A Heart for Home

by Lauraine Snelling

  “We have to find something to hold enough cold water so he can be immersed. Ice would be best, but – ”

  “But we have no icehouse here, like we do at home.” He thought a moment. “I wonder if they have boats around here. We could put the water in a boat.”

  “Or lay him in the creek.”

  Haakan nodded. “I’ll get some help to carry him there. Perhaps there is a deeper pool nearby.”

  Astrid studied those in the sickroom. Who else would benefit from such a radical procedure? The real question: Why had she not thought of it earlier? Thank you, Father, for the idea now. She checked her packets of simples. Willow bark was running low – that could easily be remedied – as was echinacea. But that would not be available until the roots had matured enough to dig up, usually in the fall.

  Taking a cup of broth mixed with willow bark tea, and a spoon, she knelt by the brave’s pallet and, nodding to one of her helpers to raise his head, spooned broth into his mouth. It ran out the side and down his cheek. She motioned for the woman to raise him a little higher and tried again. This time his throat moved as he swallowed. Smiling at her helper, she tried to give him more. Success. The first nourishment they’d been able to get into him.

  Her father and Mr. Moore hustled into the room.

  “Dr. Bjorklund, are you sure this is what you should do? If he dies under your care, the men will accuse you of killing him.”

  “If you can think of a better solution, I’m ready to listen, but we have to break his fever. Ice would be better, but the creek is what we have, so it will have to do.”

  Mr. Moore swallowed and blinked before inhaling a breath of courage and nodding. The second time he nodded more firmly. “There is a spot where the women used to wash their clothes. I will show you. But how will you keep him from drowning?”

  “Someone will sit with him and hold his head above the water.”

  “Er, someone?” her father asked.

  “I will do it if I have to, but it would be better if someone in the tribe would do it. Let me talk to the women.” If only she could actually talk with them, instead of using the rough signing and hand signals, which took far too long.

  “I will talk with them,” Mr. Moore said. “I know a few words.”

  As Mr. Moore and Astrid communicated their idea, Shy Fawn nodded her understanding. She held up a hand as if to say Wait and hurried out the door. She returned in a few minutes with an elderly man who had already had a light case of measles and was regaining his health by the time Astrid’s team had arrived at the encampment.

  Mr. Moore and Far moved the younger man to a litter and then carried him to the creek. Shy Fawn waded into the water and beckoned the elderly man to sit, legs crossed, in the water. They lowered the litter until the sick man’s head was cushioned by the old man’s legs.

  “Let’s remove some of the rocks so he can be in deeper water,” Astrid instructed.

  Shy Fawn shook her head and instead backed into the stream, gently pulling the spotted man’s legs. The old man inched forward until the water was over his legs and the brave was floating.

  Astrid dipped a cloth in the water and laid it over the brave’s hot forehead and eyes. Glancing at Pastor Solberg, she mouthed, Are you praying? His emphatic nod told her he understood.

  How long do I leave him there? Astrid wondered. Till the fever breaks?

  The patient’s body twitched, and he mumbled something.

  She glanced around to see a circle of Indians of all ages watching and muttering, exchanging apprehensive glances.

  “Please, God, let this work,” Solberg whispered, leaning close to her.

  “Amen to that.” She soaked the cloth again.

  The old man shivered.

  At least someone was cooling off. “Mr. Moore, if you could suggest that the people go about their business . . .”

  After a good soak in the stream, Astrid had the men lift the brave from the water, but instead of taking him back to the infirmary, they moved the litter to the shade of a tree and had them brace the poles of the litter on rocks so air could flow under it. With one of the children set to fan the flies away, she returned to inspecting the remaining tepees, with Mr. Moore in tow.

  She found an elderly couple who were both comatose and burning with fever, the telltale spots all the evidence she needed. This time she had them taken directly to the creek and set to soaking while still in their filthy garments, soiled not only with grease and dirt but the effluvia of illness. As the creek washed the filth away, caring for the ill took more able bodies.

  “I think you are on the right track,” Pastor Solberg said, leaning close so others would not hear. He nodded toward the first brave. “Check on him. He seems better.”

  Sure enough, the heat emanating from his body was greatly reduced. As she watched, his eyelids flickered. A deep sigh relaxed his body, and he settled into sleep.

  Astrid swallowed the lump named fear that had strangled her for a moment. “Far, see if you can get some more broth into him, please, while I check another tepee. Mr. Moore, can you find us some more help? Those tepees need to be cleaned out.”

  “Usually the tribe moves on rather than cleaning.”

  “I see. Well, these people are too weak to move unless they choose an area nearby, like that meadow over there, and just move one tepee at a time. Is that a possibility?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but it is the work of the women to move the tribe.” Doubt rode his shoulders and dogged his steps. “Mrs. Moore said to tell you that supper would be served at six.”

  And the tribe? Astrid kept the question inside. “Mr. Moore, what has happened to the supplies promised these people?”

  “I am looking into that. Part of the problem is that these people did not want to move nearer the main station. The supplies are shipped there and then sorted out and distributed. After the fighting this group hid and then settled here on the southeast corner of the reservation, far away from the settlement.”

  “Can they not go to the station and bring food back?”

  “They no longer have their horses, and as I understand it, their old chief refused to become slaves to the white man, as he put it, by living over there.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He died early on. That is when Dark Cloud became the temporary chief.”

  “I see. So if we took our wagons to the station, we could bring back supplies?” Astrid asked.

  “I believe so, but I have not been here long enough to rectify all the situations I have been slowly discovering.” He drew himself up, as if ashamed at having disclosed this information. “I will see if I can find more help.”

  Astrid watched him stalk off. She heard her mother’s voice saying, “You can always catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” Men did not respond well to accusations from a woman, especially a young woman with such a forthright manner. “Sometimes I wonder if stubbornness isn’t more of a sin than all the others combined,” she muttered, then hoped no one had heard her.

  Shy Fawn beckoned her over to the stream, where they were washing the two new patients. Both appeared to be resting and relaxed, floating in the water.

  Astrid nodded and smiled her appreciation. She then made her way back to the tepees yet to be inspected, observing that Mr. Moore was attempting to talk with a small group of men sitting around a fire pit of ashes.

  Late in the afternoon, Astrid found a family of four alive but too weak to walk. She also found three young children hiding in another tepee, not wanting to leave their dead mother – two of them recovering but one very sick that needed the creek. How many of these people had died from the measles and how many had starved to death? The question, like so many others, had no answer.

  When Pastor Solberg came to escort her to supper at the Moores’ house, guilt that she could eat while others starved almost made her refuse. But she knew she didn’t want to antagonize the Moores. She was there to help, not cause more problems. Yet when Mrs. Moor
e served canned peaches for dessert, Astrid nearly choked on them. Instead, she reminded herself that canned food was probably all they had too, because there was no game left to hunt. Since Mr. Moore had been in the military, surely he knew about living off the land.

  “Are there any rivers close enough to fish?” she asked. “Or lakes?”

  “The Missouri and the creeks. The tribe used to spend time at the river on their travels and smoke or dry fish, but their primary staple for all their needs was the buffalo. Once they were all killed off, the people had nowhere to turn.”

  “But why were the buffalo killed?”

  Mr. Moore shrugged. “It never made sense to me either, but the government ordered it, and some people made a lot of money doing so. The hides were taken and the rest left to rot.”

  Back to the government. Astrid caught a glance from her father, a reminder to be gentle. She gave a slight nod to show she understood and pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you for the meal. I need to return to my patients now.” She pushed back her chair and fled the room.

  Finding Johnny and Samuel tending the fires, she said, “You boys go eat now. Thanks for keeping the fires going.” How could she ever thank these two from Blessing? Johnny Solberg had come with his father, and Samuel Knutson was her cousin. They both worked from dawn to dark like the rest of them. If they’d thought they were coming on an adventure, she was afraid they must be disappointed.

  She first checked on those in the infirmary and then headed to the creek. Shy Fawn and Gray Smoke were bringing the children out of the creek. The old man and woman were asleep on pallets in the shade of a cottonwood tree next to the brave and a younger woman, who was holding a young child. Astrid checked each of the patients, instructed her helpers to give them as much broth as they would tolerate, and thanked them. Even if the women didn’t understand her words, they responded to smiles and nods, a universal language.

  When her father and Pastor Solberg returned from supper, they took the brave back into the creek because his fever was climbing again. He blinked at the shock of the cool water and looked wildly around before Shy Fawn said something to calm him. The elderly man took up his seated position in the creek again, and the brave settled back down.

  “What is his name?” Astrid asked Mr. Moore when he returned.

  “I cannot pronounce his Sioux name, but it translates into He Who Walks Tall. He will not have anything to do with me – he always sits outside the circle when I meet with the elders.”

  “When did you last meet with them?”

  “Two or three weeks ago. While I’ve had the measles, my wife has not, and I have been keeping my distance for that reason.”

  And here we ate with them. At least we all had scrubbed up well. Astrid scolded herself for not asking about that. One more assumption she’d made without having all the information. But then, they were white, and the whites didn’t have as bad a reaction to the measles as did the Indians. Besides which, they were not starving to death at the same time. The two went hand in hand.

  By the end of the day she had gone through all the tepees. They had put the last of the beef bones into the kettles to boil for broth, and those families that were able were cooking beans with bits of smoked beef. Racks were tented over the fires to smoke the remainder of the beef. One more steer could be butchered when this was gone. At home they would have canned part of it.

  Astrid sent her two helper women off to bed and took the early watch while most of the group from Blessing slept. Johnny was outside, keeping the fires stoked and making sure nothing was stolen. Tomorrow was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, a day of rest. But like taking care of animals, taking care of the human patients would leave little time for rest.

  She made her rounds, laying the back of her hand against cheeks to check for fever, listening to hearts and lungs of those who coughed. She was quickly running out of honey, which helped soothe coughs and made the other medicines go down more easily.

  When she stopped at He Who Walks Tall’s pallet, he opened his eyes and tried to raise his head.

  “Easy. All is well.” She used the same gentle tone she used to comfort children and animals, hoping the tone communicated more than the words. When she saw his fist clench, she started to back away but then straightened her spine and held her ground.

  “Do you speak English at all?”

  Did the tip of his chin indicate he did? Please, Lord, let it be so.

  “Did you mean yes?”

  The same motion again. He cleared his throat with a guttural sound.

  “I’ll be right back with some water for you to drink.” Her steps seemed to barely touch the floor. Someone could speak her language! Perhaps there would be answers for the myriad questions she had stewing inside. By the time she returned, he had drifted off to sleep. Perhaps she should give him some broth the next time he awoke. He wasn’t as emaciated as some of the others, but a fever like he’d had left one weaker than a newborn.

  One of the children started to cry. But when she tried to hold him to comfort him, he drew back, fear clouding his eyes. His piercing scream jerked all the others awake, and Shy Fawn came running through the door from the room where the women and healthier children slept.

  Shy Fawn took the boy, her eyes apologizing for the child’s behavior. Gray Smoke went down the rows, talking softly to the others, and they lay back down. Surveying the room, Astrid saw that He Who Walks Tall was half sitting and looked like he was about to collapse. She picked up a cup of broth, now cold but still sustenance, and returned to the man’s pallet.

  “I’m sorry. I frightened the child.”

  “Yes.”

  “I brought some beef broth for you. Would you drink it or use a spoon?”

  “Drink.” But when he reached for the cup, he collapsed back against his bedding.

  “I’ll help you.” She knelt beside him and spooned the liquid into his mouth. When his eyelids refused to stay open, she stood. “Very good. You’ve had the measles, but you will recover.” Please, Lord, let it be so.

  She shared her good news when Pastor Solberg came to relieve her, then made her way back to the wagon and crawled into the empty bed.

  “Is everything all right?” Haakan asked.

  “Yes. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  Camp noises woke her in the morning sometime after the sun had risen. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked her father as she tied on her medical apron.

  Haakan was sitting on a rock beside the fire, drinking his morning coffee and watching the kettles. “He Who Walks Tall has eaten breakfast, and two of the children are up and have been fed, so now they are helping our nurses. I’m afraid the old woman is not going to make it, but the man is responding.”

  “Our nurses,” Astrid repeated. She nodded at his news but kept thinking on his comment. What if those two women were indeed given medical training, a short course probably, so they could be available to help Dr. Red Hawk when he returned? If only the chief would talk with her and become amenable to their help. Was Red Hawk planning on returning to this tribe, or would his offices be at Rosebud’s main settlement? Why was it she always had more questions than answers?

  She took the coffee offered and helped herself to a slice of cheese. Pastor Solberg handed her a bowl of oatmeal with a bit of milk and brown sugar.

  “I gave most of it to the children and the sick ones.”

  “That is what we are supposed to do. We get to go home to good food, clean houses, clean clothing, and gardens growing so fast you can measure the progress daily.” She sat down on one of the rocks. “Shoot me if you ever hear me grumbling again, all right?”

  “That might be a bit extreme.” Pastor Solberg sat down beside her. “I’ve planned a worship service for noon, right here around the fire. I’m hoping curiosity will bring in some of our Indian friends. The Moores are planning to come.”

  “And we’ll serve a meal afterward?”

  “That is the plan. I’ve added beans and onions to
the kettle and will empty the jars of vegetables and tomatoes too. Do you think I could get Mrs. Moore to bake some biscuits?”

  “It’s worth a try,” Astrid said. “Perhaps her helper knows how to make biscuits by now.”

  “I thought you might like to be the one to ask her,” the pastor said.

  “Wouldn’t she find it harder to turn down a preacher?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You are too sharp for your own good.”

  “How much milk did the cow give this morning?”

  “Near to a gallon, and we have ten eggs to beat into it,” her father answered. “Though the honey is running low, we have some brown sugar and strawberry jam. I thought to mix some of the jam into it too.”

  “Good idea. How long do you think the cow will last?”

  “Since she’s been bred, several years if they treat her right.”

  “I mean without being stolen and butchered for her meat.”

  “I’ve been thinking on that,” Haakan said, scratching his jaw. “Shy Fawn has learned to milk her. We could send a bull along in the fall and maybe another cow. Got to get them farming, but you need hay for feed in the winter and a barn.”

  Astrid washed her bowl in the dishpan, rinsed and dried it, then put it back in the box mounted on the side of the wagon. Where would they find enough bowls to feed all these people?

  Greeting Shy Fawn, she entered the infirmary to begin checking on her patients. What she needed most was an interpreter. He Who Walks Tall was sound asleep, the spots on his body more a fading rash. Two of the children followed her on her rounds, the little girl scratching her head. The older man’s temperature had abated and he was now drinking some broth. His wife was no worse. Maybe there was hope for her after all. Of the fifteen in the infirmary, only three were comatose. She asked her two helpers to carry one of the three back out to the creek and then set them to continue feeding any who could accept it.