Treasured Grace

by Tracie Peterson

  They walked toward where the animals were pastured. The mild day brought to mind early fall rather than its latter days. The temperatures were almost warm, and the breeze actually welcome. Grace carried her shawl instead of wearing it, hugging it close as if it might provide some sort of barrier between her and Mr. Grierson.

  “You know I’m leaving in the morning with the others,” Grierson began without warning.

  Grace nodded. “I do. Hopefully the weather is this nice all the way to Oregon City.”

  Her reply seemed to confuse him. They walked on until they reached the place where her sheep were happily feeding.

  “You refused my proposal,” he began again, “but I think you should reconsider. This place isn’t all that safe. There’s no real protection should the Indians decide to war against the mission.”

  “I have heard about the dangers,” Grace admitted, “but Dr. Whitman said there are always ongoing threats to the settlements and missions. Besides, I have no place in Oregon City for me and my sisters. My uncle is away buying cattle, so he won’t be there to help us.”

  Nigel seemed ready for her answer and quickly continued. “My brothers have a small cabin where we could stay after we married. There’s room enough for all of us until I can build a house of our own.”

  Grace listened patiently, knowing it would do little good to interrupt. He was determined to speak his piece, and she might as well hear it.

  “It won’t take all that long to build my dairy herd. I already have some good stock, and my brothers have managed to purchase a few additional cows for me. I’ll have my dairy up and running before you know it. So I can provide for you and your sisters, and you need not stay here with the Whitmans.” To Grace’s surprise, he reached out and turned her to face him.

  “I want you to marry me.” He held up his hand. “I know you don’t love me and you fear that will mean a miserable marriage, but I beg to differ. Few people marry for love. Most marry for necessity and learn to love each other. We could be like that. In fact, I’m sure that in time you would come to love me, and I already esteem you, so love can’t be far.”

  “Mr. Grierson, I appreciate your kind offer. I don’t want you to think my refusal is out of disregard for you. You are an admirable man and have proven yourself honorable at every turn. However, I have no desire to marry again. I have just buried my husband, and I have my sisters to consider. Mercy is ill and I couldn’t consider leaving her, nor could I take her on such an arduous journey. So you see, even if I had a desire to marry, which I don’t, I couldn’t make that choice.”

  He studied her face for a moment and finally gave a heavy sigh. “I anticipated this would be your answer, and while I am disappointed, I have another proposition for you.”

  “Really, Mr. Grierson, I don’t think—”

  “Please just hear me out.”

  He looked at her with such pleading that Grace felt obliged to listen for fear he might actually break into tears. “Very well. What is your proposition?”

  “I would like to help you in some way, so I thought perhaps you would allow me to take the sheep—your sheep with me to Oregon City. The Johnson boys are happy to help me herd them with my cows. I know you’re concerned about the Indians stealing your sheep, and Dr. Whitman shouldn’t have to worry about feeding extra animals in case the weather turns bad. I could take the sheep with me and care for them until next spring when you come. I could even turn them over to your uncle if you were delayed.”

  “That is very kind of you. Of course, I insist on compensating you in some way.”

  “I don’t want any recompense,” he assured. “I’m offering this so you’ll see that I can be of value to you.”

  Grace shook her head. “Mr. Grierson, if you think taking my sheep to Oregon City will somehow change my mind about marriage, I assure you that isn’t going to happen.”

  The look on his face told Grace she’d figured out his motive. “I will happily allow you to take my sheep along with your cows, but I intend to pay for their upkeep. I can give you money to see to their feed, and come shearing time you could keep the wool or perhaps keep a lamb. Would that be agreeable?”

  She could see that he wanted to refuse her, but at the same time he no doubt figured if he had her sheep, he had a better chance of winning her in marriage.

  “Very well,” he finally answered.

  Grace offered him a smile. “Thank you. That will be a tremendous relief to me. I am confident you’ll see them safely through the winter.”

  When Grace finally returned to the emigrant house, she was relieved to find Mercy awake. “Thank you, Hope. You can go rest, if you’d like.”

  “I want to check on the children at the mission house.”

  Grace nodded but knew full well that Hope’s real interest was John Sager. She waited until Hope was gone before reaching out to brush the hair back from Mercy’s face. “How do you feel?”

  “My eyes hurt,” Mercy said, reaching up to rub them.

  Grace took hold of her hands. “Don’t touch them. You can damage them. I have some salve that should help them feel better. Let me go mix it up for you.”

  “Grace, am I going to die?”

  Her sister’s question startled Grace. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I heard the women talking. They said people are dying from the measles.”

  “It’s true, but I have every reason to believe you are well on your way to recovery.”

  “But I feel so bad. I hurt so much and . . .” Mercy began coughing, and Grace rolled her to one side to pound her back as she continued to gasp for air.

  Once the spasm subsided, Grace propped Mercy up with a rolled blanket. “Stay on your side. It will help to keep your lungs clear.” She pulled a blanket up around Mercy’s shoulders. “As for the pain, I can give you something to help with that as well, but I want you to stop worrying. Measles can be deadly, especially when people refuse to do what is helpful. Dr. Whitman says the Indians are more likely to die because they have not been exposed to the various diseases the Boston men have had.” She paused and smiled, hoping she could get Mercy’s mind on something else. “They call us Boston men and women. Isn’t that funny? As far as I know none of us on the wagon train were from Boston, but that’s what they call us.”

  Mercy nodded and closed her eyes. “I don’t want to die.”

  “I don’t want you to die either.” Grace looked at her sister with grave concern. “I want you to fight this and to do everything I tell you to do. Will you?”

  Mercy reopened her reddened eyes. “I’m so . . . scared.”

  “You know that God is with you. You made a decision to seek the forgiveness of Jesus and take Him for your Savior. You belong to Him, so don’t be afraid. Besides, I’m going to do whatever I can to see you through this. You do believe that, don’t you?”

  Mercy gave a weak nod. “I know you will.”

  “And you know that I’m very good at knowing the right remedies to use?”

  Again Mercy nodded.

  “Good.” Grace placed a kiss on Mercy’s rash-marked forehead. “Now you rest, and I’ll be right back with something that will make you feel better. I love you, Mercy.”

  “I love you too,” the child whispered and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

  Grace frowned, knowing that Mercy still had a long way to go to recover from the sickness. She was so very weak and fragile. Grace gazed heavenward and whispered a prayer.

  Don’t take her from us, Lord. Please. I don’t want to lose her. Please let her stay with us a little longer.

  Hope mopped John’s brow with a damp cloth. “Grace says it’s important to get the fever down so that your brain doesn’t burn. Are you feeling any better at all?”

  John closed his eyes. “A little. It makes me feel better just knowing you’re here.”

  “I’m glad.” Hope smiled and put the cloth aside. “Would you like me to read to you from the Bible?”

  “Not just now.”
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  Hope frowned, worried that he was worse than he let on. “I know Dr. Whitman doesn’t like my sister doing things for the sick, but she knows a lot about medicine, and she’s helping a lot of folks feel better. I’m going to see if she’ll fix you up a tonic. Would that be all right?”

  John opened his eyes and gave her a weak smile. “Anything you want to do is all right by me. You . . . you’re special to me.”

  Hope could hardly keep from blurting out her own feelings. She held back, however, knowing there would be time enough for sweet talk later. Right now it was important that John recover and grow strong again.

  “I’ll be back in the morning, and I’ll pray that your rest is peaceful.” She stood and held herself in check. She wanted more than anything to kiss his forehead but knew it would be completely inappropriate. “Good night, Johnny.”

  She looked around the room at the others who were ill. Most were already asleep. Hope felt the weight of their sickness in her spirit. She had already seen so much death and dying. She glanced back at John and whispered the prayer she’d prayed at least a dozen times.

  “Please heal Johnny, Lord. Don’t let this sickness take him.”

  The next day was one of great sadness. Grace had no sooner finished helping clean the house and gather the laundry when she heard wailing outside. The women with her heard it as well, and all moved en masse to find its origin.

  Outside there was a collection of ten Cayuse. Most were women with children in their arms, but two were braves who were confronting Dr. Whitman. Grace understood little of what was said by the Cayuse even though another man standing with the doctor interpreted. His words were spoken so quietly that it was impossible to hear.

  It was the women who drew Grace’s attention. They were wailing in sorrow, rocking back and forth with their children held tight against them. Dead children. Grace could tell by the way their limbs flopped like those of a rag doll.

  Whitman held up his hands. “I am sorry, my friends, that your children have died. We have had deaths here as well. You may bury them in our cemetery, and I will speak over them.” The interpreter relayed his message.

  One of the Cayuse men shook his fist at Whitman and countered with words that needed no interpretation. His anger left little question about his thoughts.

  Grace watched as the doctor did his best to convince the Indians that he was doing all that could be done. She pitied Whitman in that moment. He was a hard man, arrogant and opinionated, but he did care about these people.

  It seemed that the tempers were calming, but not so the grief. Grace had heard women cry like this on the wagon train when they’d lost children. It was an audible sorrow that came from deep within—a sorrow that couldn’t be eased with mere words or even kind deeds. Only time would help to diminish their pain, and even then it would never leave them altogether.

  And Grace knew the disease had yet to run its course. The mourning had just begun.

  Chapter

  5

  In the days that followed, the Cayuse came to the mission more often for medicine or to bring their children for Dr. Whitman to examine. Grace watched them from afar. The men were lean and formidable. Some wore leather leggings and breechcloths and wrapped themselves in Indian blankets. Others wore buckskin from head to toe as Alex and Sam Two Moons had. The women too wore buckskin made into long dresses with short fringe. All had thick black hair worn long, and their dark, piercing eyes only made their stern expressions more intimidating.

  “Grace, will you stir this pot?” Harriet asked.

  “Of course.” The request brought Grace out of her contemplation, and she stepped to the stove and took the offered wooden spoon. She had come to the mission house kitchen that morning with some of the other women to help dye material and yarn. Dr. Whitman and Narcissa sat to one side, going over an inventory list.

  Without warning, several Cayuse men appeared at the open kitchen door and walked in without being invited. The leader was named Kiamasumkin. He was one of the chiefs or subchiefs, but Grace couldn’t remember which. Andy had pointed him out to her on another occasion, along with several other important men of the tribe. Kiamasumkin and his men marched straight toward Dr. Whitman.

  “You stay here to care for your Boston men and leave my people to die. You give us medicine, and it does not heal but makes my people sick . . . and they die. You are bad tewat.”

  The word tewat had been used enough around the mission that Grace knew this was equivalent to doctor or medicine man. She pressed back further from the gathering to watch, almost mesmerized by the scene.

  “I have cared for the Cayuse and Nez Perce as if they were my own family,” the doctor assured, getting to his feet to face the men. “I have not wronged you.”

  Another man stepped forward. “The Boston men lie. They cannot tell us true. My children are dead and it is because of the white man sickness.”

  Whitman held his own despite the fact that he was only one man against several. “You know that I have cared for the Cayuse and have helped many to wellness. I have given you food and help when it was needed. Most importantly, I have told you about the Great God who died for your sins so that you could be saved from the fires of hell. I would not do that if I did not care about you.”

  “You will come today and heal our people,” Kiamasumkin said, looking directly at Dr. Whitman. He switched from English to Nez Perce and continued speaking.

  Grace had no idea what was being said. She had learned very few Nez Perce words. She knew Andy was called Hushus Muk Muk, which meant Yellow Head, and that Weyiletpa was another name for the mission area and meant place of waving grass. Apparently when “pa” was put on the end of a word, it signified the place, and when “pu” was used, it meant the people. So Weyiletpu indicated the inhabitants of the area.

  There were a dozen other words Grace had picked up, but none of them could explain the conversation that was now taking place. Even Whitman relied on the help of a translator.

  After a few moments of angry exchange, Dr. Whitman ordered the men from the house. For a moment everyone watched and waited to see if the Indians would obey. Finally, Kiamasumkin nodded and walked from the room. The others followed, and Grace let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  Dr. Whitman turned to his wife. “I’m going to the village to see what I can do.”

  “Is it safe?” she asked, her face pale.

  “Now, wife, we did not come to this place because it was safe. We came to serve.” He gave her arm a pat, then gathered up his coat and bag and departed without another word.

  Narcissa watched him go with tears in her eyes, and then without speaking to any of the other women present, she gathered her papers and hurried from the kitchen to seek the solace of her bedroom.

  Grace looked to the other women, wondering what she should do. After a moment, everyone went quietly about their business until only Grace remained frozen. She felt her heart racing and tried to slow it by drawing in deep breaths. For the first time, she truly feared for their safety.

  “Are you ill, Grace?” Mary Saunders asked.

  “No. Just frightened. That was most disturbing.”

  Mary nodded. “Come help me with the yarn. It’s best to put your mind to something else.”

  It might be best for a diversion, Grace thought. But it didn’t eliminate the problem.

  Alex and Sam arrived at the large Cayuse village on the Umatilla River. They had heard about the rising tension and the gathering of some of the chiefs and subchiefs. Alex hoped he might be able to offer some understanding from a white perspective and be a voice of reason in the midst of angry men. Being French-Canadian as well as a Boston man gave Alex better acceptance than most white men could boast. The Hudson’s Bay men were often French-Canadian, and the Cayuse and Nez Perce had maintained a good relationship with them. The forts were willing to accept their furs and trade goods with the Indians in exchange. Since Alex was a trapper and often lived with Sam i
n his Nez Perce village, he was treated as if he were a member of the tribe. To a point. There was still a very clear line drawn, especially by the Cayuse, who were skeptical that any man of white origin could be faithful to his word.

  “Greetings, my honored friends. We have come to parley,” Alex said in Nez Perce. “Will you share counsel with us?”

  A gathering of four chiefs looked first to one another and then nodded. “Wixsil’íix.”

  Alex and Sam obeyed the invitation to sit down and waited until Tauitowe, the man in charge, spoke again. Tauitowe, unlike the others, was dressed in white man’s clothes—a green suit with a red vest. Atop his head was a blue cloth hat, which he removed in greeting. “You have come to make peace between us and the Boston men at Weyiletpa?”

  Alex considered his words carefully. “Is that what you need from me?”

  Tauitowe looked to a chief Alex recognized as Camaspelo. The man gave a nod. Turning back to Alex, Tauitowe said, “We were many but now are few. The white man’s sickness has taken much from us. There is little we can do to save our people.” His expression revealed his grief. “We pray to the white God . . . but still they die.”

  Alex nodded. “The chief speaks true. These are hard times. Many of the white children have also died. White men and women as well. My heart is full of sorrow for you and the Cayuse and Nez Perce people.” He drew in a steady breath. “But you must know that the Boston men have not planned this to harm you. They did not seek your death.”

  One of the other chiefs grunted and muttered something under his breath.

  Alex looked to him. “Five Crows disagrees?”

  Five Crows fixed him with a hard look. “I believe the Boston men want the land at no cost to themselves. Every year many white men come and take more and more from my people. They will not stop coming unless we make it so.”

  Alex had heard this argument around other council fires. “The Great Father of the Boston men has agreed with King George of the Hudson’s Bay Company men that the land will belong to America. Because of that, the Boston men will come and settle the land.”