Twenty-seven
Hide not thy face from me in the day of trouble; incline thine ear unto me: in the day when I call answer me speedily.
—Psalm 102:2
Lost. It was absurd, Gen thought. She was half Dakota Indian. How could she have missed following a clear path through the woods? Just because the wind had begun to fill in the furrows made by the other partygoers was no excuse. Just because it was nearly dark was no excuse either. They had crossed the bridge and taken the fork to the north, just as Mother Leighton said. But now, as she sat contemplating the woods all around them, Gen began to doubt. Could Mother Leighton really have said to take the fork to the left? She had said north. Gen thought the right fork led north. Certainly her sense of direction couldn’t be so faulty. But it was. They would have to go back.
As they retraced their path through the woods, they came to an old bridge. It certainly looked like the same bridge. And yet, Gen thought, Simon had said the Burnsides kept their bridge in constant repair. She remembered feeling uncertain the first time they had crossed it. Looking down at the icy water rushing beneath it, she felt even more uncertain. As if her nerves were transmitted through the reins, the team stopped the moment their hooves touched the first two boards. They stood shivering, their ears alert. Then, without warning, they backed up. The bridge groaned as if it, too, were a living animal. Gen thought it tilted imperceptibly.
“What’s happening?” Meg asked.
“I don’t know,” Gen said, shaking her head. “But I don’t think we dare try to cross the bridge.”
“But we have to,” Meg said. “To get back.”
“I think we’d better wait until help comes,” Gen said. She backed the team up a little farther. Reaching into the wagon box behind her, she pulled an extra blanket out and wrapped it around the three of them. “Your father will be along soon. He’ll know what to do.” She peered into the gathering darkness trying not to shiver. “Let’s sing,” she said. “Do you remember the Dakota Hymn?” she asked, Meg. When Meg shook her head uncertainly, Gen said, “Well, you’ll want to know it when we get back with our friends in the West. Let’s learn it now. Your father will be very pleased.”
“I don’t want to go back west,” Meg blurted out. “I like it here. Why can’t we stay where it’s safe and we have a good school?”
Gen put her arm around Meg. “Because this isn’t your home, Meg.”
“It feels like home,” Meg said defiantly. “I don’t hardly remember Minnesota anymore. Except St. Anthony. And Father says we aren’t going to live there. We’re going back to the Indians. To a log house.”
“Don’t you remember your log house?”
Meg shrugged. “It was all right. But I like Grandmother’s house better.”
“I cold, Mama,” Hope whined, snuggling against Gen.
Shuddering inwardly, Gen closed a gloved hand over the leather whip handle. She searched the gray horizon, watched the pink blush from sunset fade. She glanced down at the girls, barely visible except for a fringe of blonde and red hair peeping above the edge of the blanket.
“I’m c-c-cold, too, Gen,” Meg said.
Gen nodded. “I know. So am I.” She shivered and stamped her feet against the wooden floor of the wagon. They were so numb with cold she couldn’t feel them anymore. With all her senses, she peered into the gathering darkness, hoping to hear voices, to see a light, to pick up some hint of where the Burnsides’ homestead might be. Surely they couldn’t have wandered too far off the trail. But not a sound could be heard, not a sliver of light pierced the gathering darkness to hint at which way she should go.
Picking up the whip, she said, more to herself than to Meg, “We can’t wait out here in the dark. We’ll freeze. Something must have happened to keep your father in town. We’ll have to cross ourselves.”
Getting down from the driver’s seat, she searched the creek bank for a possible crossing place. The wind was picking up, and with every blast she could hear the rotten boards of the ancient bridge creaking. There was no doubt they could not chance the bridge. The creek isn’t so wide, she encouraged herself, squinting across to the other bank, trying to decide the best place to cross. Finally, when she thought she had located the least dangerous route, she returned to the wagon and hauled herself up, encouraged when she guided the team toward the creek bank and they did not refuse. She approached the creek at an angle, relieved when the wagon didn’t tip dangerously.
Gen forced herself to concentrate on the team’s ears instead of the icy, swirling water. Her heart sank when a tree branch rushed by. The water was deeper than she had judged. Daisy stopped, snorting and stamping her foot.
“I know, Daisy, I know,” Gen said. “It’s cold and it’s running fast. But you can get us across. And when you do, I promise you molasses on your feed tonight!” She forced herself to look down at Meg and smile with more confidence than she felt. “Wrap your arms around Hope, Meg. And then hold on to the seat behind her with both hands. Whatever you do, don’t let go!” She urged the team forward down the steep incline, relieved when Daisy obeyed. But the minute the horse’s front hooves felt the cold water, she paused. Gen stood up and rattled the reins. “You! Daisy! Darby! Go on!” she shouted at the top of her voice. She barely had time to sit down when Darby lurched forward, nearly throwing Meg off the wagon seat.
“Hold on!” Gen yelled, just as the wagon wheels were lifted off the creek bottom and the rushing waters threatened to sweep them downstream. Gen screamed at the team, lashing their broad rumps over and over. The horses strained against the current, and just when Gen feared they would be swept away, the wheels struck bottom again. A flash of relief faded instantly when it was apparent they were stuck in midstream. In spite of Gen’s screams, the team could not free the wagon. Hope and Meg began to cry. The rushing water roared past the wagon. It was growing dark as the horses began to thrash wildly against the weight of the wagon holding them in the middle of the stream.
Gen stood up and pulled the blanket off her shoulders. Tying the reins fast to the wagon seat, she ordered Meg to stay put. Taking a deep breath she slid down from the wagon seat, into the icy water until one foot found the singletree. With one hand clutching the wagon front, Gen leaned forward until she had a firm grasp on Daisy’s harness. Following the traces under the water, she labored to unhitch Darby. The horse seemed to sense when he was free, and the second Gen had untied the reins, he pulled away from the wagon and swam for the creek bank. Pulling himself out of the water he shook himself off before turning toward the wagon and whinnying sharply to Daisy.
“Whoa, girl!” Gen pleaded as Daisy lunged ahead in a desperate attempt to follow Darby to shore. “Whoa, now,” Gen repeated, patting Daisy’s rump, forcing herself to remain calm. She could no longer feel her feet and legs. Her hands were almost too numb to work the harness. Please, God … help.
“Set Hope down here,” Gen ordered Meg, patting the bottom of the wagon between the seat and the board that formed the wagon’s front. Meg obeyed, wide-eyed with terror.
Gen patted Hope’s head, wrapping her in a blanket. “You stay right there, Hope. Meg’s going for a ride on the big horse. I’ll be back for you.” Hope regarded Gen with wide blue eyes as Gen looked up at Meg. She patted her shoulder. “I’m going to turn around and I want you to climb on piggyback.”
Meg shook her head uncertainly. “I’m too big. You can’t hold me.”
Gen ignored her. “From me to Daisy’s back. Grab onto the harness strap right across her fat rump. You hang on. If I slip and fall in the water, you still hang on.” She put one icy hand on each of Meg’s cheeks, staring coldly into her eyes. “Understand? Pull yourself up. Don’t worry about me. I can swim.” She nodded firmly at Meg, then turned around and patted her shoulder.
Trembling with fear, Meg perched on the edge of the wagon. Gen backed up, and Meg slipped down, wrapping her legs around Gen’s tiny waist.
Gen took a deep breath and grabbed Meg’s legs. Pinning them t
o her she locked her hands together. Bracing for a moment against the wagon, she lunged forward toward Daisy. She slipped, falling into the horse. But Daisy didn’t move. She looked back over her shoulder and snorted and shook her head, but she didn’t move. Meg grabbed the harness and hung on while Gen helped her unwrap her legs and scramble up onto Daisy’s broad back.
“Ma!”
Hope had pulled herself to a standing position at the front of the wagon and was bouncing up and down on her sturdy legs. “Ma! Ma! Ma!” She reached her arms toward Gen, who looked up at Meg and patted her leg.
“I’m going to get Hope and hand her to you. Turn her to face you, and wrap her legs around your waist like this,” Gen said as she motioned. “Then wrap your arms around her and grab the harness in front of both of you. When I get Daisy unhitched, she’s going to move fast for the bank. It won’t take her long to get there, but you have to hang on.”
“What about you?” Meg began to cry.
“I’ll hold on to the harness and when Daisy swims, she’ll pull me along with you. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Gen bit her lips to keep her teeth from chattering. One more pass, Lord. Only one more. Just let me get Hope.
Gen lunged for the wagon. She dragged Hope into her increasingly numb arms, burying her face in the blonde hair for a second before turning back toward where Meg waited atop Daisy. “Ready?” she called. When Meg nodded, Gen counted, “One—two—three!” and lunged forward, forcing Hope up over her head and toward Meg. At the moment Meg’s arms closed around Hope’s body, Gen slid off the singletree. She threw out her hand and managed to grab onto submerged wood. She was thoroughly soaked now. Every movement was agony. She inched her way along, her teeth chattering, willing herself to unhitch the harness. Her fingers fumbled with every step. She prayed herself through, not knowing how she managed to work with buckles she could not feel. Only when she was back at the wagon untying Daisy’s reins did she realize her numb fingers were bleeding.
“Go on, Daisy, go on!” Gen called to the trembling horse. The instant the reins were free, Daisy moved forward. “Hang on, Meg!” Gen said, just as she slipped into the icy waters. She realized she no longer felt cold. She was no longer shivering. It felt pleasant, somehow, floating along in the water, surrendering to the control of something else. She looked toward the creek bank and saw that Meg and Hope were safely across. At that moment, the wagon was washed free. It came after her, swirling and tumbling. As she slipped beneath the surface of the water, Gen was vaguely conscious of someone screaming her name.
Twenty-eight
Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints.
—Psalm 116:15
Simon staggered ashore with an unconscious Gen in his arms. Shaking so violently he could barely walk, he managed to get back to where the team waited. Meg clutched Hope tightly, but both girls were shivering in the cold. It was pitch-black, the only light coming from a sliver of moon just now rising above the trees. Kneeling in the snow, Simon braced Gen across his lap as best he could, trying to protect her from the snow while he considered what to do. Wisdom, Father. I need wisdom.
He struggled to his feet, and in one colossal shove positioned her in his saddle. Taking his belt off, he did his best to tie her arms around his horse’s neck.
“Can you hold on to Daisy’s harness without falling off?” he asked Meg.
“I th-th-think so,” Meg chattered, beginning to cry.
“Try not to use up your energy crying, Meg. I know you’re cold. But you have to help me or Gen is going to be very, very sick. You must wrap your arms around Hope and keep her from falling off. We are going to go as quickly as we can. We must get help.” He climbed up behind Gen’s unconscious form and urged his horse forward, but the moment they began to trot Meg screeched, “Father—I can’t—hold—on.”
Immediately Simon pulled up, continuing at a maddeningly slow pace through the woods. The wind died down as he plodded along, and moonlight shone through the woods, at last illuminating the way. He could feel his pants and shirt freezing solid, but he went on. After a few moments, he realized he wasn’t cold anymore, but a pleasant flush of warmth was working its way up from his midsection and into his head. He didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything, but simply plodded on, intent on reaching the party, on dancing with Gen, on watching Meg try ice-skating.
After what seemed an age of time, he saw the light flickering through the trees. He could hear music and laughter. It took every ounce of self-control for him not to kick his horse to a lope. Finally, they staggered into a clearing. Voices were shouting, hands reaching up to take him down, to untie Gen’s body, carrying them into the barn, rubbing their limbs. Someone raised blankets around a stall to give privacy and amazingly, Dr. Merrill was there, removing their clothing, wrapping them in warm blankets, giving orders so quickly Simon’s conscious mind could not decipher them.
“My girls,” he said weakly. “My girls are—”
“In good hands, Reverend Dane,” the doctor said. “We’re taking you back to town. Now drink this.” A flask was pressed to his frozen lips. He swallowed and sputtered. Brandy, he thought. He looked over at Gen and saw that other hands were thrusting a flask at her, parting her nearly blue lips, forcing liquor down her throat. The last thing he remembered was the odd sight of her dark hair, frosted over with ice. It was melting, and little rivulets of water were running down the sides of her face, dripping off her chin, spotting the blanket just beneath her chin.
The four of them were lifted into the back of a wagon piled full with fresh straw. Jane knelt beside Gen, rubbing her limbs continually. Aaron worked on Meg, and Elliot on Hope while the doctor concentrated on Simon. Mother Leighton rode beside the driver, a man known for owning the best team of Percherons in the state. He lashed their broad black rumps, forcing them to head for the village at a furious pace. At the Leighton house, Betsy was roused to help create an infirmary in Mrs. Leighton’s parlor. Four beds were lined up and a long few days of vigilance began.
Gen woke suddenly, “Girls!” she gasped and sat up, her head pounding.
“Shh, shh,” someone said in the dark. “The girls are fine.”
Gen rubbed her eyes, which for some reason would not focus. To her left she could see the dull golden light of a fire.
“Thank God you’re awake,” the voice said. She realized it was Jane. For a moment, she thought she and Miss Jane were captives again, sleeping inside a tepee with a fire in the center.
“Where—are—we?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
“You’ve had an accident.” Miss Jane sat down beside the cot and touched her hand. “Do you remember? You tried to cross the creek and the wagon got stuck.”
Gen frowned and closed her eyes. She reached up to touch her forehead.
“Twelve stitches. That’s why it hurts so.” Jane stood up and put an arm around her shoulder. “Lie back. There’s plenty of time for questions. You need to rest.”
Exhausted, Gen obeyed and fell immediately asleep. The next time she woke, she was in bed upstairs in what had been Ellen’s room when she was a girl. No one sat beside her, but a glance at her nightstand revealed quite an array of medicines. She reached up to touch her forehead again. The headache was gone. The door opened and Simon came in. His skin was ashen, but when he saw that her eyes were open, he smiled happily. “Good morning.”
“The girls?”
“They’re fine. They have colds, that’s all. Nothing serious. A few more days and Dr. Merrill says Meg can return to school.”
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. “I remember falling into the water and something hitting my head. Just when everything went dark, I thought I heard someone calling my name …” She paused. “Was it you?”
Simon sat down beside the bed. He nodded. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw your wagon tracks diverge from the trail. I was so worried. The old bridge on that road was half rotten when I was courting Ellen.” He traced her hairline. “Yo
u were very brave, Gen. You saved the girls:”
“I was stupid,” she said quickly. “I should have waited to be rescued.”
“I would have done exactly what you did,” he said quietly. “Daisy and Darby are strong and unusually trustworthy. I would have driven them in and trusted them to get me across. It’s not your fault.”
“Tell me what happened after—after I went under,” she demanded.
Simon recounted the story, pausing only long enough to get a drink of water when he began to cough. When Gen expressed concern, he waved his hand in the air, shaking his head. “It’s only a little cough hanging on. I’m fine. The doctor is amazed. And frankly, so am I. Everyone says that after a winter like the last one, I should have a permanent weakness in my lungs. Everyone says I should be barely clinging to life.” He stood up and smiled down at her. “Obviously everyone is wrong.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “The only thing that remains is for you to get those stitches out in a few days. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave your hair down until that gash heals. You cannot believe the amount of blood—” He stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”
It wasn’t long before Gen’s stitches came out, her hair went back up atop her head, Meg returned to school, Hope felt well enough to throw her share of temper tantrums. Life returned to normal, and except for Simon’s slight, persistent cough, no one seemed any worse for the ordeal that would forever mark the Burnsides’ Festival of 1865 as the most memorable ever.
It began as such a little thing. But Simon’s persistent cough would not go away. Everything Dr. Merrill prescribed failed. They visited other doctors, who could offer no help. And while Simon insisted he would be fine, as the weeks went on, Gen saw hints that all was not well. He began to sleep later and seemed to have unusual difficulty rousing himself out of bed. He eschewed his walk to church in favor of riding with Jane and Elliot. Gen noticed he was short of breath after any little exertion. Even climbing the stairs to go to bed at night left him wheezing and out of breath. Finally, he began to have frequent fevers. He would spend a few days in bed and then proclaim himself well and drag himself off to mission meetings or other activities.
Edge of the Wilderness Page 23
