Kirsten's Journal: Book 3: Reidar & Kirsten in Missouri (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten)

by Kris Tualla

  I was a little confused, so all I said was, “I love you, too.”

  Then he smiled and squeezed my hands, and said, “In order to create that life, we do need to be able to eat well enough that we don’t starve.”

  At first, my mouth fell open, and so many different things were rushing around inside my head that I could not sort them out and decide which to say first. Then I saw that my silence was making Reid worry, so I threw my arms around him and squeezed him as hard as I could, saying, thank you, oh, thank you! over and over again. I might have cried a little.

  When the commotion died away, Reid and I sat down to Sunday supper with James and Beatrice, and I don’t think I stopped smiling the entire time.

  December 17th

  Reid had made the leaning addition beside the house large enough for additional animals, so yesterday he closed part of it off for Remy to sleep in.

  Remy’s days will be spent teaching me to cook—if that goal proves in any way possible—and taking care of all of our food, including butchering, drying, and smoking the meats. I will concentrate on sewing, and keeping everything clean: plates, pots, linens, clothing, floors and walls, etc.

  I told Reid that this was the best gift I could imagine, and not to worry about giving me anything else for Christmas. He laughed and said he was glad to hear that, because Remy was my gift—he was just too hungry to wait.

  I loved my husband very well that night.

  ~ 1783 ~

  January 23rd

  The winter has come upon us in full force as a fierce blizzard has moved through the Territory. The snow has drifted halfway to the roof, and the only paths are from the door to the side stable, and to the outhouse. I did discover something pleasant: frozen piss and shit do not stink.

  Reid had sent Remy to the Atherton’s with a wagon loaded with venison and pheasant to exchange for cornmeal and flour. The men agreed on this system when Reid leased two hundred acres of flatland to James for farming. (My husband is an excellent hunter, and James is an experienced farmer, so the arrangement made sense to both men.)

  But Remy’s return has been delayed by the snow, so Reid and I are alone in the cabin for at least another day or two.

  We have taken that opportunity to pull out the architectural plans for the stone house. Since coming here, I have realized that our house will be quite unique, as most structures in the Territory are made from an apparently unending supply of trees and rocks.

  But Reid learned architecture from his father, and Martin Hansen studied at Oxford before leaving Norway and settling in Boston. Buildings in Europe are made of quarried stone—as they are in Boston and Philadelphia. So that is what we shall have.

  As we pour over the plans together, we examine them for possible changes. The exterior walls cannot be changed, as the stone has been ordered according to this schematic, but the interior walls might still be adjusted. We huddled at the table beside the fire, with a pair of candles, and graphite with which to mark the plans.

  The cabin is dark, even in daylight, because there is no glass in the windows and the shutters are closed tightly against the cold. Buying glass windows for a cabin which was temporary made no sense, Reid explained. He plans to reuse the milled floorboards, the notched logs, and whatever else he is able to from this structure when he builds the barn this summer, but the windows would be too small for the stone house.

  I understand all of that. I do. But on many days I stoke the fire and leave the top half of the door open, in spite of the chill, just to have the light. It is worth the extra effort to me, because I cannot become accustomed to feeling so closed in, even for a single season.

  Today we discussed the second level where the bedrooms will be. At the top of the stairs and to the left will be our bedroom. Reid wants a very large room, and a very large bed. He says he never wants to sleep with bent knees again, if he has anything to say about it.

  He built the bed in the cabin long enough to accommodate his height, but it is not very wide. He says he was afraid that if he built it too generously, and I refused him once again, that the width would be a constant and painful reminder of his loss.

  I confess, I do not mind his solid and warm proximity one whit—but I can clearly see his point. Besides, I can always slide closer in the new bed if I feel that my husband has drifted too far afield.

  The problem with making our bedroom so large, is that the room next to it becomes rather cramped. Reid has become adamant that he wishes to have an office upstairs, and that this smaller space will do nicely. I believe it is an unwise use of space, since he already has a study designated for the ground floor.

  I said, “We can do with less, and allow that room to be larger.”

  He shook his head and said, “No. This is what I want.”

  I ran my finger over the drawing from our bedroom door, around opening for the stairs, down the length of the landing, and around to the study door.

  I said, “This is a very long walk.”

  He said, “Then we will put a door from our room into my study.”

  My husband is a stubborn man.

  He applied the graphite and marked the office door’s location. This is what he wants, and this is what he shall receive.

  The opposite side of the second floor was to be divided into three bedrooms. I assumed that they would all be the same size, but Reid made two of them larger, and the one across from his study the same size as the study.

  I said, “Why are you changing that?”

  He said, “The roofing beam will go from one side to the other. That is where both walls must be to support it.”

  I said, “What will that other little room be used for, then?”

  He said, “A sewing room. Or a storage room. I don’t know, but we can figure that out once we live there.”

  And so it will be. As I said, my husband is a stubborn man.

  February 1st

  Twice a month Reid and I, along with James and Beatrice, drive a wagon the ten miles into Saint Louis. The men have cut an agreement with the Cheltenham tavern owner to carry mail to and from the town on behalf of the town’s residents.

  But when we collected the correspondences and packages for this trip, he greeted us with happy news: an intrepid entrepreneur has purchased land and will begin construction on the town’s third permanent building, a general store, as soon as the weather allows. That man also plans to put in a post office, and hire a youth to ride to Saint Louis and back every day but Sunday.

  While I will be glad to be able to choose when we make the trip to Saint Louis, I will miss the frequency.

  We always remain in the city overnight at the Saint Louis Auberge Hotel, and for those hours I am released from the dark cabin, the necessity of heating my own sadly infrequent baths, and drinking coffee from a heavy mug which saps the heat from the liquid far too quickly.

  Sometimes on these excursions, James carries excess grain to sell, and Reid has started hunting beavers for their pelts. Once he has enough of them stretched and tanned, my husband says he will sell them as well. Apparently, they go for quite a high price because the fur is not only warm, but waterproof.

  As soon as the business of the mail is settled, and the selling and buying of goods is completed, Reid and I enjoy our supper with James and Beatrice before both couples excuse themselves and disappear into their rooms.

  I can say with certainty (for Beatrice has told me so herself) that all of us make good use of the hotel’s luxurious beds. Reid has assured that our hot bath is always waiting in our room when our meal is finished. I wash first while Reid shaves. Once he has washed, we slip naked between the soft cotton sheets and, well, enough said for now.

  We leave the hotel the next day, after a late breakfast, and make our way home with our booty. I am pleased to note that, once our little cabin hoves into view, I experience a surprising sense of peace.

  This land is truly becoming my home, though wherever Reid resides will be my safe and desired sanctuary for the
rest of my life. I love my husband more with every passing day, and the gracious way in which he has treated me as I learn to adjust to this wilderness life, makes me feel more like a princess than being the pampered granddaughter of a king ever could.

  February 23rd

  My monthly course started. I wonder if there is more wine under the floor.

  March 10th

  This spring has been very warm, so Reid has begun digging out the foundation for the stone house. I assured Remy I am now capable of fixing a few simple meals on my own, so he has applied his efforts to assisting my husband.

  The Negro man is not as tall as Reid, but his back is strong. I asked him once how old he was, and he said he believed himself to be about twenty-five. Looking at him closely, that seems about right.

  If he is correct, then he is seven years younger than my husband, who is now thirty-two, and I am twenty-seven. Some days, I feel twice that.

  I applied my hand to biscuits and gravy—a simple meal with which to begin my duties. I cooked some venison sausage in a pan, and added lard because it was so lean. While that was frying, I made biscuits with flour, lard, baking powder, salt, and milk.

  Once they were shaped, I put the biscuits in the Dutch oven (which Remy insisted we buy immediately upon his arrival in our home) and set that in the fire. Then I added a mixture of flour and milk to the sausage, and stirred it without stopping.

  The concerned look on Reid’s face as he sat at the table for lunch made me giggle. First, I set out the biscuits with a crock of butter. His brows lifted as he picked one up and sniffed it. Next I set the pan of crumbled sausage and rich gravy in front of the men. Remy dipped his spoon into the mixture and tasted it. Then he gave me the biggest smile I have ever seen on the man.

  I had passed the test. And not one morsel of food remained when the pair of men returned to their labors.

  March 14th

  Today when I visited Beatrice, I struck a deal of my own. I bought three chickens and a rooster from her. The worst of the winter seems to have passed, and even if it snows again the birds can roost under the house—Reid left an open spot in the foundation and covered it with a wooden panel, so the space could be entered from out of doors if necessary, and not only through the floor inside.

  When my husband regarded me with surprise upon my return, laden with the crate of noisy birds, I told him I had grown tired of not having a supply of eggs. He laughed and hugged me, pressing me against his hard chest.

  He said, “I am too. That was a wonderful idea, Prinsesse.”

  March 17th

  Reid liked my buying the chickens so much, that he bought five young ewes and a ram. I did not understand the connection between the different animals, but he seemed pleased. That is all that matters.

  Reid took a break from working on the stone house’s stone foundation to build a pen for the little flock of sheep and Posy the cow to share. It was tucked neatly under some young trees at the edge of our clearing, and their smallish trunks served as the pen’s vertical poles.

  Now it has become my task to feed and water Posy and the sheep, as well as take care of the rooster and chickens. The horses, however, are hobbled and allowed to graze freely in our clearing.

  This is my penance for being a horrible cook, I suppose. But I was getting better. I have almost mastered the art of the not-solidly-fried egg. Almost.

  Back in Philadelphia I never expected to become a farmer’s wife, but now I was surprised at how much comfort I derived from having some living creatures to nurture.

  The sheep were shy of me at first, but once they realized that I brought food, they began to bleat at sight of the bucket. I loved the dense, oily feel of them, and secretly gave them all names, which I feel too foolish to reveal.

  The chickens warmed up to me immediately, and for the same reason. The rooster, however, seems to see me as a challenge for the loyalty of his flock. I was glad to have the half-door, or he and those little devils would be poking around inside the cabin in a heartbeat.

  March 24th

  Reid broke down under the overwhelming task and finally borrowed forty-five of James’ slaves to help with the stone house’s foundation. Between spring rainstorms, the crew was able to finish the three-foot-wide, eight-foot-deep rectangle trench in the dimensions of the house’s outer walls, and now they are hauling stones from the creek to fill it with.

  Each layer of stone is filled in with concrete, and another layer set down before it hardens fully. At this rate, Reid expects the foundation to be finished and cured well before the May 1st delivery date for the quarried stones.

  I do hope this proves to be so. My poor husband is exhausted.

  With the influx of new labor, Remy was released back to his kitchen duties, only now he cooks the midday meal for nearly four dozen hard-working men.

  Because the cabin’s fireplace is too small for such a quantity, we have built a fire ring out of doors, and Remy makes big batches of stew every day. Venison, squirrel, fish—whatever meat and vegetables are available.

  I help him with everything that I can, which is mostly cleaning up. Beatrice lent us tin plates and spoons to serve the men with, and it is my task to wash them every day. Thank the Heavens, I have the tin bathtub.

  We have not even stopped our labors to attend church on the one day this month that the preacher came through.

  March 31st

  The stone house’s foundation is finished. I am now going to sleep for a week.

  April 5th

  When Reid tried to explain a tornado to me, I could not believe that he was telling me the truth. His account was far too fantastical. A brief storm with the power to unearth a centuries-old oak, and leave the pine sapling next to it unscathed? If my husband was a drinking man, I might believe he had overindulged and imagined such a thing.

  Well, I do believe him now. And my hand is still shaking as I write this.

  The storm started late this afternoon—James had told Reid that tornados occur mostly in the spring and mostly in the late afternoon. They will come upon us quickly, and we can expect four or five a season. How severe they are depends on whether they ‘touch down’—apparently there is a tail of sorts which reaches down from the clouds and wreaks havoc on the ground.

  As soon as Reid realized what was happening, he ran into the cabin and shouted that there was a tornado headed our way.

  He said, “Put out the fire! And get under the house!”

  Then he disappeared from view. So I followed him outside to see what this ‘tornado’ consisted of. The clouds above us were dark and swirling in a manner which I had never before seen. The wind was fierce. It roared through the trees, shifting directions in a moment, as though uncertain which way to blow. Lightning flashed and the simultaneous thunder shook my very bones. The horses whinnied in fear.

  Reid was leading Posy out of the leaning stable and to the pen. When he saw me he shouted for me to get under the floor NOW! I could barely hear him over the roar of the wind. When hail began to pummel me, however, I obeyed.

  Remy was already in the crawlspace, hunched cross-legged on a blanket spread over the dirt. His eyes were round as saucers, and their white edges were visible as complete circles in the dim light. Reid’s footfalls pounded the floor just an inch above my scalp, and I moved out of the way to make room for him as he dropped into the crawlspace.

  My husband was too tall to sit up, so he stretched sideways across the blanket and rested on one elbow. His expression frightened me. It was somewhere between deep worry, and unconcealed fear. I have never seen Reid afraid before, and panic began to strangle me.

  He looked at me and said, “I will not close the trap door unless I need to.”

  I nodded, very glad in spite of the storms strength not to be closed inside this dark, tomb-like space.

  I asked, “How long will it last?”

  Reid said, “About half an hour, I think.”

  A tree spilt with a frightening crack and I jumped with a loud y
elp, banging my head on the thick floor above me.

  Reid grabbed my hand, and said, “That was the dead oak to the south.”

  The hail stopped as suddenly as it began. Then the wind outside stilled, and the sudden quiet was terrifying—like a lion about to pounce. The air tingled, and the hairs on my arms stood up.

  Then I heard a roar like none I have ever heard before. The wind shrieked, sounding like the banshees about which the superstitious mountain folk tell their tales. Wind rattled the shutters and I feared that all of Reid’s hard work might be carried away by nature’s unearned fury.