Her question, direct and blunt, brought a grimace to Thomas’s lips, but he was an honest man. “In all candor, Faith, I do think there’s some doubt of Carl’s call to this work.”
“I see.” Faith sat there, her mind whirling, but she made an effort to suppress the apprehension rising in her. “Why have you waited so long to speak about this? We’re getting married tomorrow, and we have our train tickets for the trip.”
“We have had several interviews with Carl, as is customary with all our volunteers. Over the past few months, as a matter of fact, I have talked with him myself several times.”
“I didn’t know that!”
“He didn’t tell you?” Thomas lifted his eyebrows, obviously surprised. “But he has spoken to you of his doubts, I’m sure.”
Faith blinked, taken off guard by the question. “Why—in some ways I’m sure we all feel some doubt. It’s such a big step, and Carl feels a little inadequate. I feel the same way,” she said, lifting her head with a touch of defiance. But even as she spoke, she was thinking back, remembering how Carl had shown more uncertainty as the time to leave grew near.
Reverend Thomas let the silence run on, reading Faith’s thoughts. He was genuinely fond of the young woman, but he never felt as certain of Carl Vandiver’s commitment as he would have liked. He wished to do nothing to hurt Faith, yet he knew that the worst tragedy of all would be for the young couple to get on the field, and then discover that they could not handle the problem.
At that point, Mrs. Jamison and Susan entered with tea and a pound cake, so Reverend Thomas departed, saying only, “I’ll be available if you and Carl wish to speak with me this evening.” He hesitated, then added, “There are many ways to serve the Lord, Faith. Even Paul had to change his plans more than once. Perhaps you two would find it possible to serve the cause of the gospel here in the East. At any rate, talk it over with Carl.”
“Yes, I’ll do that—but we must go to the Indians.” Here Reverend Thomas was aware of another of the paradoxes in the young woman—which consisted of a soft gentleness that was backed by a stubborn determination. Her lower lip lost its softness, growing firm, and her back grew straighter as she looked at him.
“Yes—well, we’ll pray about it, of course—”
After the door closed behind him, Faith stood in the middle of the room, unconscious of the sound of the voices of her mother and Susan humming in the next room. The grandfather clock ticked solemnly, then the half-hour note struck, sending a brassy signal throughout the house. It seemed to touch her, for she blinked, then turned and walked in to join the two women.
“Mother, I’m going out for a little while,” she announced.
Mrs. Jamison looked up with surprise. “Going out? Where to?”
“I have to see Carl.”
Susan started slightly, for she saw that Faith was disturbed. “Would you like me to go with you?”
“No, thank you, Susan.” With this brief word she put on a coat and left the house.
“She’s upset, isn’t she?” Susan said. “It must have been something Reverend Thomas said.”
Mrs. Jamison was staring at the door, her eyes troubled. She had a long, sobering thought, but said only, “I suppose she’s just anxious about the ceremony. She’ll be fine when it’s over.”
****
As Faith stepped off the streetcar, she was so lost in thought that the harsh clanging of the bell startled her. She blinked her eyes, then moved along the tree-lined street, which was flanked by rows of large two-story brownstone houses. Dusk was falling and the sunset dropping behind the artificial horizon of expensive homes was a deep scarlet.
The Vandiver house was on the corner, occupying a double lot, so that the structure itself was not crowded, but bordered by a garden with a black iron fence surrounding it. Unconsciously Faith ran her hand across the tips of the blunt spear-like spikes of the uprights, then turned and moved up the walk. She climbed the steps mechanically, gave the heavy brass knocker a series of three raps, then stood back to wait.
For two hours she had walked the streets, not seeing much of the neighborhoods she passed through, for her mind was occupied with what Reverend Thomas had told her. She was a highly imaginative young woman, and sometimes given to letting herself probe at things, going beyond spoken words into possibilities. All the while she had walked the streets, she had pulled up memories of her times with Carl, the times they had talked about going to the Indians with the gospel. And slowly it had come to her that she had always been the instigator of those talks. Carl had been interested in the West, but then most people were. The papers were full of stories about the cavalry and its never-ending battles with the tribes; and novel after novel had flowed from the press, dealing with the “noble savage,” as the Indians were called.
But now she was beginning to realize that all the excitement about going to the Indians, of organizing a mission and sharing Jesus with them, had been carried along by her enthusiasm. Carl had listened, a smile on his face, calling her his “fiery evangelist,” but he had not shown the same fervor.
He’s just not as vocal as I am about things, Faith told herself. When he gets there, it will be different.
The door opened, and Opal, Mrs. Vandiver’s maid, smiled at her. “Why, Miss Jamison! Come in—I didn’t know you were coming here.”
“Hello, Opal,” Faith said, feeling awkward and a little foolish. “Is Mrs. Vandiver at home?”
“Oh, I’m sorry she’s not!” Opal said. “She and Mr. Van-diver went out to dinner. But Mr. Carl is here. You come into the parlor and I’ll get him.”
Faith followed the maid to the parlor, then stood there, her nervousness growing as she waited. When Carl entered the room, a look of surprise on his face, she felt even more foolish. “Why, Faith,” he smiled, coming to take her hands. “Is something wrong?” He was a slight man, below average height and small boned. He had a smooth, pale face, with a mustache over rather thin lips, and his eyes were a flat blue.
“Oh no,” Faith said hurriedly. “I—just wanted to see you.”
He took her hands and raised them to his lips. “Isn’t that supposed to be bad luck or something? I mean, the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the ceremony, is he?”
Faith shook her head. “That’s just on the day of the wedding.”
“Good. Do come and sit down. May I get you some tea?”
“No, thank you, Carl.” She sat down and began to speak of some aspect of the ceremony, all the while wondering how to approach the real subject. He was a thoughtful man, not given to outbursts of passionate expression; but many times she had wished that he were more demonstrative. Being a strong woman and perhaps even self-willed, she had longed for a husband who would be strong enough to help her overcome those traits. Though she had never admitted it, Carl had been a disappointment to her in that area, but she had thought that, too, would change when they were married.
Finally, a streak of impatience with her own thoughts rose in her, and she said, “Carl, Reverend Thomas came by to see me this afternoon.”
“Oh? Something about the ceremony?”
“No. He was disturbed about something rather serious.” Faith bit her lower lip nervously, then shook her shoulders. “He implied that the committee isn’t fully convinced you’re qualified for work among the Indians. I told him, of course, that was nonsense.”
Vandiver straightened as she spoke, and she saw that the statement had struck him forcibly. Thinking that he was angry, she ran on quickly, “It’s foolish, isn’t it? But we can go to them—or just to Reverend Thomas. He said we could call on him tonight if we wished. Then you can give him some assurance that we’ll both be fine on the field.”
Faith leaned forward, waiting for him to answer, but he seemed to be silenced by her words. Finally he licked his lips, then said, “Faith, I wish it were that simple.”
“Why, it is simple, Carl! You just haven’t been aggressive enough when talking to the committee!”
<
br /> “No, I’m afraid it’s more than that.” Vandiver lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’m afraid, my dear, that Thomas is right.” He saw Faith open her mouth to protest and held up his hand, saying quickly, “Hear me out, Faith.” He got up and began to pace back and forth.
Faith noted his face, tense and flushed, and she knew what he was about to say would not be pleasant.
“I love you very much,” he said, coming back to sit beside her. Taking her hand, he shook his head, adding, “Make no mistake about that. I want to marry you. I think you love me, too, so we can have a good marriage. And we can serve God in a great way—”
When Carl broke off, Faith stared at him, then perceived what he was leaving unsaid. “But not among the Indians, is that what you’re trying to tell me, Carl?”
“I—I’m afraid it is,” he said quietly. He was not a man who could handle bad scenes easily, preferring to let them slide away. But he knew this was one time he couldn’t avoid it, so he went on as steadily as he could.
“You’ve felt the call of God to go to the Indians very strongly. But I’ve not felt it. Oh, I know I’ve gone along with it—but I see now that I was intrigued by the romance of the thing—going west among the cowboys and the soldiers. But if you’ll think back, Faith, you’ll remember that never did I show any real certainty that God was moving in that direction with my life.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt that way?”
He avoided her eyes, alarmed by the pain in her voice. “Why, I was certain that God would give me that sort of call. If He’d given you a call, and if we were to be married—it seemed that all I had to do was wait, and I’d know it was right.” He hesitated, then added, “But it hasn’t worked that way, and I believe my other thought was the right one.”
“What other thought?”
“That you—and I—were not hearing God correctly.” He allowed a pleading note to touch his voice, and spoke more quickly. “We can serve God in many ways, Faith. If I became a leader in our denomination, with you beside me, we could do so much! Why, we could raise enough money to send a hundred missionaries to the West! Don’t you see that?”
But if he had thought to win her by this strategy, he was not successful, for her voice was brittle as she said, “God didn’t call me to raise money, Carl. He’s calling me to give my life to those who don’t know Jesus.”
Carl tried for a long time to reason with her, protesting that he loved her and they would be happy. But Faith said almost nothing, except when she rose to leave.
She faced him squarely and asked, “Carl, are you saying that you are not going to the mission?”
He swallowed, but nodded. “It would be a tragedy, Faith. I want to serve God, but I’m convinced that I can do more by staying here.”
She took off her engagement ring and extended it. He gasped, “But, Faith—we can’t call the wedding off! I love you—and it’s all arranged!”
Faith smiled wryly. “Goodbye, Carl. I wish you well. But I must obey God.”
She turned and walked out into the dusky night. Only a thin scarlet line of the sun’s last light remained. As she headed down the street, the line faded, leaving the streets dark, with only the orange dots of the streetlamps to give illumination.
She felt totally empty and spent, the future blank—a dark pathway without even a glimmer of light. The click of her heels against the pavement sent dull echoes through the air as she made her way along the row of brownstones. Then the hot tears began to stream down her cheeks. Almost fiercely, she wiped them away with the back of her hand, pulled her shoulders back, and looked up into the ebony sky. “I’ll go wherever you want me to go, God,” she whispered, “but please don’t ever leave me!”
She waited. The heavens seemed silent. Then something inside her began to grow, driving out the pain and fear that had engulfed her. All hesitancy was gone. And as she continued on toward home, the cloud of heaviness lifted and Faith knew she would never be alone again.
CHAPTER SIX
Trip to Fort Lincoln
The wood-burning train with its five passenger coaches made its way steadily across the desert’s empty horizon, a gusty wind boiling against the car sides. The air scouring down the aisle laid its raw edge on the passengers. The locomotive was cracking at forty miles an hour through a condensed night. The tracks beneath the car chattered a little, and Faith felt the sudden bite of a curve. She stared out into the blackness until the sky broke with the faint light of dawn. The train paused briefly at an obscure station, the lights inside the small building making a yellow reflection on the handful of passengers, their faces obscure as they stumbled off the train.
Later as the morning light filled the car, Faith’s eyes turned to trace the faces of her fellow passengers. Several were soldiers, all privates except one—a tall lieutenant, who kept himself aloof from the rough banter of the others. He gave Faith a careful look, then turned his attention to the horizon. The other travelers were women—one of them obviously the wife of a thickset man wearing overalls and the mother of the three small children she tried to restrain from running up and down the aisle. The other woman was about Faith’s age, she judged. Her face was hard and her manners forward, smiling boldly at the soldiers, one of them responding by sitting beside her. The conductor came down the aisle, gazed disapprovingly at the couple, but said nothing.
One man dressed in buckskin caught Faith’s eye. He sat alone, his face hidden behind a bushy beard, and once when a band of antelope rushed up from a coulee, he threw open his window, yanked a rifle from the rack over his head and pumped seven quick shots toward the herd, then slammed the window down again.
Faith expected the conductor to protest, but he only grinned at the man. “You’d better shoot straighter than that, Buck, or the Piutes will lift your hair!” He moved on down the aisle to the next car, and when he opened the door, the wind, now losing its chill, and the loud, rhythmic sound of the wheels clacking over the joints of the rails swept through the car.
Later the sun rose higher, and as the car warmed up, men popped the windows open, allowing not only a rush of air but a constant haze of fine cinders to settle on everything, including the passengers. Faith struggled with her window, but it was jammed. The lieutenant uncoiled his long body and came to her aid. “Allow me to help you, miss,” he said, taking a firm hold on the window handles and yanking it with such force that it struck the top with a thud.
“Thank you,” Faith murmured, then asked, “Are you going to Fort Lincoln?”
“Not this trip,” he answered. “Is that where you’re headed?”
“Yes. To work in a mission for the Indians.”
He seemed to find that amusing and drawled, “Well, I hope you convert the whole Sioux nation.” His lips curved in a sardonic grin, and he moved back to his seat.
Later the conductor started a fire in the iron stove at one end of the car and made a huge pot of black coffee. The car grew thick with cigarette smoke. Good thing some of this will be sucked out the open windows, Faith thought. She got to her feet and made her way to the small toilet, timidly aware of the eyes following her. When she emerged, she got a cup from the stack provided. The bottom was ringed with a dark brown stain, so she rinsed the cup with some water from the water can, then held it out to the conductor for the coffee. When she was again seated, she took a sip and grimaced at the strong brew—strong enough to float a track bolt, she decided. But she sipped it slowly as she watched the country unroll across the prairie.
Throughout the long day, she got off only once, when the train made a short stop at a small town. She bought a sack lunch sold by a one-legged man in a Civil War uniform, then walked around until boarding the train again. The ride was monotonous, and she found herself dozing from time to time.
She read a little from the small Bible she carried in her purse, but the motion of the train made that difficult. From time to time her thoughts returned to her last days in St. Louis—which had been quite unpleasant.
<
br /> Carl had been gentle—at first—but finally had grown bitter. “You’re not being sensible, Faith!” he had said, his cheeks flushed with irritation. “If you loved me, you’d stay here. A wife is supposed to be with her husband.”
“I’m not your wife,” she’d replied, “and I must do what God has called me to do.”
Everyone, including her family, agreed she was making a terrible mistake. The mission board felt the same, and it was apparent they were not going to support her. “A single woman can’t go to the mission field, Miss Jamison,” the chairman insisted. “It’s a world of men, and you’d be without protection.”
But to Faith’s surprise, Reverend Thomas had come to her rescue. He’d talked with her several times, and at the final meeting of the board had simply overpowered the rest of the members—including the chairman. “God has called Miss Jamison to take His gospel to the savages,” he’d said firmly. “I am convinced of it, and it will not do for our board to fight against God!”
So she had packed her clothing, her books, the small supply of tracts, and had ignored all pleas to remain. It had been difficult, especially parting from her mother, and Faith was able to leave her only because she would be going to live with Faith’s brother, Sherman, in Hannibal. He and his wife and three children had been begging her to move there. She would be happy, Faith knew, for the love they all had for one another was beautiful. So, secure in that knowledge, Faith said goodbye without regrets.
Throughout the long afternoon she dozed off and on until the conductor tapped her on the shoulder. “Curtisville, miss. Time to get off.”
The train ground to a halt, and Faith stepped off. To her surprise, the town had no shape. It was simply a cluster of six or seven buildings scattered on the prairie at the eastern edge of Dakota. Now, at the day’s end, they looked gaunt and hard-angled in the fading light.
Faith was accustomed to crowds and buildings. This stark contrast, the utter emptiness, left her almost dizzy as she looked around. The town was set in a dusty space, buildings running outward in all directions, giving no indication where the earth ended and the sky began. There were no trees, no hills, nothing to relieve the eye; nothing but gray soil and patches of short brown grass turned crisp and now ready to fade when the winter frost touched it.
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