“I am leaving now.” Eli kept his voice to a mere whisper. “Keep the fire going—I broke up another dead limb last night, so you have plenty of fuel. And remember what I said. Take good care of your mother and brother.”
As Eli disappeared into the shadows, Henrik assumed Eli’s place by the fire and fed twigs to the flames. He yawned frequently, fighting the urge to lie down again. Eli would never know. But if he lay down, the fire would die. He knew they must preserve the matches, so instead of sleeping, he kept the fire going.
Ma rose with the sun, and she wakened Joseph to care for the chickens. While Joseph gave the chickens their feed, Henrik hobbled the oxen’s legs and led them to the grassy area near the creek to eat. By the time the animals had eaten their fill, Ma had breakfast ready. Henrik eagerly took his plate of fried eggs and salt pork.
Ma looked at him, one fine eyebrow higher than the other. “Would you bless our food, Henrik?”
Father—and then Eli—had always prayed for their meals. Self-consciousness attacked Henrik, and his face grew hot. He spluttered something nonsensical.
Ma quirked her lips into a half grin. “It is all right, son. I will pray.” She lowered her head and offered a simple blessing.
For Henrik, the food didn’t go down easily, despite Ma’s fine cooking and the musical accompaniment of birds in the brambles near the small creek. Why hadn’t he been able to offer a blessing for the meal? It wasn’t as if he never prayed . . . although he realized with a shock he couldn’t remember praying since they’d left Gnadenfeld. Had he left God behind on the steppes of Russia?
When they finished eating, Ma sent Henrik and Joseph to the creek for a bath. Henrik resisted leaving Ma alone in the camp, but she shooed him off, telling him she would be fine with the clucks and the oxen. Henrik bathed as quickly as possible and returned to camp with his clothes sticking to his damp body. Ma was waiting, scissors in hand.
“Let us make ourselves presentable for our new land.” She gave first Henrik and then Joseph a haircut. Henrik knew they needed it—Joseph’s hair curled well over his ears, and Henrik’s was so long it tickled his neck. Even though little hairs worked their way beneath his shirt to prick him, it felt good to have close-cropped hair once more.
After his haircut, Joseph crawled into the wagon to read, and Ma took out some mending. She sat on the ground, leaned against the wagon wheel, and ran the needle in and out, slowly closing the hole in one of Joseph’s socks. Henrik paced the ground around the wagon, watching the road leading to and away from their camp. If anyone approached, he would fetch the rifle and be ready.
By midmorning three wagons had passed by, but none had stopped, and Henrik’s short night was catching up with him. He yawned repeatedly, shaking his head to battle sleepiness. How did Eli manage on so little rest?
Ma, watching him, let out a soft laugh. She put her stitching aside and crossed to him, placing her hand on his crossed forearms. “Come and sit, Henrik. You’ll wear out the soles of your boots with your marching to and fro.”
“Eli told me to keep guard, so . . . I am.”
Ma clicked her tongue against her teeth. Her thin, lined cheeks didn’t match the girlish sparkle in her eyes. “Even guards occasionally sit. Come. Have a cup of coffee and relax.” She glanced at the sun. “Surely Eli will be back soon with the developer and we will be on our way.”
Although Henrik kept his eyes on the road, he followed Ma to the fire and sat, accepting a cup of rich coffee. He sipped the hot brew, sweat breaking out across his back. It tasted good, and he took another sip.
“Are you . . . happy we will soon reach our land, Henrik?”
Henrik set the tin cup on his knee and toyed with the curved handle. No, happiness did not lift his heart when he thought of establishing a home on the prairie. Over their days of travel, the endless view of rolling plains covered in tall grass had brought no rush of eagerness to claim a portion. This dream of owning land in America was Father’s and Eli’s, not his.
A verse from Philippians—one his father had taught him when he was young—floated through his mind: Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. Had the author of the Scripture been forced to set aside his deepest dreams to fulfill someone else’s calling?
“I will be glad to be in one place” was Henrik’s careful answer.
Mother’s sad eyes met his. “My son, you will become a teacher one day. Eli has promised me that he will see to it.”
Henrik nodded, but he wondered if Eli would keep that promise. Especially now, when he was still so angry about Henrik’s misbehavior. Henrik stared into the yellow flames. The licking tongue consuming the dry wood became an image of the sun overhead consuming him—melting away his hopes and dreams. His stomach churned with a swirl of mixed emotions.
“Son?”
He looked up.
“What happened between you and Eli?”
Henrik sucked in a breath. Of course Ma would know something had happened. Eli had been edgy ever since that night, not even speaking cheerfully with Joseph or Ma. Henrik’s mind raced for an explanation that would be truthful yet spare the ugliest details. He couldn’t confess his recklessness to Ma and lose even more of her confidence.
“Henrik?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but a puff of dust down the road captured his attention. Someone was coming. Tossing the coffee into the dry grass, he rose and peered toward town. A one-horse buggy, with two men on its leather seat, approached camp.
Henrik straightened his shoulders. “Here is Eli.”
17
Eli stood on quivering legs and surveyed the area by inches. His pulse tripped hard and fast. His land . . . “Do you see, Lillian? Is it not fine?”
Lillian stood, tipping forward to peer from beneath the bonnet of the wagon. Both boys leaned over the seat, looking, too.
Eli aimed a wide grin at the boys. “This is where we will build our farm.”
For as far as the eye could see, grass waved like a rolling sea. Tall grass, thick, telling Eli the ground would be well suited to growing wheat. A band of wind-twisted trees marked one edge of the claim, and a trickling creek—a branch of the Arkansas River, the developer said—served as a barrier on the opposite side of their property. Water, trees, good fertile soil . . . and a wife and sons with whom to share it. For what more could a man ask?
Seated in the buggy in front of them, the developer, Herr Wiens, turned to face backward. He snatched his hat from his balding head and smiled at them over the top of his folded-down leather bonnet. “What think you of the land, Herr Bornholdt?”
Eli replied in the same cultured German the man used. “Pleased I am with our purchase, Herr Wiens. The land is all you promised it to be.”
The man nodded. His scalp, shiny with sweat, glowed in the late-afternoon sun. “Since it meets with your approval, I will return to Newton. I wish you folks well.” Facing forward once more, he tugged his brown bowler low on his forehead and picked up the reins. “Hee-yaw!” His horse heaved against the rigging, and the buggy turned a neat circle. Herr Wiens offered a parting wave.
Lillian and Joseph answered with waves of their own, but Henrik kept his hands curled over the back of the seat. He met Eli’s gaze. “How far from a town are we out here?”
Eli shrugged, although he knew the answer. Herr Wiens had graciously drawn a rough map of the area, showing Newton to the south, King City to the west, Creswell to the east, and McPherson Town to the northwest. The larger communities of Newton and McPherson Town were farthest away, but both had railroad stations he could use to transport his wheat after harvest next spring.
“Where will we get supplies when they are needed?”
At Henrik’s question, Lillian’s face pursed with worry.
Eli rushed to assure her. “We are within a half day’s distance of two towns where supplies can be purchased. No cause for worry— our needs will be met.” Eli turned his head right to lef
t, taking in the landscape once more. “On this wundascheen land, our needs will surely be met.”
He clapped his hands once. “Nä-jo, let us get out of this wagon and plant our feet on the ground. Then we will have a prayer of thankfulness to God for bringing us safely to our home.” Although he spoke in a cheerful tone, pain pierced his heart. Reinhardt and Jakob had not been delivered safely to this land. He would forever carry a hole where his foster brother and nephew had been, yet it would be wrong not to show appreciation to God.
Lillian must have had a similar thought, because her chin crumpled briefly, her brow creasing into a series of furrows. But as quickly as the pain-filled expression formed, it cleared, and a soft smile curved her lips. “That is a fine idea, Eli. Come, boys.”
Eli helped Lillian down and Joseph scrambled out the back, but Henrik remained as if nailed to the wagon bed. Joseph stepped next to his mother and looked up at Henrik. “Henrik, are you coming?”
With a sigh, Henrik hopped over the seat and joined them. They stood in a circle. Grass swallowed them to their hips. Their shadows stretched across the thick grass as if laying claim to the land. Eli clasped his hands beneath his chin and closed his eyes. Words poured from the depth of his soul—words of gratitude and praise for the gift of land, the gift of freedom, the gift of family. Eli laid every heartfelt statement at the feet of his Father’s throne and then closed the prayer with a humble plea. “And, our dear Lord, may we live together in such a way that we bring glory to You in our home and on this land. In Your Son’s most precious name I pray, Amen.”
He opened his eyes to find Lillian wiping a tear from her cheek. She offered a tremulous smile that sent a shaft of warmth straight through the center of his chest. He answered with a broad smile and threw his arms wide.
“Nä-jo, family, there is much to be done before the sun sets! Let us get to work.”
Henrik made good use of a sickle to clear an area to serve as a campsite while Joseph and Eli removed the bonnet and bows from the wagon. They used the wood and canvas to put up a tent that Lillian and the boys could share. Eli intended to sleep outside, where he could stare at the sky and count the stars that hovered over his land. Had he ever done such a whimsical thing in Gnadenfeld? He didn’t think so. He paused in his work, pondering why this piece of Kansas land meant so much. And the answer came quickly: Because this land he shared with a wife and sons.
In Gnadenfeld he had been alone, longing for family. Now his desire had been granted. Not in the way he would have wanted, but yet, the longing had been fulfilled. His feet would not be the only ones to tromp the ground, his hands the only ones to dig in the dirt. No longer would he lie listening to his own heartbeat in his ears. From this day forward he would hear the sounds of voices and laughter and, perhaps, at times, weeping. But never again would he be alone.
Eli drew in a big breath of Kansas air, his chest expanding until he could hold no more. Then he let it out in an audible whoosh.
Joseph grinned at him, the expression impish. “It smells different here. Good, jo?”
“Jo. Sea goot.”
Joseph laughed, and Eli joined him, finding pleasure in their joined laughter. Then he put his hands back to work.
By dusk the area was well organized with the wagon bed empty and their supplies stacked neatly at one end of the tent. There was little room left for pallets beneath the tent roof, but Lillian claimed she would merely place her mattress on top of the trunks, just as she had inside the wagon.
She served a supper of beans, pork, and poor man’s fare: a thick mush made of cornmeal. Herr Wiens had given them a fifty-pound bag of cornmeal, claiming that here on the plains it was a common provision. Eli ate it after dousing it with a serving of beans, but he wasn’t convinced he wanted to grow accustomed to American food if cornmeal was a mainstay. He’d rather eat Bobbat made with flour from his own hearty wheat.
After supper, Henrik reached for the plates, but Lillian pulled them back. “Nä, son, we are no longer on the trail. We are home. And at home, dishwashing is my chore.” She peeked at Eli, as if seeking his approval.
He found himself unable to offer so much as a nod. Her words, “we are home,” resonated in his heart. Oh, Lord, thank You that Lillian’s heart and mine are joined in claiming this land as home.
Lillian watched Eli lift the chunk of sod over his head. Muscles bulged beneath his sweat-soaked shirt. She released a breath of relief when he heaved the block into place. Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he turned and caught her looking. A grin immediately formed behind his beard.
“So, Lillian, you thought I would drop it on my head? That would be entertaining for you, I am sure.”
Over the past week, Eli’s gently teasing nature had reappeared. The stern man of the last few days on the trail had departed, and Lillian discovered she enjoyed the presence of the smiling, lighthearted Eli. She only wished Henrik would follow Eli’s example and set aside his surly manner.
“I would find very little amusement in all that dirt on your head and clothes. I do the washing, you know.”
His chuckle brought a lift to her heart.
“But,” she continued, tapping her chin with one finger, “that wall seems high enough now. We won’t bump our heads, anyway. And the sooner you put a roof over the walls, the sooner we can move in.”
Eli had chosen to structure their first home of sod. They had seen many such homes while traveling from Topeka to Newton. The thick grasses held the soil together, making it possible to cut sizable blocks. The blocks stacked neatly, and a splash of water served as mortar. With Henrik’s help, Eli had put up walls to form two side-by-side sod houses: one twelve feet square and the other eight feet square, both with doorways facing the east. The larger one he claimed was for her and the boys, the smaller for himself.
Hard-packed dirt would serve as the floor, and there would be no windows, but the dwellings were intended to be temporary. Lillian was pleased she wouldn’t need to reside for long in the house built of dirt blocks. Even the larger one would be cramped with three people living within its meager space, but somehow she and the boys could manage until after the first crop was harvested and Eli would have the means to build a real house of wood.
Eli stood with his hands on his hips, examining the rough structure. “The roof will be trickiest.” He paused for a moment to nibble his dry lower lip. “I have Henrik and Joseph scouting for branches long enough to stretch all the way across from one wall to the other. The branches must be light enough not to crumble the top of the wall, yet sturdy enough to hold a layer of sod.”
“You will put sod on top, too?”
Eli’s hair bounced on his forehead as he nodded. He needed a haircut, but Lillian felt shy about suggesting it. “Jo, or when rains come, the wet will come through the roof. Branches alone will not hold the rains at bay.”
Lillian lifted her apron to clear perspiration from her face. “I wish trees were not so scarce. I miss having shade trees.” Seeds from the kruschkje tree in Gnadenfeld waited in a little pouch in the bottom of her trunk to be planted next spring. But it would take years for one of those seeds to grow a tree large enough to provide shade . . . or pears.
Eli’s eyes held sympathy. “I know. These trees are so wind-bent, they remind me of little old men. We must use the wood from the trees wisely. But at least we are not without a means of fuel. Between the buffalo chips and the grasses, we will be able to fuel your oven and, later, the fireplace I build into your sod house.”
Eli’s resourcefulness amazed Lillian. Before starting the houses, he had constructed an outdoor Spoaheat so she could bake. Instead of mud bricks, which Reinhardt had used in Gnadenfeld, Eli took clay from the creek bank to form the oven. She assumed he would use clay for the fireplace, too. She didn’t know where he had learned such practices, but she was grateful. Reinhardt had been wise in asking Eli to accompany them to America.
As always, thoughts of Reinhardt made her chest twist in agony. But she deliberately pu
shed the pain aside. Focusing on the past would benefit no one. She must look ahead. And ahead was a roof so she could sleep surrounded by walls rather than between the flapping folds of a canvas tent.
“Nä-jo, I will fetch you a drink of water and then let you return to work.”
His laughter followed her as she lifted the empty bucket and headed for the creek. “Jo, Lillian, you need not hint. I will finish this wall so I can get busy on the roof.”
When Lillian turned from the creek to return to their building site, she stopped for a moment to admire all Eli and the boys had accomplished in six short days. In addition to the clay oven and the two sod houses awaiting roofs, a makeshift fence constructed of stacked sod posts and stripped branches provided an enclosure for the oxen. Using two of the bows from the wagon and a roll of chicken wire purchased in Newton, Eli had built a sturdy chicken coop four times the size of the crate the chickens had called home on their journey from Topeka. The crate rested on its side within the enclosure, providing a simple shelter for the clucks.
The sickle’s blade had required sharpening twice already, but the area around the sod houses, including a large patch for a garden, was neatly cleared, with the grass stacked into sheaves to dry. Eli planned to show the boys how to twist the long, thick blades into fat “logs” that she could use in her oven in place of buffalo chips.
As soon as the houses were completed, Eli intended to start clearing the fields to receive his red wheat kernels, but first he must travel to McPherson Town or Newton to purchase a plow. The journey would take most of a day and he would go to town alone, he had already warned her. His cheery whistle reached her ears, and she realized she would miss having him near on the day he chose to complete that errand.
The bucket’s weight on her arm reminded her she had been standing in one spot for too long. With a little jerk, she started her feet in motion. She moved cautiously, careful to avoid sloshing water over the rim—she mustn’t be wasteful. Carrying water from the creek that ran a quarter mile from the sod houses was her least favorite chore. Eli had promised to dig a well before the ground froze, and she would welcome that convenience. When she passed the tent, she retrieved a dipper, dropped it into the bucket, and then carried it to the sod house, where Eli thumped the final sod square into place.
Fields of Grace Page 13
