that must be Jenny, pulling her away with a gruff, “That ain’t gonna help.”

  Pace and Jenny placed large rocks under the wheels for leverage, and coaxed the oxen back under their yoke.

  The wagon finally moved after an eternity, and the load lifted, but not the agony.

  Pace knelt beside him, gently probing.

  Michael tried not to cry out. His teeth couldn’t stop chattering, but he felt the sweat on his forehead. And heard Caroline’s sobs, juxtaposed with the chatter of the last birds in the treetops.

  “Looks like a clean break,” Pace muttered. “Mind if I set it?”

  “No choice,” Michael ground out, and steeled himself against the pain. Pace’s grim face was the last thing he saw for a while.

  And Caroline’s was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes in t
he wagon. Her small face was pale, her lips compressed as she spooned liquid from a tin cup. “Drink this, Michael. It will ease the pain.”

  Nothing could ease the pain, at least not on the first day. He’d broken bones before. But he took the cup from her and dutifully sipped the willow bark tea. He knew the routine; he’d been subject to it before. “Sure and I can still feed myself, it’s not my hands I broke. Where’s Pace?”

  Caroline knelt at his side. She smelled good, of soap and wood smoke and the cold pale sunshine. Did sunshine have a smell? It did now. He wanted to touch her. He didn’t dare. Too bad he hadn’t broken an arm.

  “He’s still putting things to rights outside, and Jenny’s hunting. You were out for a while.”

  “‘Tis what happens when I get a bone set.” His ankle was bandaged and splinted. And the bandage was a strip of shiny royal blue fabric. Her gown. He looked up at her, and she became suddenly busy with his blankets, her smooth brown head bent. It was nice to have someone to fuss over him. He shifted and gritted his teeth. “We should have used the winch.”

  “Yes. Mr. Williams feels really sorry about that.”

  “He shouldn’t,” Michael grunted. “It was bound to happen to one of us, sooner or later. And I should have checked the yoke. These mountains are fierce enemies. I’ll be good as ever tomorrow.”

  Caroline took the empty cup. He struggled to keep his eyes open as she said, “You won’t be riding for a few days. You’ll have to stay in here, we can’t move you. Jenny says she doesn’t mind sleeping outside on the other side of the wagon from Mr. Williams, she made it clear.” She smiled, the sudden smile that could stop his heart. “And I’ll curl up in a corner in here, in case you need anything.”

  “You can’t…”

  She placed two soft fingers on his lips. “The only people who care what we do aren’t here. Pace understands, Jenny understands. And a man with a broken ankle isn’t likely to molest me. Go to sleep, Michael.” But his eyes were already closing.

  He woke after the sun had set, which didn’t really mean anything. Evening came earlier each day. An owl hooted, somewhere in these mountains. Pace looked in on him, checked his leg, accepted Michael’s forgiveness for not using the winch, and went off whistling.

  Caroline brought him a platter of wild turkey, shot by Jenny, and biscuits. She bathed his face and hands and tidied the wagon. She put on a fresh bandage, again with a scrap from her dress. She made a pallet in a corner, well away from him, and slipped, fully clothed, under one of Pace’s furs. The gold letters on her Bible glinted in the faint light. She read for a few minutes, and then blew out the candle stub.

  Caroline slept, curled with her knees to her chest, the way she often had when they’d been together. She was still so pretty, even after months on the road, even with trail dirt under her fingernails. But Michael wasn’t thinking of her looks. Not much, anyway. He couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the pain. He’d endured and administered worse. And it wasn’t Caroline’s nearness. He’d spent a week at her bedside, doing much the same thing for her.

  No, it was Ireland, ever and always. He didn’t drink any more, but he knew Pace kept one bottle of whiskey in the wagon for medical needs. For a moment he thought of crawling in the back, of fishing it out. No. Hadn’t helped in the past. Wouldn’t help now.

  Ireland. The only thing he could have done was to run. Had to trust Tomeen to get Oona to the convent, but he’d never heard anything otherwise, and anyway, Tom was like that: one could depend on him to do things. Not like Michael.

  He remembered pillaging the tin of petty cash Hawthorne provided for the horses’ feed and medicine, stuffing his pockets against a future suddenly unknown. Like Jenny, he’d stolen from his employer. And enjoyed it more.

  He’d also enjoyed his next thievery, the cash box at St. Ulric’s. He’d long known how to break into the majestic stone cathedral, built by the sweat of his forbears, its stained glass paid for with their tithes and blood, what was left after the landlord got done with them. The church, he’d proclaimed to his former drinking mates, was one reason he had no use for the Church. They would howl with laughter and order another round. Might as well rob the church, it hadn’t made Irish life any easier.

  Slipping through the shadows, walking all night, he’d made it to Galway and the sea. A man once of their village got him a job as a deckhand, no questions asked. There were many reasons for a young man to want to leave Ireland. Too many.

  The stolen money gave him a foundation for a new start. He’d outrun Ireland, outrun Hawthorne Senior. But now there was Caroline again. Caroline, who had wept for him. For him. Caroline only came up to his shoulder. But in every way, she was bigger than he.

  “God,” he whispered into the silence of the mountain night. “How can I bear this guilt? How can I go on? The runnin’ didn’t work, the fightin’ didn’t work. How do people bear it?” He didn’t expect an answer. The God of the Universe talked to people like Caroline and Daniel. Not to the Michaels of the world.

  But as he bowed his head, the Presence that had been with him through Caroline’s illness filled the cramped sickroom.

  You don’t have to bear your guilt. I did.

  Sunday School stuff. Michael remembered the color coming into Sister’s pale face as she held up the picture of the Crucifixion. He had borne their sins to His own grave, she’d told them solemnly: he had taken their punishment.

  Michael had been far from a perfect child. But he’d felt no guilt for his many sins, he’d pointed out to her in what he thought was a rational way. So why had Jesus bothered? The question had earned him a rap on the knuckles and a visit to that year’s curate.

  But now, oh, now he understood guilt. Michael cleared his throat. “Sir, if you’re there,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, so sorry for all of it. I did what I thought was best at the time. But it turned out the worst, for me and for everyone else.”

  He remembered Sister again, her voice breaking as she explained how Jesus had given Himself up for them, shed His blood for every one of them by name. Michael had thought it foolishness: why shed one’s own blood if one didn’t have to? And why take someone else’s punishment? Sure and one got enough of that on one’s own.

  But the running had cost him Caroline, cost him Daniel, cost him his son, and in the end, what difference had it made? They were coming for him. They were somewhere in these mountains now.

  He looked over at Caroline. No, he wasn’t doing it for her. Not anymore. “Can You forgive me?” he asked, his voice stronger. And he trembled at the response.

  “‘Tis why I came.”

  ~*~

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” Caroline couldn’t keep the worry from her voice. “It’s only been a week.”

  Michael swung himself onto Blaze’s back. “Sure, and I’ll be fine. My brother Tom had me on a horse’s back when I was but three years old, and he was but five. Ridin’ is easier for me than walkin’.”

  “Well. Be careful.”

  “Always. And I’ll sleep outside again. Jenny can have her bed back.” He looked at her for too long before he wheeled the horse around. But Caroline reached up, touched his sleeve, and he turned back.

  “Michael. How much longer?”

  He smiled down at her, but his eyes were remote. “Two days’ drive to the Whitman Mission, if nothing happens. You’ll wait there while we’re in Oregon City, and when things work out, we’ll come back for you.”

  “It’s a waste of your time.” She could recite her argument by rote. “Coming back for me. I might as well go with you.”

  “No. ‘Tis not safe, and I’ll not risk you again. I’ll be back.” He threw a glance at Pace and Jenny, bickering companionably as they cleaned fish. “We all will.”

  ~*~

  The sky was still dark when Caroline slipped down from the wagon a day later. A waning moon hung low, with a single star in its curve, and frost coated the stubbled grass.

  Jenny still slept deeply.

  Mich
ael and Pace snored in their bedrolls, a short distance from the wagon.

  She brought cornmeal and coffee from the wagon, drew water from a sparkling creek that tumbled over rocks, and splashed her face. The cold water stung. In two days’ time they would be out of these mountains and into the lovely Willamette Valley. They would stop at Marcus Whitman’s mission station for a day or two, to leave Caroline behind. “You’ll like Narcissa Whitman,” Michael told Caroline. “She’s got a heart for children like you do. She adopted a whole family who lost their parents on the trail.”

  She had no intention of staying behind. She would slip out of Whitmans’ under cover of darkness, follow them on foot if need be. She’d pay a native guide, or track them herself. What more could happen to her? She had to be with Michael and Jenny, see this thing through. Because they’d do it for her.

  She lifted her gaze to the next chain of mountains, capped with snow. Dear Lord, please let us get through before the snow comes here. We are so close…

  And Pace was worried. He’d stare up into the mountains, gauging the progress of each day’s cold. One morning they’d awakened to spitting snow, but it was gone by breakfast.

  Tucking her shawl around her, Caroline moved off the narrow trail into the woods. There was kindling for the taking in these Blue Mountains. The frost-covered twigs squeaked under her feet. She was grateful for the sweater Dan’s mother had knitted her, a lifetime ago. And as she tossed wood into her split-oak basket she prayed.

  For Jenny, the girl whose innocence had been taken from her, in a way even Caroline had never known.

  For Pace Williams, and the lifetime of secrets locked behind those calm eyes.

  For Ben and Martha, somewhere on the trail to California, and their soon-to-be-six. For the sheer survival of the Smith children. And Michael. Always Michael.