by Carla Kelly
“Is it too much to hope that Captain Dunklin be transferred before Monday morning?” Susanna asked as they walked toward the Reeses’ quarters.
He said good-night on the porch. “If you’re serious about an omelet at the Rattigans’ tomorrow morning, I’ll stop by at five-thirty to escort you. With eggs, of course.”
She laughed softly. “Major, I never joke about omelets, or the weightier matters of our society. I’ll be ready.” She relished the sound of his own quiet laughter as he tipped his hat to her and continued on down the row.
Susanna was ready at five-thirty, waiting for the post surgeon’s knock on the door.
When it came, she opened the door to Nick Martin, who held out a note to her. “‘Nick’s your escort this morning,’” she read, after ushering him inside out of the snow. “‘I am doing my best to keep Lieutenant Bevins calm while his wife, a real trouper, labors on. Enjoy the eggs. Joe.’”
They crossed the parade ground quickly because the soldiers were assembling there, some of them still rubbing sleep from their eyes and yawning.
“What now?” she asked her escort.
“The corporal calls the roll, and then they go to breakfast,” Nick said. “There’s Sergeant Rattigan.”
She followed Nick’s pointing finger, the egg basket rocking on his arm, to see Maeve’s husband, standing ramrod-straight for his corporal to finish the roll. Too bad the army didn’t take into account that maybe Maeve needed Johnny more than some forty sleepy soldiers did.
Since Maeve’s husband was on the parade ground, Susanna hesitated before knocking on the Rattigans’ front door. It seemed a shame to make Maeve get up from her bed. She tapped lightly, and the sergeant’s wife opened the door.
She could tell Maeve was better. With a smile, the woman opened the door wider. Nick tried to hand the eggs over the threshold and back away, but Maeve stopped him.
“Nick, since the major is busy, who will eat his portion of the omelet?” she asked. “Omelets don’t keep well.”
Nick handed the egg basket to Maeve, but came no closer than the porch. “I can wait out here,” he mumbled.
“No, you won’t,” Maeve told him, her voice firm. Susanna decided she wasn’t a sergeant’s wife for nothing. “It’s too cold.” When he still didn’t budge, her eyes grew thoughtful. “Saint Paul, how will you even keep up your strength for another missionary journey, without an omelet?”
“I do believe you are right,” he replied, and came indoors.
By now, Maeve was leaning on the chair Susanna had left yesterday beside the armchair. Susanna took her arm. “Saint Paul, if you could bring that smaller chair into the kitchen, Maeve can sit down while I cook.”
He did as she said. “I will bring in wood.”
Maeve sat down thankfully. “I thought I could do this.”
“I can help,” Susanna said, taking off her overcoat and putting on the apron hanging on a nail by the dry sink. “Major Randolph is delivering …” She stopped, unwilling to remind Maeve Rattigan that other women had babies at Fort Laramie.
Maeve put her hand on Susanna’s arm. “Mrs. Hopkins, life doesn’t stop because of my misfortune,” she said quietly. “I know he’s delivering the Bevinses’ baby.”
“You’re right,” Susanna said, struck by her words. It was true that life hadn’t stopped for her, either. Maybe she could learn something, if she chose to.
“I doubt it’s any harder than your own situation, widowed at a young age.”
I don’t want to continue that lie, but what can I do? Susanna asked herself.
By the time the omelet was ready for the skillet, Nick had brought in more wood, and Sergeant Rattigan was stamping snow off his boots on the front porch. Susanna glanced at Maeve, charmed at her sudden animation. I want to love like that someday, she thought.
“Saint Paul, you’re mighty handy,” she said, as Nick put the wood by the stove.
The sergeant helped Maeve back to the big chair. He covered her with a blanket, kissed her forehead and then opened the oven door for another warm blanket.
“I’m staying here today, Sergeant,” Susanna said.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“I don’t mind at all,” she replied, turning the omelet carefully and holding her breath until it was cooking, whole, on its other side.
“Very well.” He put the warm blanket against Maeve’s back, then returned to the kitchen. The sergeant glanced toward the parlor. “Maeve tells me you are interested in teaching some of the wives to read.”
“I am.” Susanna gestured to Nick, standing in the corner, to hold out the platter. “I’ll see how that works in with my other duties, and then we’ll begin.”
Nick may have objected to sitting at the table when Susanna asked, but Sergeant Rattigan was made of sterner stuff, apparently. One leveling glance and Nick sat down, hands folded in his lap like a well-behaved child.
Toast and tea completed the meal. Susanna ate as little as she could, hoping that would leave more for Maeve. She noticed Sergeant Rattigan was doing the same thing; they smiled at each other like conspirators as Maeve ate a large helping, then closed her eyes in satisfaction.
“’Tis rare to have an egg,” she said, her eyes still closed, but a smile on her face.
“The major gave us a dozen,” Susanna said, which made Maeve open her eyes in amazement. “I saved three. I intend to make a cake this morning.”
“Imagine that, Johnny,” Maeve said.
Susanna could barely suppress her delight at something so simple as a cake earning a response almost reverent. “If you have some dried apples, I can make an applesauce cake. Maybe you and Maeve could have a party tonight. You know, invite some friends over.”
“I believe we could,” the sergeant replied. “Would you be up to that, Maeve?”
“Aye, Johnny. I’d like a party.”
Maeve dozed then, her face calm, as Nick helped Susanna with the dishes. The sergeant sat by his wife, doing nothing more than watching her and touching her hand when she stirred. The cake was ready for the oven when he stood up quietly and came into the kitchen.
The sergeant nodded to Nick. “It’s time we left these ladies to their own devices,” he whispered. “There’s guard mount, and I imagine the hospital steward could use your help, uh …”
“Saint Paul,” Nick said with dignity.
“Saint Paul.” He put on his overcoat, kindly waiting for Nick to remember where he was and put on his own coat. “You’re doing a fine thing, Mrs. Hopkins,” the sergeant said. “I am in your debt.”
“No debt,” she said, shy again. “I’ll take good care of her.”
His eyes filled with sudden tears, but he made no comment as he released her hand and left with Saint Paul. Susanna sat a long moment in the kitchen, grateful for quiet as Maeve Rattigan healed, and she felt her own heart at peace.
There wasn’t anything more grand than a frugal sprinkle of sugar for the top of the loaf cake, but Maeve clapped her hands when Susanna set the cooling cake by the front room’s only window. It did look festive on the little table.
“I would serve it with tea,” Susanna told her. A quick look in Maeve Rattigan’s lean-to had revealed nothing grander. Army rations weren’t designed for even modest card parties.
“Tea it will be,” Maeve said. “Sit here now, if you please, Mrs. Hopkins. Could you read me another story?”
They resumed their association with Mark Twain and the “Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” this time, Maeve listening, then dozing, then listening again until the story was done. Sergeant Rattigan came by once before recall from fatigue, doing nothing more than looking at his sleeping wife, and nodding to Susanna, gratitude in his eyes.
After he left, Susanna put the cool blanket in the oven to warm until her uncomplaining patient woke. She heard a small knock and Major Randolph came inside. She put a finger to her lips, and he nodded.
He sat down beside Susanna, watching his sleeping patient as
her husband had, his look both professional and fond. He got up quietly and tiptoed into the kitchen lean-to, gesturing for her to follow.
“All well here?”
Susanna nodded. “The omelet was wonderful and I saved enough eggs to make an applesauce cake. The Rattigans are going to have a card party tonight. I hope you approve of a party.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” he told her. “Maeve can preside from her armchair, and her friends will laugh and have a good time.”
Susanna couldn’t overlook the wistful note in his voice. “Maybe you should do that some night,” she suggested.
“I think I would, if I had a hostess as kind as Maeve,” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to …” She stopped, her face warm.
“Remind me?” He shook his head and took her arm. “Mrs. Hopkins, you’re eventually going to discover that life really does go on.” He shrugged.
“I’m not your good example, but the Rattigans are. A card party? I’ll wager that Maeve cheats.”
Susanna laughed out loud, then put her hand over her mouth. Her heart turned over when Major Randolph gently removed her hand from her face.
“That’s the most spontaneous laugh I’ve heard yet from you,” he said, his eyes merry. “Do it more often, Mrs. Hopkins. That’s my prescription for you.”
Chapter Nine
It was good advice, and she took it.
The week began well. When she opened the door that Monday morning, the room was already warm, coals glowing in the fireplace. She laughed to see on her desk bedraggled weeds crammed in a brown medicine bottle. There was a note, in a doctor’s dubious handwriting: “No roses in January. Rabbit brush will have to do. Good luck!” It was signed, “Major Joe Randolph, M.D., U.S.A., and other letters of the alphabet.”
When her pupils came into the classroom, Susanna wasted not a minute organizing them, although it came with an army surprise. Mystified, she watched them align themselves at desks in a way she had not considered. Three of the larger children sat in front, with some smaller ones behind, where they had to crane their necks to see her. Some boys and girls sat together, which also surprised her, remembering classrooms where boys and girls gravitated to opposite sides.
Susanna watched them until it dawned on her. They have sat themselves in order of their fathers’ ranks, she thought, amazed. Time to end that.
She stood up in front of her desk, smiling inside to see Nick Martin slip in and seat himself at the rear of the room. Some of the boys turned to look at him uneasily.
“Welcome to your classroom,” she began. “I want all young children in the front row.”
No one moved.
“I want you to move now,” Susanna said, putting some force behind her words, but not raising her voice. “Your fathers’ ranks do not matter here.”
Some students exchanged startled glances, but she had no doubt they would move. She looked every student in the eye until they did.
With help from the older boys, she arranged the younger children’s desks to one side of the room and gave them the alphabet to copy. She sat among the older children, listening to them read. By the time the bugler blew mess call, the older students had their afternoon compositions assigned, and the young children were ready for her attention.
When the room emptied out quickly for dinner at home, Nick Martin looked at her with something resembling admiration.
“What is it, Nick?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Hopkins, except maybe you don’t really need me, do you?”
She regarded him, sitting there so stolid, but his eyes alert. Susanna handed him the extra slate that she knew he had been eyeing while the little ones were writing on theirs. She pointed to the blackboard, where she had printed the alphabet. “Copy these.”
“I’m not too old?”
“No one is too old, Nick.” She smiled. “Or is it Saint Paul?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “It’s Nick. Just Nick.”
She left him there in her classroom, carefully copying the alphabet, while she hurried to the Reeses’ for lunch. She ate alone in the kitchen, because Emily was upstairs trying to coax Stanley into a nap not of his choosing. Even if her cousin was unsuccessful, Susanna knew she would remain upstairs, avoiding her.
Lunch soon over, Susanna pulled on her coat and hurried across the parade ground and the footbridge to visit Maeve, sure of a warmer welcome. Maeve opened the door, her eyes bright. She tugged Susanna inside, sat her down and brought tea.
Susanna told her of the pupils aligning themselves according to rank, and Maeve nodded. “When we change garrisons, the officers’ wives and children travel first in the ambulances, and leave us in the dust behind them.”
“It’s hardly fair. What about women or children with asthma or other ailments?”
“Too bad for them,” Maeve said. “It’s the army way. You made their little darlings move back this morning, so you might get a protest.”
“Too bad for them,” Susanna joked, and they laughed together.
She stayed another five minutes, happy to see the sergeant’s wife on her feet. “Maeve, when you feel up to it, ask your friends if they’d like to learn to read and write. There’s no reason why we can’t use my Old Bedlam classroom at night.”
“Some might protest that, too,” Maeve said.
“Then I will ask Private Benedict if we can use his classroom in the storehouse,” Susanna told her.
She strode back across the parade ground with real purpose, head down against the perpetual Wyoming wind. She mentally rehearsed her afternoon’s activities, then just stood still a moment, grateful for this chance to teach again.
No one objected to a composition on their favorite thing about Fort Laramie. She gave them ample time, and turned her attention to her littlest pupils, helping them sound out the letters they had copied that morning.
When she dismissed them after recall from fatigue, the older boys thundered out, while the girls followed more sedately, some stopping to help Susanna get the little pupils into their coats. One girl even whispered, “It’s good to have school, Mrs. Hopkins.”
“I agree,” Susanna whispered back, warmed at the shy admission.
She swept the floor and banked the fire, while Nick Martin continued to sound out the alphabet and write on his slate. When he finished, he put it on her desk and left. She looked at what he had written. “‘At, bat, cat,’” she read out loud. “Good for you, Nick.”
She thought about him that evening as she sat at the kitchen table and prepared the next day’s assignments, which would include recitation of the compositions and a preview of arithmetic. She half hoped Major Randolph would wander by to see how her day had gone, even going so far as to walk into the parlor and peer discreetly out the window, looking for him. Snow was falling and she doubted he would come.
But there was Emily, sitting in her rocking chair and staring at Susanna, while her husband snored on the settee. Susanna had felt her cousin’s eyes boring into her back as she stood at the window.
“Yes?” she asked finally, tired of the scrutiny.
Emily couldn’t look at her. “Several ladies have remarked about the time you are spending over on Suds Row.”
“I suppose they would,” Susanna said, her face warm at the criticism over something so minor. “Sergeant Rattigan’s wife had a miscarriage and Major Randolph thought she might like to have someone read to her and keep her company.”
From the shock on Emily’s face, Susanna doubted anyone had ever said the word miscarriage aloud to her before.
“Maeve Rattigan just needed a friend, and … and maybe I did, too. Maeve’s better now, but I’ll have to warn you, I am planning to start a night school to teach some of the sergeants’ and corporals’ wives to read.”
“Won’t teaching during the day keep you busy enough?” Emily said.
Susanna wondered at the desperation in her cousin’s voice, curious why the fort’s wives seemed to think she was worth gossiping ove
r. “I’m an educator. I want to help others.”
“I think you shouldn’t” was Emily’s lame reply.
“It’s a kindness to teach people to read and write,” Susanna insisted. She left the room, angry, stood in the hallway a moment and decided to go to her classroom.
Her anger dissipated as she lit the lamp and sat at her desk, looking at the empty desks and mentally repeating the name of each student. Even though the room was cold, her contentment returned.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
She looked up, surprised. Major Randolph stood in the door in a buffalo overcoat and leather gloves, his muskrat cap pulled low.
“There’s a lot of ignorance to stamp out,” she said. Then she clasped her hands together on her desk. “Nick Martin told me he could not read or write, but he had no trouble copying the spelling words. Was he injured when you found him?”
Major Randolph started to shake his head, but stopped. “There was evidence of an old injury on the side of his head.”
“I wonder who he really is.”
“Welcome to the mystery.”
The next day was even better. Shy at first to read aloud, the older students read their compositions about life at Fort Laramie, impressing Susanna with their knowledge of the area and the Indians. The young pupils contributed their mite, which made it easy to move into a discussion of local flora and fauna. Bobby Dunklin showed a real flair for drawing animals on the blackboard.
When they came back from luncheon, the air was charged with excitement that Susanna could almost feel through the floorboards. The little ones could barely sit still.
“What has happened?” she asked. “One at a time,” she said with a laugh as every hand went up.
She called on a lieutenant’s daughter, who stood up to answer, as Susanna had already taught them. “Mrs. Hopkins, it’s the most wonderful thing!” she began, practically dancing. “A supply wagon came through with boxes and barrels from back East. Christmas is finally here!”
The story came out in an excited jumble. Apparently a boxcar had been uncoupled at a Nebraska siding and then forgotten as the snow rose higher. A high wind uncovered it and the boxcar arrived in Cheyenne, where the U. S. Army unpacked it and sent belated presents in large crates to Fort Laramie and Fort Fetterman.
