The Midwife's Legacy

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “But what will you do there?”

  “Maybe I’ll farm.” Adele frowned. “Or I’ll … start a newspaper or work for one. Whatever it takes. We’ll find a way.”

  “And you’ll not object to my being ‘the little midwife’?”

  “Object? How can a man object to a woman’s clear calling?”

  Adele laughed, and then she cried in joy.

  “I guess we’ll have a wedding first,” Polly said.

  “I guess we will,” Adele and Jerome said together, and he swung Adele one more time around the porch.

  It was during that second swing that Jerome lost his balance and, still holding Adele, fell against the wobbly porch post, which gave way. The two of them landed just a short distance in the rocky dirt, but enough distance for Jerome to groan in pain when they hit the dust. The horse sidestepped out of their way. When Adele lifted herself from him and he rolled, she saw the rock that had broken their fall. And she saw his leg askew.

  “I—I think it’s broken.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Chapter 11

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  After the doctor set the bone and Jerome lay resting, with Caroline hovering, Adele led Polly to the Schmidt porch. Adele sat with her arm around the girl, struggling with the greatest difficulty in her life.

  “You can’t leave him, Mamadele.”

  “I know. But I can’t disappoint Idella either.”

  Polly took a deep breath. “You don’t have to. Idella needs one of us, and that can be me.”

  “Oh, Polly. I’m not sure—”

  “You can send your journal with me so I’ll have your wisdom and God’s help. You’ll still be a midwife for Idella, in spirit and through me. You know I’m responsible. And I really, really want to go west.”

  Adele swallowed. “We could all wait until next year and go maybe, when Jerome’s leg is healed.”

  “A midwife keeps her commitments. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, it is.” Adele ached as though she were ripped apart.

  “I might never see you again.” Polly’s eyes pooled with tears. “But either both of us stay here to help him heal or we sacrifice being together for another family.” Polly tugged at her braid, adding, “One day I’ll marry, and we’d part then, too.”

  Adele’s voice caught at the truth of that. “You’d sacrifice having your Mamadele by your side?”

  “Not just my Mamadele,” Polly said. “But my mama. That’s what you are.” Adele hugged the girl, unable to speak. “I can do this, Mama, because you’ve taught me. I’ll be strong, and you and Mr. Schmidt can have a new life here and come after, maybe.”

  “You did manage for two weeks on your own. A girl who can do that can travel west without her mother and help bring a new baby safely into this world.”

  Polly wiped away Adele’s tears, pushing back her braid.

  “You just have one last duty to perform before you leave.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To be my witness at our wedding.”

  The members of the wagon train stood ready to drive away from the schoolhouse as soon as the 6:00 a.m. vows were spoken and they’d feasted at the wedding breakfast.

  Jerome sat with his braced leg straight out from the chair, resting on a cassock. Adele stood next to him in her best gingham dress. There’d been no time to make a new dress or even alter the one Caroline offered. This church dress would do. Polly waited behind Adele, and Caroline stood to the side as a witness for her brother, Doc Pederson holding Emily. The women held a few tulips as the circuit rider led them in prayer.

  They could have waited to marry until Jerome could stand, but Adele wanted Polly to be a part of this important day and Polly was heading west. The girl wore the pearl hair clip that had been her mother’s. Adele had given it to her with the story that accompanied it that morning as they’d dressed. “Your mother gave me this, and I know she would want you to have it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Polly rubbed her fingers on the pearls. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

  Adele smiled. “Wear it knowing you have always been loved and always will be.”

  Jerome had surprised them both just before several men helped carry him out by insisting that Polly take his timepiece with her. “You might need it for that counting thing you midwives do.”

  Adele couldn’t remember when she’d been so happy and so sad at the same time. It was a little like being a midwife—the joy of a birth and the sadness of leaving this new family to their own ways and routines. This second chance at love was the greatest gift Adele had ever been given—save her Polly—and yet waving good-bye to Polly because of it would be the hardest thing she’d ever do.

  But it is what she did after the ceremony, handing Polly the old journal and pulling her close. “You remember to say your prayers.” Adele patted the girl’s back. “Nothing is impossible with God.”

  “I know, Mamade—” Polly stopped. “I know, Mama. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

  “You already have.”

  “I have something for you, too.” Polly rushed to the back of the Bentz wagon and opened one of the boxes. “It’s a self-portrait.” She handed Adele the sketch paper. “I worked on it looking in a mirror while you were delivering Mr. Schmidt’s niece. I think it looks like me.”

  “It does, oh, it does indeed.” She would frame it and hang it … somewhere in a house that she and Jerome would share.

  Gustaf Bentz stood beside her then. “Is time to go.”

  “I know. I know. You take good care of my girl.” Adele clung to Polly, one hand on the sketch.

  “And she takes good care of my Idella.”

  Polly pulled her hand loose and, fighting back tears, walked to the front of the wagon. Sunlight glinted off the pearl clip as the party moved out, the women and children walking beside. Polly turned and blew a kiss, and then Adele was standing back beside Jerome.

  “You write!” Adele shouted. Polly nodded then walked down the hill out of sight.

  Jerome reached for her hand. “Mrs. Schmidt, you are beautiful, even when you’re crying.”

  She squeezed his hand back, staring into the space Polly left. “Mothers do cry, you know. In sadness and in joy.”

  Epilogue

  One year later

  My dearest Polly,

  I hope this letter finds you happy and well. I await details of your new life. We are fine here. The ink for Jerome’s new paper arrived late for the latest edition, but the story did get out about the President’s refusal to sign the 1860 Homestead Act. Perhaps there’ll be another so the Bentzes will have their Oregon farm after all one day.

  My time goes well, though it keeps us from joining you. In two more months you will have a brother or sister. I have found a midwife comfortable with assisting at the first birth of an older mother. I wish it was you being my midwife, but I know you will be here in spirit. We midwives belong to that circle that tends and befriends, “with woman,” wherever women gather and are together, no matter the separation of time or distance. We defy the pharaohs of fear and uncertainty and replace them with hope and joy. Blessings on your days, dear Polly. Keep writing in that journal. I seal this with tears of joy.

  Your beloved mother

  Award-winning author JANE KIRKPATRICK is well known for her authentically portrayed historical fiction. She is also an acclaimed speaker and teacher with a lively presentation style. She and her husband live in Oregon and, until recently, lived and worked on a remote homestead for over twenty-five years.

  THE MIDWIFE’S APPRENTICE

  by Rhonda Gibson

  Dedication

  To Aili Rae Gibson Tullis.

  I love you, Miss Bell.

  Chapter 1

  Summer 1860

  Form up!”

  The words snapped through the hot morning air. Sharper than a mule skinner’s whip, the order was picked up and echoed around the camp. Polly took her place beside the wa
gon.

  Mamadele had called the trip to Oregon a grand adventure. Polly frowned. Her grand adventure had turned into endless days of walking, choking on dirt from the wagons, and being lonely. Since she traveled with the Bentz family, she really wasn’t alone, but Polly was the outsider, just the midwife’s apprentice. Oh, Idella Bentz had never called her such, but Polly could see the worry in the soon-to-be mother’s eyes.

  At the end of each day, thanks to Mamadele’s journal and the sketch paper she’d brought, Polly found relief from the endless travel. The soothing sounds of the oxen, cattle, and horses also gave her comfort as she read or sketched in her small tent at night. Thanks to her little mule, Beulah, Polly was able to ride some days. When she was walking, Beulah gently pushed her from behind, often with Luke Bentz sitting on Polly’s hip. At first the men had protested the small mule being with her, but Mr. Bentz had put a stop to their grumbling. For that, Polly was thankful.

  According to Mr. Bentz, they should arrive at the new Fort Kearney by nightfall. Polly prayed it would be so. Her feet hurt and she was tired. If Idella didn’t need her so badly, Polly would have already turned around and ridden her little mule home.

  “Polly, would you mind carrying Luke for a while?”

  Polly stopped at the sound of Idella’s voice. Just last night she’d read Mamadele’s words: Be an even, stable influence, never cheery one day and morose the next. She forced her face to relax and smiled. Idella’s face was thin and pale beneath the blond bangs that escaped from under the stiff brim of her brown bonnet. She wasn’t that much older than Polly but already had one child and another on the way. That she was in discomfort was plain in her taut face and posture. “Of course. You shouldn’t be lugging him about.” She offered a smile to take the sting out of her words.

  “I know. But he’s restless, and I can’t continue to struggle with him in this heat up on the seat. I’m fearful he will fall under the wheels of the wagon like the Smith boy did last week.” Tears filled Idella’s tired eyes.

  Again the words from the journal filled Polly’s mind. Be reliable. Your patient must know you will be there fully when needed, so be faithful in the small things. She placed Luke on her hip and then reached with her free hand to pat Idella’s shoulder. “Don’t fret, Idella. I’ll watch Luke as if he were my own. Go back to the wagon and rest.”

  “Thank you, child.”

  Child. The term angered Polly and at the same time reminded her that she’d only recently turned seventeen.

  Idella waddled back to the wagon. Polly captured her lower lip between her teeth. Idella was larger than she should be at five months, and yesterday she’d confided that the baby seemed much more active than little Luke had been at this stage. Polly suspected that Idella carried more than one baby.

  The sick, hollow feeling she’d been fighting for days filled her stomach. Could she be a midwife without Mamadele to help her? Why had she agreed to continue on with the Bentzes to Oregon? What if Idella died in childbirth, like her own mother had? If she did die, what would happen to Luke and the baby—or babies—should they live? Would Mr. Bentz abandon his children, like her father had her?

  Polly took a deep breath. Her fate had been decided the moment Jerome Schmidt broke his leg and married her Mamadele. They’d sent her packing, never giving her the chance to think about what her new life would be like. Polly knew she was being unfair; it had been her own idea to continue on without them. Still, now, when she felt so alone, it was easy to blame them.

  She blinked to clear her vision and focused her attention on the last-minute rush of activity to block out the hurt and fears. Women and children hurried to finish packing their wagons, men finished checking the yokes on their oxen, and whips snaked over the backs of the teams that were already prepared. The line began forming.

  “Haw, Max! Haw, Ruby!”

  The command drew her gaze from the rest of the camp. Mr. Bentz walked alongside his oxen. They leaned into their yokes and moved forward. Idella waved from the bench as their wagon fell into line with the others. Luke waved back.

  Polly placed one foot in front of the other. After a little while the boy settled down and leaned his head on her shoulder. Within a few more minutes, he sucked his thumb and closed his eyes. Polly smiled, even though inside she felt like crying as dust and dirt coated their faces and her feet began to burn. Silently she prayed, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

  Gordon Baker stopped Rawhide at the edge of the knoll, rested his hands on the pommel, and studied the wagons rolling across the plain and toward the fort. The large mule under him brayed. He reached forward and patted her neck.

  “What do you think, ole girl? Is that the one?” He eyed the wagons as they circled up near the fort.

  The mule bobbed her head as if to say, “Sure, why not?” Gordon laughed. He closed his eyes and silently asked the Lord the same question. Deep in his soul he felt that familiar pull of direction. Yes, this was the correct wagon train. Gordon knew it was headed to Willamette Valley. He gently tapped Rawhide’s side and started down the small incline toward the fort.

  Halfway across the plain he noticed a woman with a little boy settled on her hip. A small mule butted her back, and a purple bonnet shaded her face from his view. Her shoulders were slumped, and looking at her posture, he was sure she would drop at any moment.

  He turned Rawhide and headed in her direction. When he came close enough, Gordon smiled and offered assistance. “Would you like some help, ma’am?”

  The little boy hung on her much like pictures he’d seen of monkeys hanging on to their mothers. The boy giggled and tried to scramble free.

  She raised her head. Tired hazel eyes looked up at him. A smile was painted on her full lips. She seemed much too young to have a child. “No, thank you. Luke’s mother will be here in just a moment and she’ll take him then.”

  Gordon enjoyed the silkiness of her honey-sweet voice and found himself offering more assistance. “What about your mule? Would you like some help with her?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The smoothness was now gone from her voice, and a sting much like a honeybee’s pierced through the silkiness, leaving no doubt she was annoyed. Gordon looked into her eyes. They no longer looked tired but hard and unrelenting. Her lips now were pulled into a thin line. “Then I will take my leave of you. Good day.”

  Gordon rode into the fort and sighed. It was too bad the woman’s disposition didn’t match her beauty.

  Chapter 2

  Gordon slid off the mule and turned it into the small fenced-in corral. He couldn’t get the hazel-eyed woman off his mind. Judge not, lest ye be judged, circled through his thoughts. His first impression had been one of a bitter woman, but what did he know about her? Nothing.

  Since they were going to be traveling with the same wagon train, he’d need to be more patient with her. After all, she was probably just tired from the long journey. The boy on her hip was a chubby little lad; toting him all the way from wherever their jumping-off point had been would certainly be wearisome for anyone. He made the decision to try harder not to judge others. Thank You, Lord, for reminding me to watch my thoughts about my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ.

  “Hey, Reverend!” A young boy ran up to him. “Did you see the new wagon train that just pulled in?”

  He ruffled the boy’s blond hair. “Sure did, Daniel.”

  Daniel climbed on the log fence and stood on the lowest log. “Think you might join up with them?”

  Gordon nodded. “I believe so, Daniel.” He rested his arms on the top rail and looked out at the mules.

  “Did the Lord tell you it was all right?”

  Gordon looked down at the ten-year-old boy. “Yes, He did.”

  “Did He say I can come with you?”

  Gordon had known the question was coming, and he really wanted to tell the boy yes. But the truth of the matter was God had been silent when he’d asked Him that very same question. “Not yet.”


  Daniel jumped down from the fence. He lifted sky-blue eyes and choked out, “I was hopin’ He’d let me come with you.” Shoulders slumped, he walked away.

  During his three-month stay at the fort, Daniel had become Gordon’s constant companion. The boy had shared his parents’ dream of going to Oregon and starting a farm. He’d told Gordon how they’d been swept away by one of the many rivers they had passed through. But it was the commander of the fort who told how one of the families had taken the boy in and then abandoned him when their train left the next morning.

  Gordon laid his forehead on his arms and prayed. “Lord, if it be Your will for me to take the boy with me, please supply a way.” He looked up to find the fort commander standing beside him.

  “So you’re leaving in the morning with the wagon train, huh?” The commander chewed on the end of an unlit cigar.

  “If they will have me.” Gordon pushed away from the fence and stood a little taller. He respected the man in front of him.

  The commander was an older man with a gray beard and eyes the color of coal. His uniform was always crisp and clean, but what impressed Gordon was the man’s esteem for his men. He never asked them to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself.

  “Will you be stopping by the hospital before you leave?” He chewed the cigar, and his eyes bored into Gordon’s.

  As far as Gordon knew, there were no sick men at the hospital right now. Had the wagon train brought in sick or injured folks? “I will if I’m needed.”

  “I asked Doc to make up a box of medical supplies for you to take along. If there is a doctor among the immigrants, you can give it to him. If not, you’ll have to use them to the best of your abilities.” The commander took the cigar from his mouth and tucked it into his front pocket. Then he extended his hand to Gordon.