The Long Night
Chapter Seven
Ash Hollow
Mile 504
Brenna Flannigan lifted the bucket of water she had drawn from the cool spring nearby and poured some into the pan. The trip down Windlass Hill that morning had been strenuous. All the travelers had helped each other and used ropes to prevent the wagons from barreling downhill. The glade where they were camped was beautiful and abundant with wild roses and ash trees. Mrs. Mueller watched Brenna carefully, her shoulders stooped, and her gray head bent.
“Just a bit more water, dear,” she said in German-accented English.
Brenna dutifully poured another cup into the pan. She was helping Mrs. Mueller with the mid-day meal. She first met Mrs. Mueller when the Mueller wagon had been moved up from the back of the line to a position behind the Flannigans’ wagon. Mrs. Mueller’s son John, a pastor from Ohio, was with her. His wife Greta had died a few weeks ago, an early victim of cholera, and the captain had moved them forward when Brenna, with the permission of her parents, had volunteered to help them. Mrs. Mueller was a small elderly woman who, as Brenna noticed, bore a strong resemblance to Brenna’s grandmother who had died in Ireland. The resemblance was uncanny, especially her eyes, which were always smiling. Even when her grandmother had been too sick to get out of bed, she would smile at Brenna, and her blue eyes would twinkle as she would take Brenna’s hands and say, “Your destiny is in the stars, a gra’.”
Brenna had been born Christmas night in 1835—doubly lucky as her grandmother loved to tell her.
“It’s good luck to be born at night as you have the gift of seeing spirits and the Good People. And being born on Christmas is also good fortune.”
Her grandmother had seen a shooting star shortly before Brenna was born.
“That was a sign that your life will be remarkable.”
Any time Brenna was blessed with fortune or happiness, her grandmother told her it was because she was special. Brenna came to believe she was special, and she believed that if she saw the Good People, they would bring her wealth. But she hadn’t seen the Good People yet, and she hadn’t seen any spirits, even though she was always on the lookout. Sometimes she felt her grandmother’s presence watching over her and protecting her.
Her grandmother was always telling her stories of the Good People.
“Some call them the Little People or the fairies, but that’s bad luck,” her grandmother warned.
It was also bad luck to put shoes on a chair or place a bed facing the door. And one should never bring lilacs into the house or cut one’s fingernails on a Sunday. Oh, there were so many admonishments, and Brenna was careful to always keep them in mind. But as lucky as she was supposed to be, she wasn’t able to keep her grandmother from dying, even though she had spent hours on her knees praying. No, her grandmother had died, and Brenna blamed herself. She hadn’t been good enough or lucky enough to save her, and she had cried bitterly for many weeks after. Her parents and the parish priest had tried to console her, but nothing had helped.
“Don’t let that tea steep much longer, dear. John doesn’t like it too strong.” Mrs. Mueller’s heavy German accent was fun to listen to.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brenna poured hot tea into tin cups and gave one to Mrs. Mueller, who carefully measured a teaspoon of sugar into it.
“Go and tell John that lunch is ready, dear.” Brenna looked about and saw Reverend Mueller leading one of the oxen back from the river. He was short and slight, and had no facial hair. His dark chin-length hair was always tucked behind his ears, giving him an almost feminine look. She walked up to meet him as he guided the large animal back to the wagon.
“Reverend Mueller, Mrs. Mueller sent me to fetch you for lunch.” John Mueller smiled gratefully at Brenna.
“Thank you, Brenna, you’ve been such a great help to us. Since my wife Greta died, my mother has had a hard go of it.” His voice was soft and deep—surprising for such a small man.
“‘Tis my pleasure to help, Reverend,” Brenna replied shyly. This man of God was a bit of a curiosity. Not a priest, but like a priest. He held Saturday evening prayer meetings for any who cared to attend, and his simple and generous nature and quiet piety had attracted many followers. Brenna’s parents, sorely missing the community of worshippers from the crowded borough of New York City, were among the attendees. As the days and weeks passed, sickness and tragedy had touched everyone in the wagon train, and the travelers increasingly turned to prayer for strength and guidance.
Two days ago, one of the scouts got sick with cholera. The wagon train, already behind schedule, had left the man on the side of the trail with a “watcher” who would stay with him the short hours he would live and then quickly bury him. Brenna had seen this happen more than once, and she grieved for the poor souls who didn’t even have a marker for their graves. They had passed other graves on the trail, and one was so shallow that wild animals had dug up the body and left the bones lying about. Someone from their group had taken the time to bury the remains.
Brenna handed Reverend Mueller his lunch and tea. Lunch consisted of breakfast leftovers of biscuits and bacon.
“Will you share this with me?” John asked.
“No, thank you, Reverend, I’ve already had my lunch.” Brenna always ate with her family. She knew every wagon was carefully rationing their food. She wanted to help the Muellers—not be a burden to them.
“She never eats our food,” Mrs. Mueller said, “even though we have plenty now that Greta is gone.” Her voice caught as she said this, and John looked at his mother sadly and sighed.
“It’s true, Brenna. You know you’re always welcome.” Brenna smiled at him as she busied herself cleaning up the campsite. It was a hot day, but Mrs. Mueller still wore a heavy shawl over her dirndl. She had lost weight over the past weeks, and Brenna was worried about her. Still, in spite of everything, Mrs. Mueller’s blue eyes twinkled merrily each time she saw Brenna, and she usually had a story from the old country to entertain her. As Brenna finished up the dishes, Mrs. Mueller asked, “Have you ever heard the tale called ‘Little Red-Cap’?”
“Nay, I have never heard the tale. Will you tell it to me?”
The minutes slipped by as Brenna sat transfixed, listening to the story of a little girl who had walked to her sick grandmother’s house in the wood with a basket of food, only to find a wolf there who had eaten her grandmother, dressed in her grandmother’s clothes, and was waiting in her grandmother’s bed for little Red-Cap to arrive. Then the evil wolf had swallowed her! Luckily, a huntsman happened by and cut the wolf open, and the little girl and her grandmother sprang out! They then filled the wolf’s body with heavy stones, killing him. Brenna’s eyes were wide as Mrs. Mueller finished the story, dissolving into giggles.
“That’s a good story, not?”
“Yes, I’ll have to tell it to Conor and the Bensons. They always want to hear the new stories you tell me.”
“Well, I have a lot more to tell. You know, I went to school with Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm in Kassel in the old country. They’re the ones who wrote all the stories I tell you. They collected stories from everywhere and they wrote them down. I have one of their books. Those boys made a name for themselves!”
Later that night as Brenna lay in her blankets unable to sleep, she thought about Mrs. Mueller as a young girl in school with the Grimm brothers. She imagined them playing by the Fulda River that flowed through the little town of Kassel. Mrs. Mueller had described Kassel in vivid detail, and Brenna loved picturing it. She finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of meandering rivers, wolves, and little girls in red velvet caps.
The next day, the weather changed. The morning was foggy and cool, and traveling was pleasant, but by mid-morning, what had started as a fine mist had developed into a steady drizzle. Everyone was exhausted after maneuvering down the steep grade of Ash Hollow. They were camped at the bottom next to a cool spring for the mid-day meal. Mrs. Mueller was uncharacteristically quiet duri
ng the break. Brenna thought that maybe she hadn’t slept well and left her to her thoughts.
By the time the wagons circled to make camp for the night, everyone was wet through to the skin. Brenna spent longer than usual at her chores before going to the Mueller wagon. When she finally did, Reverend Mueller told her that his mother was in the wagon and hadn’t been feeling well. Brenna tried not to look alarmed as she went to the Mueller wagon and climbed up. The small space John had made for his mother to rest was empty. Brenna climbed out of the wagon and found the reverend attending to the oxen. The drizzle was steady, and her hair was stuck to her head. Her clothes dripped water and hung from her slender frame.
“She’s not in the wagon, Reverend. Where could she have gone?”
John looked instantly alarmed and ran to the wagon in disbelief. “She was here when we made camp,” he said. “We’ve got to find her. She’s not well! Go and ask people if they’ve seen her. I’m going to look by the river. Maybe she went for water.” But even as he said it, they both saw the water bucket hanging from the wagon.
Brenna ran from wagon to wagon asking everyone if they had seen Mrs. Mueller, but no one had. Everyone was busy trying to get chores done and dinner made in the steady drizzle. The evening was getting grayer, and so were Brenna’s hopes. Where could the little woman have gone?
Brenna’s search had taken her away from the camp, and now the voices were barely audible. The drizzle had mostly stopped, but the mist was rolling in from the river, and visibility was poor.
“Mrs. Mueller!” Brenna called over and over as she wandered farther from camp. Where could she be? Brenna wondered. I have to find her! The sound of a wolf howling a ways off startled her. She stopped, shivering in the cool damp air, remembering the evil wolf from the story of Little Red Cap. Then she shook her head, realizing that the h owl was probably a coyote, not a wolf. Brenna strained her eyes, trying to make out what was ahead of her. A form materialized briefly, insubstantial in the mist. Brenna squinted trying to make it out and softly called, “Mrs. Mueller?” She felt the hair on her arms and on the back of her head rise. Her grandmother had said she was able to see spirits. Was that a spirit she had just seen? Surely Mrs. Mueller would have answered her. Brenna moved forward slowly towards where the vision had been.
“Mrs. Mueller? It’s me, Brenna.” She could barely get out the words. The mist moved over her, engulfing her in its damp clutches. The coyote called again, mournfully. There! A vague form drifted ahead, tendrils of hair swirling about a gray face. The mist cleared momentarily, and Brenna felt a scream in her throat.
“Grandmother!” Yes, she could see spirits! There was her grandmother, just ahead. In the next instant, she realized it wasn’t her grandmother. It was Mrs. Mueller! Brenna ran to the old woman. Mrs. Mueller was chilled to the bone and seemed unaware of Brenna’s presence. She shivered violently, but her skin was hot when Brenna put her arm around her shoulders.
“Come on, Mrs. Mueller. Let’s get you back to the wagon and into some dry clothes.” The mist had lifted enough for Brenna to find their way back, and John Mueller met them when they were almost to the camp.
“Thank God you found her! Mother, where were you going?” he asked. Mrs. Mueller didn’t respond, and Brenna looked anxiously at the reverend.
“She’s feverish,” she said. They hurried to the wagon, and Brenna helped the old woman change into dry clothes while John heated water for hot tea. Brenna kept up a steady stream of conversation, but Mrs. Mueller didn’t respond. She didn’t even seem to recognize Brenna.
News spread through the camp, and many people stopped by to see how Mrs. Mueller was doing. Everyone was nervous about cholera. Brenna’s parents were worried too, but Mrs. Mueller didn’t have the symptoms of cholera. Ruth Benson and James Cardell decided that she had caught a chill and the resulting fever was very debilitating to her weakened condition. A quick consultation determined that she should be given a drop of aconite in a bit of water every hour for six hours—no more, no less. Aconite would be effective in reducing the fever, but if taken in larger doses it could be fatal. As they were discussing who would administer the medicine, Reverend Mueller spoke up.
“I’ll give her the medicine.”
“You can’t stay up all night, John. You’ll be no use in the morning. You need to get your rest,” Thomas Benson said. The wagon train would not stop or slow down for sickness. Captain Wyatt kept everyone on schedule no matter what happened.
Brenna looked around at the concerned faces. “I want to stay with her,” she said quietly.
“Brenna, you’ll have to stay awake all night. You’re already exhausted. We’ll all take turns,” Kate suggested, glancing around at the others for confirmation.
“No! I want to take care of her. I can do it, Ma.” The strong set of her jaw convinced the others that it would be futile to argue. Ruth Benson took the aconite tincture from her medicine bag and showed Brenna how to mix the drug. Then she gave Mrs. Mueller the first dose and watched her swallow the medicine weakly. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her body shuddered with the chills.
“Keep her warm, and in one hour give her the next dose, and then four more doses, one each hour, after that.”
Thomas Benson gave Brenna a pocket watch, and Brenna opened it and watched the second hand slowly tick away the seconds.
“It’s very important not to give her the next dose too early,” Ruth admonished.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Benson. I’ll take care of her.” As the others returned to their wagons and settled in for the night, Brenna got comfortable in the wagon with Mrs. Mueller, but not too comfortable—she didn’t want to risk falling asleep. Reverend Mueller looked at his mother. His face showed worry.
“You’re a godsend for doing this, Brenna. I won’t forget it.”
“My grandmother had a saying. She used to tell me that people live in one another’s shelter. I want to take care of her.” Brenna took Mrs. Mueller’s hand gently. “She’s going to be all right, Reverend Mueller. Go to bed. I’ll be right here.”
A look of relief passed over the reverend’s face. He bowed his head and said a quiet prayer for his mother’s quick recovery. Brenna bowed her head too, and together they said, “Amen.”
“Please call me if there’s any change.” He slipped into the darkness, and Brenna was alone in the quiet with Mrs. Mueller. A single candle illuminated the dark interior of the wagon. Brenna looked at the old woman’s face. It looked pinched and strained, and Brenna dipped a cloth into some cool water and bathed it gently.
“There, now, that should feel a wee bit better.” The truth was that Brenna was very worried. Mrs. Mueller was so small and frail. How would she weather this storm? Brenna’s thoughts went back to Ireland and to her grandmother. Brenna had been a young girl when her grandmother had passed away, but she remembered that night as if it was yesterday. It was a night much like tonight.
The day had been dreary, but it had cleared and the night was chilly. Her grandmother had been suffering from a fever for three days. There had been no medicine except for Godfrey’s Cordial, a children’s medicine, but the laudanum in it, an opium tincture, made her grandmother rest a little easier. Brenna was the only one awake when her grandmother passed. She had gone to bed while her grandmother seemed to be resting, but she couldn’t sleep. After a while, she crept over to where her grandmother lay in her narrow bed. Her eyes were open and she was looking out a small window at the stars. She turned her head when she heard Brenna. Her eyes were unusually bright as she looked at her granddaughter.
“Do you know that I saw a shooting star the night you were born?” Brenna nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “That’s a sure sign, a gra’. You have always been special to me, and I know you will make a difference in the lives of others.” She took Brenna’s hand and squeezed it feebly. Then she closed her eyes. Brenna sat with her grandmother until the small hours of the morning and she was holding her hand when her grandmother took her last breath.
>
Tears stung her eyes as she remembered her grandmother’s words. She looked down at the small form of Mrs. Mueller. If only she could make a difference here, but the tiny woman was pale and unresponsive.
“Have I ever told you the stories of the Good People?” Brenna asked the old woman. Mrs. Mueller’s chest rose and fell under the blanket. “Well, let me tell you about them. They can be very tricky, and it’s best to always be on your guard.” Mrs. Mueller’s body shivered, but otherwise made no acknowledgment. “And did you know that they are angels? Well, not the best of the angels, but not as guilty as some.” Brenna spent the next half hour telling the tales of the Good People and recounting true stories of people she knew who had had encounters with the wee folk.
“I have it on good authority that I shall meet them some day, and when I do, I can ask them for some of their gold. If I don’t let them out of my sight, they will lead me to it. Then I will be rich for the rest of my days!” She imagined she saw a slight smile on Mrs. Mueller’s face.
Brenna opened the pocket watch and checked the time. She then dutifully administered the next dose of aconite. Mrs. Mueller swallowed it but didn’t open her eyes.
Brenna looked around at the contents of the wagon. Everything was organized and carefully put up. She noticed a leather folder open to a daguerreotype of a handsome young woman with light hair sitting in a stuffed chair. The woman wore a stylish hat and dress. This must be Greta, she thought. She saw a well-worn book entitled Kinder-und Hausmarchen by the Brothers Grimm and took it from the shelf. She opened it to the table of contents and looked at the list of stories—eighty-six total, but she couldn’t read the German text. She entertained herself for the rest of the hour by looking at the illustrations throughout the book. Soon she saw an illustration of a little girl wearing a cap and talking to a very large wolf. This must be the Little Red Cap story, she thought. A noise outside the wagon caught her attention, and she looked up to see her father peering in.
Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 Page 6
