'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Though clearly he was speaking to Nacoute, as the man, Aquash answered and the priest moved closer to hear her. She asked him a few questions, then spoke at length while he nodded, glancing every now and then at Morgan.

  “Well.” The short priest rubbed his hands together, then turned to Morgan. “That is very interesting, and I am glad to say that I can help you. You are only one day from the Mi’kmaq winter camp,” he reported. “You must go back the way you came and then turn west half a day.”

  Morgan felt a surge of relief and lowered the rifle. “You speak their language.”

  The priest shrugged. “I have spent many years among these people. And I have learned more from them than they from me.” He smiled. “She says her husband is a French trapper, dead now, and you are helping her to go home. And that is her son.” He pointed to Nacoute.

  “Aye.” Morgan nodded. “Will you sit, then? Share our meal?”

  “Avec plaisir,” Père Leon said enthusiastically, sitting on the log next to the fire. “How long have you been traveling?”

  Morgan lifted the spit from the fire and tore a small piece from the bird, which he handed to Aquash. “About twenty days, I’d say.” He held the bird out to the priest.

  “Merci.” Père Leon gingerly tore a piece of the hot meat away, then blew on it. “You have come then from the settlement up near where the river pools.” He took a bite of the meat and chewed noisily. “Why did she not marry another man from the camp? They usually do, these Indian brides. They are used to a civilized life.”

  “Civilized,” Morgan repeated. “Is beating your woman a civilized thing, do you think, Father? How about attacking an innocent babe, or treating a mute boy with such cruelty that others do the same? Is drinking yourself blind and destroying your home civilized?” Morgan spat out a bit of gristle. “You’ll excuse me, Father, if I don’t think that white men are necessarily more honorable than Indians.”

  “Don’t romanticize them, my son.” Père Leon wagged his finger. “Indians can be as cruel to their women and children as white men.”

  “So one is no better than the other?” Morgan asked.

  Aquash and Nacoute had stopped eating, their eyes moving from one white face to the other.

  Perè Leon regarded the young man sitting across from him. “I agree that each man must be measured of his own accord, and that only God can judge what is in the heart. Do you know God, my son?”

  “Aye.” Morgan leaned forward. “And He knows me.”

  The priest nodded. “Good. Let me ask you this—will you live with this woman in her camp?”

  “I have a wife,” Morgan told him. “I don’t know where she is, or even if she still lives, but I’m a married man.”

  “So this infant is not yours?”

  “No, Father, she’s not.” Morgan looked to where the baby slept in her bundle at her mother’s feet.

  “Then this is a selfless act, taking them to their people.”

  Morgan thought about that. “Not selfless, no. I owe my life to this woman and her son. I …” He stopped, thinking of the accusations Aquash had suffered because of him, of the violence that had occurred, the boy’s confusion. “Not selfless.”

  Père Leon nodded slowly and resumed chewing his food. Morgan and Aquash shared a long look, but he could read no fear in her face or apprehension about the man sitting at their fire. She spoke then, her voice light and soft after the gruffness of the men’s.

  “She asks will I take you south with me, to the border. She says you want to go to America. To find your wife.”

  Morgan looked at Aquash. “I do want to find my wife,” he said. “But I’ll not leave her here. I’ll see her to camp first, and then I’ll find my way.”

  “Very difficult to navigate through the wilderness,” Père Leon said. “Men become lost and die alone.”

  “I’ve died a couple of times already. I’m not afraid.”

  The priest looked around at each face in the firelight, and then he spoke to Aquash, who listened intently, then smiled in relief.

  “I told her I will take you all to the Indian camp, and then you and I will leave together for the border.” Père Leon leaned forward. “I think I will like to travel with a man who is not afraid. And I think we will have many things to talk about.”

  “Thank you,” Morgan said, and then he looked at Nacoute, whose eyes struggled with sadness. “Tell him, Father, that we will talk more when we’ve reached the camp. I won’t be going anywhere ’til he’s ready for me to do so.”

  The priest spoke to the boy, who nodded slowly, then got up to move closer to Morgan. Sitting beside this man who had seen him through so much, Nacoute longed for words to thank him. Instead, he put his hand on Morgan’s knee and gripped it, not looking anywhere but into the wavering flames of the fire.

  Morgan felt the tension in the young man’s hand, looked down and saw knuckles torn and scratched, ragged nails, the dirt. He covered that hand with his own, staring like the boy into the flames.

  “It’ll be all right, son,” he reassured softly. “It’s going to be all right now.”

  Eight

  San Francisco was so far removed from the small shanty and tent city of Grace’s imagining that she sometimes wondered if she was even in the right country. No longer the Mexican harbor town of Yerba Buena, the San Francisco of October 1852 was quickly becoming one of the most magnificent cities ever built, and the energy that surged up and down newly planked streets, in and out of fireproof doors, around and through the paved marketplaces and plazas, was catching. Grace felt the excitement every time she descended into the bustle and sweep of a city built on sheer optimism.

  It was so different from New York City, which had seemed permanent and well established by the time she’d arrived; San Francisco was a city in the midst of a glorious rebirth. The city fathers had determined that San Francisco would burn no more; no more loss of commerce and real estate threatened investors, and now they poured their money into elegant and substantial fireproof brick and stone buildings, any one of which would be remarkable in any country for great size, strength, and beauty. Most of these incredible buildings were situated around Portsmouth Square, the original plaza of the Spanish-Mexican era, and along Battery, Front, Sansome, and Montgomery Streets; there were also many fine brick buildings in Stockton Street. Elegant private houses were being constructed at North Beach, Mission Bay, Pleasant Valley, and Happy Valley. Rincon Hill was being developed into seventeen elegant brick homes centered around a floral park, to be enclosed by a locked iron fence—all this designed by Englishman George Gordon—and residents would have the only keys.

  Grace had overheard Doctor Wakefield and his friend Doctor Fairfax discussing the advantages of moving into a more ostentatious house, one closer to the splendid United States Marine Hospital being built on Rincon Point; Wakefield would serve on the staff of this illustrious modern facility and was excited about the advancements of medicine he knew would be possible there, but he liked his domicile upon the hill, with its view of the city and the bay beyond—it afforded him the privacy he felt was needed in caring for his sister and was also removed from the pressures of his work. Grace had not ventured out so far as Rincon Point, though she had promised Jack and Mary Kate that they would see it once Doctor Wakefield took up offices there.

  Each Sunday afternoon, as Mary Kate grew stronger, they explored a different part of the city, witnessing firsthand the erection of grand homes, hotels, restaurants, theaters, public houses, the new library. Wooden structures were being replaced with those of polished Chinese granite, brick, and stone, all with exterior window shutters and doors of thick wrought iron. The streets, too, were in transition as better grades were established; those in the lower part of the city were in the process of being raised several feet above their former height, while those on high ground were being lowered, sometimes fifty feet, all in an effort to make the streets run parallel and perpendicular so that the city could be better navigated. The
original streets, many of which had yet to be improved, had begun as dirt roads, were later covered with planking, and eventually laid with cobblestones, macadamized paving, or even square-dressed blocks of granite and whinstone. Wagonloads of materials rumbled up and down the streets and alleys; workmen on scaffolding hauled up buckets by rope pulley; the sound of hammer and chisel, ax and saw, rang out through the city until nightfall, when it was replaced by raucous laughter, the policeman’s whistle, the smash and clatter of saloon brawling.

  Their visits into the city were always stimulating but left them tired, and Grace was always glad to climb the hill at the end of her Sunday. She paused now, halfway up, mindful of Mary Kate, whose cheeks were pink from the brisk air, but whose eyes were weary. A child’s hand in each of hers, Grace turned and looked back out over the bay, at the ships anchored there, at the steamers coming into port, the fishing junks with their daily catch, and the rowing boats ferrying passengers back and forth. She knew the Eliza J was not among them, could not be among them yet, and still she looked for the ship she loved best of all.

  On market days, when Grace came down the hill on her own early in the morning, she ran to one of the twelve wharves, each one extending like a long finger into the bay. In the beginning, she had often lost as much as an hour there, mesmerized by the off-loading of an amazing amount of cargo—millions of pounds of flour and meal, barley, butter, and tea; thousands of barrels of pork and beef, whole hams, Carolina rice, rice from the Orient; thousands of cases of candles, soap, boots and shoes, coffee; tons of coal; barrels of rum; kegs, casks, hogsheads, and pipes of every liquor imaginable, including champagne from France. Most of it for California, some for Oregon, and always her heart ached for Ireland, which knew none of this bounty, received no shipments such as these, continued to scrape by on oats, potatoes, and cornmeal.

  Grace tore her eyes away from the sunset. “Time to get home before darkness swallows us up. Are you ready, then, children?”

  Mary Kate smiled and nodded, but Jack dug in his heels.

  “One more minute, Mam,” he pleaded. “Just ’til she sinks in the sea! Look! Look!” He pointed to the giant fireball now slipping out of sight.

  Grace waited a moment, then said, “’Tis gone now, Jack, and time to walk on.”

  “Oh, all right.” He kicked at a rock in the road, but Grace knew he wasn’t really mad.

  As they approached the house, Grace saw a dim light shining from Abigail’s room, but that was all. There was no light on downstairs, not in the dining room or the large drawing room on the other side. Around back, the kitchen was dark, and Grace was surprised—surely Enid would be lighting the house by this time. Above the stable, Mister Litton’s room was also dark, but this was expected; the man disappeared every other Sunday, and no one saw hide nor hair of him until Monday morning, when he would appear for his strong cup of coffee, eyes rimmed red from drink. We all have our own demons to fight, Grace reminded herself.

  Once inside, Grace lit a lamp, then sent Jack to the pump to fill the kettle while she stoked the stove. There was a pot of stew ready to heat, upon which Grace placed the quick dough that would become dumplings. As dinner warmed, they removed their coats and scarves, hung them in their room, then set the table for supper. The night was chilly, so Grace laid a small fire in the hearth in their private quarters to take the damp off the room. At table, they all ate heartily and, when they were through, Mary Kate unfolded the newspaper to read parts of it aloud to Jack as Grace cleaned their dishes, the sound of their voices in the warming room a comfort to her.

  The first time Grace had asked at the newsagents for the paper, he’d had a nice laugh at her expense, asking which one of the twelve she preferred: eight were morning papers, he’d said, and three were evening, one in German; he also had two French papers out three times a week and six other papers out once a week—three being religious, one French, and one a Sunday special only. It had taken Grace a moment to digest this information, and then she’d chosen the California Star, as its editor was a friend of Doctor Wakefield, and she’d stuck to it, though only the Sunday edition; rarely did she have time during the week to read, though she liked to know what was going on in the world and scanned the pages for mention of Ireland or New York City.

  “Mam.” Mary Kate’s soft voice broke her mother’s reverie. “There’s the bell. That’ll be Miss Wakefield.”

  Grace pulled a long face of mock horror and the children laughed, especially Jack, who kept asking her to do it again. The bell became more insistent and was followed immediately by the crash of spilled china.

  “Better go,” Mary Kate said soberly. “Missus Hopkins isn’t here, I think. Or Enid.”

  Grace nodded, wondering where on earth the two women had gone. They never took a half day on Sunday if Grace was going to be out, and they’d not said a word this morning, either one of them.

  “Jack, help your sister put away the dishes. Then get yourselves to bed. I’ll be back to tuck you up.”

  The children nodded dutifully, and Grace left the warmth of the kitchen for the dark cool of the hallway and the foyer, where she lit the lamp that sat on the little table at the foot of the stair. After adjusting the flame, she started up cautiously, shadows looming behind her.

  “Hopkins!” Miss Wakefield’s shout was followed by an angry rant and then the solid thump of a body falling to the floor.

  Grace took the stairs two at a time, rushed down the long hallway, then knocked quickly at Abigail’s door before pushing it open.

  “It’s Missus Donnelly, ma’am. Hopkins isn’t—” Grace stopped.

  Abigail lay on the floor, her dressing gown disheveled and stained with wine and sickness. The smell was awful, but before Grace could get to a window, the woman heaved again, trying to rise. Grace moved quickly to help, but Abigail fought her off.

  “Where’s Hopkins?” the young woman slurred. “I want her!” She wobbled to her feet and turned, falling against the side of the bed. “Hopkins!” she shouted again, then began to mutter incoherently.

  “Please, Miss Wakefield,” Grace began gently. “Let me help you back into bed. You’re not well.”

  “Get out!” Abigail waved her away drunkenly. “Don’t want you. Or your brats. How dare you! Out!”

  Grace ignored her, coming farther into the room, when suddenly she heard the sound of horses coming up the drive, followed almost immediately by the good-natured shouts and laughter of men dismounting their rides. She moved quickly to the window and looked out; Doctor Wakefield was home and he’d brought a number of friends with him. Grace’s heart began to pound.

  “Hopkins!” Abigail called again, clutching at Grace’s shoulder in an attempt to shove her out of the way.

  From the driveway below, Wakefield looked up; Grace yanked the curtains closed, then spoke urgently to the young woman.

  “Hush now, miss, before your brother’s guests hear you.”

  Abigail’s eyes went wide and she clapped both hands over her mouth.

  “Aye, he’s coming in the house now,” Grace warned. “With Doctor Fairfax and a few more beside. Hopkins isn’t here, nor Enid. ’Tis only me to see to you, and them as well.” She paused as they both listened to the sound of the doors opening and Wakefield’s call for Hopkins.

  Abigail’s eyes filled with tears and her hands fell limply to her sides. “I’m ill,” she whispered. “Tell them. I’m ill!” Her voice became frantic and she clutched at Grace’s arm. “I can’t go down!”

  “They’re not expecting you.” Grace kept her voice low and reassuring. “But if they ask, I’ll say you’re unwell.”

  “Can’t go down.” Abigail seemed to speaking to herself as much as to Grace. “Can’t see them.” She stopped and stared at herself in the mirror, put her hands to her face, and shook her head slowly from side to side. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no …”

  “You don’t have to see anyone.” Grace turned the woman from the mirror and guided her gently toward the chair by the washb
asin and pitcher. “Don’t worry, now. I’ll take care of it.”

  Making soothing sounds as she would to an anxious child fresh from a bad dream, Grace removed Abigail’s robe and peeled off the damp, stained nightdress. In the light of the lamp, Abigail’s body was more shadow than light, and Grace breathed in sharply. Ireland had had more than its share of walking skeletons, but those had been people with no food, let alone a servant to cook for them three times a day; did the doctor know how much his sister had deteriorated? Grace wondered. And there was something else, she saw now, something not quite right; this was not the body of a pampered young debutante who’d never seen a day’s work in her life. No, this body was nicked and scratched, its skin a lunar landscape of pocks and small white scars; this skin was dry and cracked, scabbed over in some places, while others were newly encrusted with sticky beads of blood. Not only this, but her bosom had withered to nothing and the skin around her belly and hips fell in silvery, puckered folds. Shocked, Grace lifted her eyes to Abigail’s and met there a fearful yet resolute gaze before Abigail wrapped her arms around herself and turned away.

  “You’re very thin, miss,” Grace said gently, wringing out a cloth in the washbasin, and you look as if you’re trying to claw your way out of your own skin. “Can you not eat more than you do?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Oh, no,” she moaned softly. “No, no, no. How can I? How can I ever …” She began to weep, chin sagging upon her skeletal chest and hanks of lank hair falling over a face she now tried to cover with her hands.

  “Never you mind.” Grace gently peeled Abigail’s fingers away. “’Tis all right now,” she whispered, wiping away the tears and crust. “I’m here to help you.”

  “Help me.” Abigail repeated as if momentarily considering the inconceivable, and then she looked at Grace with eyes that knew better. “There is no help for me. I am …” She stopped and her shoulders slumped even further, her mouth hung slack, and she stared into the dark corner at something only she could see.