The mule’s tail swatted at flies and tiny bugs, and the animal occasionally looked back toward me, though I knew he couldn’t see me with the blinders on. I’d “gee” and “haw” him to turn right or left, and we’d jerk forward. Sometimes I sprawled in the earth as he’d skip ahead before I was ready; sometimes I’d fall into the furrow and have to shove the plow off of my leg, then sweat and ache to get it upright again. My left wrist still gave me sharp pains when I tried to lift or twist with it too much, a remembrance of our Andy’s birth.
The soil beside the river was rich and dark, and the plow turned over deep chunks of dirt within the furrows. I’d sink down nearly to my knees at times. I’d pulled the wrapper up between my legs and tucked it into my apron’s belt so I wouldn’t trip on the hem. The dress was threadbare, though I washed it only once a week, grateful that the breezes dried it through the night.
By June we’d returned the mule, and I’d broadcast the seed. I convinced my husband we were sending it out the way Christians and Muslims of old must have done it. If all went well, we’d have a crop by fall, and the gristmill stones Christian’s parents were bringing would grind our own wheat first.
The men slept out under the stars now as they worked on huts yet farther away from the original Giesy claims. Christian and I slept again in a lean-to so we could see the moon as it slivered through the tree tops. We spoke of our own growing family and how pleased his parents would be when they arrived, knowing that at last their firstborn son had made them grandparents and would soon do so again. It was almost like being in Bethel.
“When will you begin our home?” I asked one noon while I fed Christian hard biscuits and a jerky stew with mushrooms and wapato chopped in. The field I’d plowed was on the Giesy claim he’d singled out for his parents and brother. I would have plowed “our” fields, but the seven miles between the sites made that difficult. There were two river crossings needed to reach our claim even riding the mule, something I didn’t relish with Andy, the mule, and a plow to manage too.
“Time enough to build ours,” he said. “There’ll be more hands here by October, and we’ll build ours then. Not before.”
“Can we go back so I can see where our hut might sit? I like to imagine what it will look like and what the view through the windows might be.”
“Women,” he snorted. “What does the view matter?”
“Each window offers something special; each woman’s home will be different from the others, individual. I like thinking of how we’ll place things there. Besides, we take little time for imagining, for doing anything except work. This can’t be good, not in a land that is as flashy as a feather cape.”
Christian dipped the hard biscuit into the stew, sucked on it. “Why is it so important for you to stand out? Perhaps we should consider building one large house for several families. That way there’ll be no argument about who got the best site, whose house is bigger or better. It borders on envy to want such things.”
I knew our leader thought envy to be one of the deadliest of sins. Now my husband swirled my opinions into our leader’s stream, combining desire with sin rather than with imagination. I wished I’d kept my thoughts to myself. Living in one large family house forever did not seem like a wise idea to me. Envy wouldn’t be the only deadly sin that would ripple the surface of that river if that were to be my fate.
“The other side of envy is … compassion,” I told him. “Being aware of what others need.”
“Ja,” he said after a moment’s thought.
“I simply wish to be the wife of Proverbs 31,” I continued. “She bought fields, burned a late candle on behalf of her family, and was praised for clothing her household with scarlet and having coverings of tapestry and her clothes made of silk and purple. Her children sang her praises and so did her husband.”
“Proverbs 31 also says, ‘Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.’ ” He could always silence me with his better understanding of Scripture. He continued. “I worry that at times you seek favor from the wrong places, Emma. Favor is deceitful.”
I felt my face grow warm despite the cooling breeze. Should I simply suffer in silence or should I speak a piece? I took a deep breath.
“This place is rich with beautiful flowers, with trees that tower so high I get dizzy looking up at their tops reaching to the sky. Game is plentiful for food and skins, and even the river that I give wide berth to, even it offers up those things we need: fish and a way to get from here to there when the vines tangle our paths. I can’t believe such abundance is meant not to be noticed. You sing the praises of the timber and the soil that will grow grain that we’ll grind and sell to others, people living on Puget Sound, people coming here because of this land’s rich resources. I can’t believe I was created to pretend I don’t notice that these gifts are wrapped in a landscape of loveliness.”
“Ja, you notice. But then you start to compare, to put your own mark on the landscape by saying, ‘Here is my view. It is prettier than your view.’ Or ‘Here is my house. Even the pegs are sturdier than yours’ or ‘My door is wider’ or … Ach.” He brushed the air in disgust. “It is dumb talk you make. We are called to live together, one as the other, no one standing out. We have come here to prepare a way for others. We will be as one, brothers and sisters together.”
“Chosen,” I said. “Does God not pick us out then, see us as special? How can recognizing what makes us different be sinful?”
“He chooses us to serve Him,” Christian said.
I could hear the irritation in his voice and knew I should stay quiet, bite my tongue, pitch the thoughts of what I’d say next and would likely later regret. But it was not my way to remain silent, not my way to be like other community women, and I couldn’t help but believe that Christian knew that of me and had “chosen” me because of it.
“So some are not selected. How do we know? How do I know if I’m of the elect if I don’t name the things that make me stand apart from … unbelievers, from those not chosen?”
“Those selected for His service have trials,” he said. “Remember Moses. Remember Mary and Jacob and Ruth. They all found trouble as a part of their decisions to be obedient.”
“But see, they stand out, those men and women of the Bible, and we don’t think unkindly of them,” I said.
He coughed. “They weren’t selected for their talents, nor for the best of anything they made nor for the most exquisite view nor for gathering the most people around themselves. They were and are unique, Liebchen, because of what they lived through, because of how their faith deepened by the things they faced and overcame. Our Lord reminds us that we do not choose Him, but He chooses us. He’s chosen us to follow Him here to Willapa to be in service to Him. And when the others arrive, they too will see that we are all chosen to be together.”
I wanted to believe that this place was specifically meant for us, but I didn’t want to be “chosen” for the trials I had to face. We’d had our share of them already, with the weeks of dreary weather, heavy rains, and dark skies that stole our energy like maple sap taken from its tree.
“The Lord uses trials to turn people around, Emma.”
“I wonder, then,” I ventured, “if He wants us to leave here, since progress has been so slow on the huts. Maybe it’s His way of turning us around?”
Christian stared at me.
I remembered what our leader told me, about women needing to support their husbands, that suffering in childbirth was our penance for disobedience and betrayal. “Maybe we’ve taken a side road and are here in Willapa not to serve God but to serve our leader. Maybe that’s why things have gone so slowly.” My heart pounded. It was the most direct I’d been with Christian in challenging his thinking.
“We have lessons to learn from this time, Emma. Remember, all the scouts chose this place. All agreed as we have worked: agreed on which huts to build, even when to wait out the weather. We even agreed on who should
go back to bring out the other Bethelites and how they should return. We discuss, and then the Lord moves us toward His way.”
He swirled the water of our uncertainty now, convincing me where I’d earlier encouraged him. I supposed that is what marriage looks like, that exchange of hope between people who love.
“Liebchen, whenever you doubt that we belong in this place, you make yourself think of those early signs of certainty. They are memories that not only comfort but help move us ever forward.”
“As when I stumble behind the mule in the field.”
“Ja.” His voice had softened. “You don’t question whether you should be behind that plow. You pick yourself up and keep going. That is what we faithful Germans know to do.”
24
Natural Wealth
“Emma, bring the corn drink,” Christian shouted to me.
“Can it wait?”
“No,” he said. “Bring it now.”
I had enough to do at the river, washing the men’s shirts. I’d spent the day chopping at weeds in the grain field, a lost cause. Fall approached, and I wondered if we’d even have a crop given the strength of the weeds and the short stems. And I hadn’t seen Charlie the seagull all morning, and Andy kept asking, “Charlie? Charlie?”
My husband’s words annoyed. Why bother me when I worked, making me pull the rope on the corn drink to bring it to the men? Surely they could get it themselves. I pushed against my knees and stood. That’s when I noticed we had company.
The men arrived with furtive eyes, silent as snails. They were Americans, they said. They spoke only English but told us that from now on, we should only speak our German so if the Indians approached they’d think we were French or British, anything but American. They’d come through the eastern part of the Territory and told stories of the Yakima tribe’s uprising. “Dozens of other tribes are angry with the wagons pulling across the mountains and taking their lands. Government won’t protect us. You’d best use what resources you’ve got to secure your people. Your strange language. That’s a weapon here.”
“Is it just in the western territories?” Hans asked. “Not a problem in the prairie places, then?” I knew he thought of the Bethelites making their way from Missouri.
“Everywhere.” The American took a swallow, letting the corn drink pour down like streams separating his thick beard. He wiped his face with his palm. “You folks got people coming across?” I nodded. “Worry for ’em,” he said. “Unless they act like foreigners, French or Germans or whatevers, they’ll arrive without their hair if they arrive at all.”
The men quenched their thirsts, then informed us of the failed treaty negotiations in this Washington Territory, as it was called now, and the government’s plan to get all the tribes to sign a new treaty that would place all Indians on land set aside for them. Reservations. “Even the Shoalwaters of this country resist. I guess cuz they weren’t named specific and given their own place.” Only the Nez Perce remained calm, they told us. “But don’t worry; they’ll war against Americans too. The Cayuse have already joined up. What horrors they heaped on those poor Whitmans. Don’t have to wonder what atrocities they’re capable of.”
I frowned. I hadn’t heard of the Whitmans’ trouble. I’d have to ask Sarah to see what she knew of them, but for now I could only imagine the trials being experienced by our colony heading west. What if they were attacked? What if they never arrived? Maybe it was good that my parents and brother weren’t coming west, but Christian’s brothers were, and Mary and Sebastian would be making their way.
The Yakima, the men told us in hurried conversation over a campfire, had killed a miner making his way from Puget Sound across the northern part of the Territory into Colville country. “Took all his gold,” they said. “Slaughtered him up and down. Then more Americans were found dead. Never Frenchies or Brits,” the men complained. “Watch your backs, you Germans, living out here close to Nisqually and those Hudson’s Bay folks. Those Brits don’t want others coming here either, messing up their trading. They’ll get those Indians riled as they did back in New York years ago.” He patted his sidearm. “Be ready to shoot first.”
I remembered the Chehalis men who gave us the elk hide door, who’d roofed our very house. I’d seen a few Shoalwater people at Woodards’ who seemed friendly enough. In my halting English I suggested as much, but the Americans cut me off. No woman would have sway with them, I guessed, especially one who spoke with any kindness toward the natives. The men sat on mats of cedar bark that Indian women had shown me how to make. Cedar capes made from the pattern of a gift lay stacked ready for winter’s use. Surely these were peaceful people, even those charged with warring.
The Americans hitched a ride on the mail boat heading out from Woodard’s Landing toward the sea. At the Bay they planned to catch a ship back to the States, and if we were smart we’d do the same, they told us. Those were the last things they said before parting.
“Are you worried?” I asked Christian that night. A spider tickled a slender strand across my arm, and I brushed at it.
“Only about the colony. Here, we’re safe enough,” he said.
But something in the night must have caused Christian to reconsider the men’s words. He told Hans and Adam that he’d head to Woodards’ to see if any letters had arrived from the colony. I asked to go along, but he refused. “You’ll be safer here,” he said, so I knew something troubled him. Signs of autumn appeared in the foliage. Geese already flew south. While my pregnancy had been fine so far, my wrapper had to be extended farther than before, and when I walked, I floated like a boat shifting from side to side. I’d miss seeing Sarah, but today staying behind didn’t bother. Christian pushed the small boat with a sail into the water. He’d bought it on account. I didn’t mind not being on the Willapa, but I did miss my husband that night.
When he returned in the morning, he came with news that would change our direction. He said an agent named Bolen, sent to investigate the miner’s murder, had been killed by Indians too. The Shoalwaters had been left out of the treaty and were using their hatchets and guns to protest. An outraged Governor Stevens called the Indians defiant and ordered the military to shoot to kill. Added to this, several of the plains-area Indians said they’d seen enough of wagons coming across their lands and wanted no part of this proposed federal treaty. That angered the governor even more so that he called for war against all Indians.
My palms grew wet as I wondered how our leader’s wagon train fared.
“They’ll come this way, too,” Christian said. “We’re on their land, even though we’ve gained it fair and square from the government. But it won’t be ours if we can’t hold it against an uprising.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have claimed it,” I said.
He ignored me.
I thought about the words our leader said to us, that we would go west to find a place where the world could not encroach upon us, where we could take care of our own without harm to others and be able to give back in return. Give back on our terms. But there was no place like that.
“We’ll build a blockhouse to defend ourselves,” Christian told us. “We have no one here to protect us except us, except the work of our hands.”
“It’ll delay the hut-building even further,” Adam complained.
“Ja. But protection for the larger body will be necessary once they arrive. We must fortify now.” Christian put his little finger into his ear, thinking as he scratched it. “Maybe we were meant to do this now, to better prepare for the time when all will end.”
He hadn’t spoken much about the last days, not since we’d arrived. I didn’t like talking about it now, but I did notice that when he did, when Christian asked us to think about our own possible deaths, that the scouts appeared more encouraged rather than fearful. They worked with greater enthusiasm. They questioned his decisions less. I wondered if that was something Wilhelm understood, that we follow a leader more faithfully when we’re reminded of encroaching death.
/> As though to prove me right, we woke with urgency. Christian said we’d build the stockade wall on top of the hill of the Giesy claim, near where we’d first built our completed log house. No one disagreed. Christian and Hans and Adam cut logs fifteen feet long while I dug at the trench as I could. After the others joined me, we dug the trench three feet deep in an area around the house and then wider—to encompass another house Christian said we’d need to build as soon as we finished the stockade.
I rubbed tallow onto my hands to counter the blisters, thinking how nice it would be when the others arrived with amenities we hadn’t had for so long. My lanolin and lemon were long used up. My hands were rough as cedar bark and nearly as red. Ach! I chided myself for longing for small bits of luxury in the midst of preparing a safe place for others.
Andy found all the activity joyous, climbing down into the trench and walking his way along it, his towhead like a dandelion floating on a sea of dirt.
“Keep him out of there,” Christian shouted to me. “The sides could cave in, and we don’t know where he is when we bring the logs to stand.”
I pulled him up and then found myself accomplishing no work at all until he slept, for he headed for the trench each time I loosed his hand. I wondered why it is we are pulled to that which is dangerous, to places we should best leave alone. As I watched Andy return time after time to the trench, then look back to see if I would catch him before he jumped in, I wondered about this challenging nature we were born with and what kind of God kept calling us back when we were wayward so often.
On September 12, 1855, we heard voices and the sounds of animals crashing through the timber. Christian shouted, “To the stockade!” and ran toward me. I grabbed Andy and scooped him into my arms, lumbering like an old boat. The stockade remained unfinished, but at least there were three sides completed. My heart pounded. The sounds couldn’t come from the Bethel group. It was too early. We didn’t expect them until late October, maybe even in November. We mustn’t panic. Perhaps another group of Americans headed toward the Bay to leave this territory behind. I’d think it was that, hoped only good would soon charge through that brush.
A Clearing in the Wild Page 25
