The Healer's Daughter

by Charlotte Hinger

  “No,” Teddy said. His voice was solemn, his face dark in the shadows. “No, he’s right, Miss Bethany. We’ve got to have help. Too many people on short rations now. Been studying on that waking and dreaming and every other way. Can’t let the children starve. We done did ourself in when those men tried to hang Wade. He might have come through.”

  “And then again, he might not have,” she said quickly.

  “Well, one thing for sure. The food he promised ain’t here and ain’t never gonna be here.”

  “Teddy, we can’t start off begging. People will think we can’t take care of ourselves. That we don’t know how to plan.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, we can, and we would have if someone had told us the truth.”

  “Maybe we should have been smarter in checking out the truth. Truth is we got here too late to plant crops even if we’d of knowed how to plant them or what to plant or what it took to pound a hole in this miserable piece of earth.”

  “There’s got to be another way.”

  Miserably, she looked around at the faces illuminated by the fire and knew there wasn’t. They had to get more food for the community. For the children.

  “It’s just that I can’t stand to hear ‘dumb nigger’ one more time in my life.” She looked at Teddy, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down her face. “I know we’ve got to do this, but I just hate it.”

  Bethany huddled in her bed against the back wall of the dugout. Wrapped in every quilt she had managed to bring from Kentucky, she was still chilled to the bone. However, she was better off than most of the settlers. Only the people arriving with her in July had built decent dugouts. The ones coming in September had run out of time before the soul-freezing cold weather hit.

  They didn’t have the tools or the time to cut the tough sod, so they were reduced to hacking away at the sides of the hills until they had literally dug out wide, deep burrows for housing. Most had entryways covered with hides as there wasn’t finished lumber to make real doors.

  The community just barely completed the promised half-house, half-dugout structure for Carrie Williams before she gave birth to a fine son. A blessedly trouble-free birth. Bethany doubted she would be so lucky next time.

  The food shortage was bad enough, but fetching water was a miserable ordeal. The town was located far enough back from the Solomon to escape flood waters, but the walk with heavy buckets was exhausting.

  There were simply too many people coming all at once. Come spring, some of the families planned to get their own land instead of trying to live in town.

  The Browns had begged Bethany to live with them. “You family, girl. No point in staying by yourself.”

  “Oh, but there is,” she said. “I’m called away all hours of the night. I’m used to it, but you folks would be worn to a frazzle.”

  Her dugout was her very own place in the world. Hers alone. Giddy with joy, ignoring the dirt, the bugs, the bleak black walls, the dampness, she had made it as homelike as possible. She hacked off twigs from dead cottonwood branches and pounded them into the walls. Then she wove vines into cords, strung them between the sticks and draped her colorful quilts over them. Most quilts owned by former slaves were made of old tattered cloth, but Miss Nancy had let her draw from her finest silk scraps, so Bethany’s were vibrant with blues and reds and purples and yellow.

  On another length of vines, she had hung thatches of dried herbs and tiny cloth bundles of seeds, carefully labeled. There was a pleasant aroma from sage and orange blossoms.

  She used flat rocks to make four squat wide pillars to support a bed frame. She had bound four poles together with vines to make a stout rectangle, then wove a base from the long, tall grape vines she had found growing in a thicket along the Solomon.

  She was warm at night, sandwiched between layers of the feather beds she had brought with her. To her surprise, after the first snow, the dugout became warmer. The huge drifts provided extra insulation.

  In the daytime, she propped the bed against the wall and laid a board across two of the rock pillars, which served both as an eating table and a work table.

  Most of the people still cooked outside. But some had dug a shallow trench in the bare ground inside their dugout. It was usually just two feet long and wide enough to set a skillet on. While it worked well enough, Bethany worried about effects of the smoke during the winter when the houses were all closed up.

  Although she’d hated to part with the money, Bethany had bought a stove from one of the September families who went back to Kentucky. It was one of three in the whole community. Now she gave thanks that she had done so. The flames visible through the gleaming nickel grate always soothed her.

  She had started rabbit stew early in the morning and added a handful of the wild onions she had gathered and strung up on the wall to dry. They were one of the few plants she recognized and knew were safe to eat. If there were people who needed doctoring that day, she would take food with her.

  She smiled. This poor hole in the world was a far cry from the cabin of her daydreams. In the corner were stacks of buffalo chips for fuel and a whole pile of hay cats—twisted hanks of grass and straw—that provided quick, hot fuel. They burned quickly, but some mornings they were just right to take the chill off the room.

  The stovepipe jutting out of the ground provided fresh air. She had tied a jaunty strip of red cloth around it. It warned travelers to stay away from the roof of the only home she had ever had in her entire life. It also served to thwart birds and animals, who stayed away from the flapping cloth.

  Burrowing deep in her blankets, she began to hum. This was the only time in her life she had had the luxury of total rest. When she was a slave, she worked constantly. Other people always told her what to do from one moment to the next. Here in Kansas, no one cared.

  The colonists had pooled all their food. The scant amount delivered by Wade to get back his horses and buggy wasn’t even enough to keep a fourth of them alive. Thankfully, Tripp and Harrington had left for aid before the blizzard hit.

  Wind-driven snow was covering the ground with high, treacherous drifts. She felt like a woolly bear hibernating for the winter. She burrowed deeper and slept again. There were no windows. It was difficult to keep track of time. She didn’t mind. Sleep was still a heavenly luxury. She dozed off.

  A fierce clanging on the stovepipe jarred her awake. It was followed by a muffled voice. “You there, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she hollered.

  “I’m coming in after you. You’re needed. A woman is having a baby.”

  “I can’t get out.” When she had tried to push the door open that morning, it was blocked by the snow.

  “I can see that. I’ll dig you out.”

  She got out of bed, quickly combed her long hair, and twisted it into a bun. She stuffed a supply of herbs into her cloth satchel. She grabbed her cloak and wrapped it tightly around her body.

  No one in the community was close to having a baby. It had to be someone passing through. She waited for the man to clear the drift. Just as she was shoving from the inside, he gave an enormous tug, and she fell across the threshold at his feet.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  She looked up and up and up at a huge man, dark as a panther, with the most powerful shoulders she had ever seen. His broad features were set off by a close crop of kinky hair. His powerful thighs strained against his homespun pants. He took her hand and silently helped her stand up.

  “My name’s Jim Black. You Bethany Herbert?”

  She just had time to nod a quick reply before he tugged her to the waiting horse. The wind howled, and the snow blew around them in blinding swirls.

  He swung into the saddle, then reached down and picked her up as though she were a feather and settled her behind him. Sheltered by his broad back, Bethany drew a painfully cold breath as they headed out across the prairie.

  She peered around the man when the horse began to slow. Ahead was a covered w
agon, nearly invisible through the snow. It was drawn by a team of work horses, their heads drooping. Statuesque, as though they were frozen in place.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Please, God, no. Let her be alive.” Clearly the horses could not move. The wagon was icing over.

  Jim Black reined up, dismounted, and carried Bethany to the wagon before she could point out that she could walk on her own two feet. He practically shoved her through the opening. She drew a sharp breath, then turned and looked at him, her eyes huge with accusation.

  A white woman.

  Even though she had assisted at many white births, the consequences of things going awry were terrifying. Tight lipped, she reached for the woman’s hand. Then her heart plummeted to her stomach.

  The woman was much too cold, but her eyes fluttered open. Bethany gave her hand a little squeeze. “I’ll take good care of you, ma’am,” she said.

  The woman gave a little moan of despair and then was wracked by a strong contraction. She held Bethany’s hands in a death grip.

  “Leave this wagon for a bit,” Bethany said curtly to Jim Black. The minute his feet hit the ground, she pulled up the woman’s dress. If birth was imminent, they were doomed.

  The woman was not fully dilated. There would be a little time. Several hours, maybe. Time enough to get her back to Bethany’s dugout. But that was impossible. They couldn’t use the wagon. It would take hours now to dig it out. The woman could not bear to ride back on Black’s horse, either by sidesaddle or astraddle. Bethany could not risk bringing on bleeding or speeding up labor. Yet she had to warm this woman and calm her down.

  There were no children around. If this were the woman’s first child, Bethany could count on the birth taking a bit longer. Time enough to get them back to her dugout? But how?

  Desperately, Bethany looked around. She saw several boards turned on their long edge, wedged against the side of the wagon.

  “Mr. Black,” she hollered. “I need your help to loosen this board.”

  He climbed back inside. They tugged it away from the bundles of tools packed against it.

  “I need you to fetch several lines of the harness from the horses. Let’s strap her to this board and get her back to my dugout.”

  Black nodded, then threw the board out onto the snow. He grabbed a hammer and some nails from inside the wagon and pounded them into one of the short ends of the board. He removed a harness strap from the team and attached the leather to the board.

  “We don’t have time to do this right,” Bethany said. Her teeth chattered from fright and from the cold. “We’re going to lay her flat and rig up something for her to hang onto so she won’t fall off. I’ll hand you the harness after you get back on the horse, and I’ll guide the back end.”

  Jim Black scooped up the woman, and they placed her on the makeshift sled. “We have to stay on top of the snow,” he said. “Or it won’t pull right.”

  Bethany turned to the woman and patted her hand. “Ma’am, just hold on. That’s all we ask. We’re going to get you to where it’s warm and I have room to work.”

  “Her name is Suzanne,” Jim said.

  “Miss Suzanne,” said Bethany. “Just hold on. I’m less than a mile from here.”

  “Best you ride,” Jim said, shaking his head. “I’ll keep her steady.”

  He helped Bethany climb into the saddle. She pivoted around and reached for the ends of the leather strips fastened to the nails. They set off, pushing slowly into the swirling clouds of snow.

  The horse shied, and the board started to tip and edge down before they had even gone a hundred feet.

  “Wait,” she called. “It’s not going to work. Her blanket keeps falling open. She can’t hold it shut and keep hold of the straps at the same time. Let’s trade places. I’m no rider, and this horse is used to you.”

  Black lifted her down. She handed him the reins and ran to the back of the board. “Can you see where to go? Can you make out the way?”

  “Yes,” he hollered. “I can see where we broke through when we come to the wagon. But I’ll go back for more straps to put on back so you can pull up on the bottom. I can hold the front straps up with one hand.”

  The big man lunged through the snow and quickly returned with more harness and the hammer. Suzanne groaned as he pounded nails into the far short end and attached the leather lines. He looped extra lines of harness over the saddle horn.

  The woman’s face was pale and waxy. Frightened, Bethany felt for the pulse in her throat. It was weak.

  “Help me lift her,” she said. Jim cradled Suzanne against his chest. Bethany whipped off her own cloak and placed it on the sled. Then she used the end of one of the nails to rip a four-inch width from the bottom of her skirt. She quickly tore off the strip of worn material and used the binding to strap the cloak around Suzanne’s body.

  “You gonna freeze yourself now,” Jim said. He took off his own thin coat and handed it to Bethany. She accepted it, knowing he would fare better in the relentless wind than she would.

  Bethany lifted the back of the board. Jim twisted in the saddle and, grasping the front straps, raised the front end. When they set off, with Jim awkwardly keeping an eye on the faint trail in front and the women behind him, the makeshift slid skimmed on top of the snow instead of veering from side to side or sinking.

  Bethany only went about fifteen feet before she had to reposition herself. The wind was like a deadly wall, and her breath came in short, icy bursts.

  Jim reined up abruptly. “Let’s shift places,” he yelled.

  “I can’t ride,” she hollered. “Never had to.”

  He didn’t bother to reply, just scooped her up onto the saddle and gave her the reins. Bethany did not have the strength to hold up the front end of the sled and guide the horse. Jim removed the extra lengths of harness from the saddle horn. He quickly retied all the lines, shortening the length of the front ones so that the horse bore the weight. Then he took Bethany’s place behind the board.

  She spurred the horse, knowing they would go faster now if she could figure out what to do quickly. With each foot they gained, she gave thanks for anything and everything she could think of. She gave thanks that it was afternoon, and they had daylight to work with. She gave thanks for the stove keeping her dugout warm. She gave thanks for the bright little red flag that had shown Jim Black the way. She gave thanks for her quick mind and the willing hands of this man who could see at once what needed to be done.

  The horse stopped and shuddered. “We’re nearly there,” Jim said, pointing in the distance.

  When they reached the dugout, Jim lifted the woman from the sled and carried her inside.

  “Here,” said Bethany tersely, pointing to her bed in the corner. She pulled back the quilts and spread a thin sheet on top of the feather mattress. Jim laid Suzanne on top. Bethany covered her, then went to the stove and added hay cats for a quick blaze under her largest kettle. She moved the stew toward the back.

  She studied the little cloth sacks hanging from the various lengths of twine on the wall. She untied the one labeled arnica Montana from the main length. It would help stop bleeding if Suzanne had complications. But even in Kentucky it was hard to come by. Other arnica plants that looked a lot like this were deadly poison. Would she recognize the right ones on the prairie?

  She absolutely had to find plants to control bleeding. She could resort to reciting Ezekiel 16:6, but she wasn’t that kind of a healer. It wasn’t the way she’d been taught. She lacked the sure belief it took to lay on hands. She knew all the right words: “When I passed you by and saw you squirming in your blood, I said to you while you were in your blood, ‘Live!’ I said to you while you were in your blood, ‘Live!’ ”

  The words didn’t work for her. She knew healing women that could stop bleeding cold by just saying that Bible verse three times, but she couldn’t.

  Her throat tightened. There were only a few sacks of herbs hanging on the wall. When her precious supply of laudanum ran
out, she had no idea how to replace it.

  She lifted the woman’s head and gave her a sip of hot tea. Then she poured some hot water into a pan and began to wash Suzanne’s face and rub her arms and legs. She would do the best she could for this poor, thin, little blond-headed waif. She went to the crate in the corner of the dugout and took out a long, white gown.

  “I’ll need to wash her down and try to warm her up,” she said to Jim.

  He nodded, glad to have a woman in charge. “I’ll step outside.”

  “No need. You’ll be too cold. Just turn your head.”

  “I don’t mind, ma’am,” he said with a small smile. “I don’t mind at all.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  Bethany slid Suzanne’s dress over her head, then covered her again with the blanket. Her lids fluttered open.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. Oh, thank God.”

  “You’ll be fine, Miss Suzanne. See, I even know your name. I’ve delivered many a baby, and you’re doing just fine.” Bethany eased the white gown on over her head. “Right now, we need to get a little food in your stomach. I have some good stew.”

  She went to the stove and ladled some stew into a tin cup. She wanted to brew a separate tea of willow bark to help this woman with her pain but hesitated. It was a bad choice if Suzanne was a bleeder.

  Bethany lifted Suzanne’s head off the pillow and let her have sips of the hot liquid. “No meat, just yet,” she said. “I’m just going to give you a bit of broth at first.”

  Suzanne nodded and sipped the hot broth. Then as her body warmed, she eagerly reached for the cup.

  “Slow, now,” said Bethany. “Take your time swallowing. Then try to sleep for a little while. What is your last name, Miss Suzanne?”

  Suzanne looked at her blankly as though totally bewildered by the question. She started to cry. “I was Missus Mercer. Am I still Missus Mercer? Or Miss. I don’t know what I’m supposed to call myself now.”

  “ ‘Was’ Mercer?”

  “We were going to Denver. My husband was going to start a lumber business.” Suzanne’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head as she bit her lip. “He died. He just died about a week ago. What am I supposed to call myself when my husband’s dead?”