Prairie Hearts

by J. B. Marsden

  Carrie walked a mile ahead of the wagon, like a sea captain leading a ship through a brown ocean of wintered grass dotted by maple trees as they travelled farther north. Along the creeks, marshy places, and washouts of the low wetlands, large blackjack oaks, sycamores, and hickories towered over shorter grasses. It amazed Carrie that these creeks fed into the Illinois and Kaskaskia Rivers and finally to the great Mississippi.

  Still, Carrie longed for Christian County, where the wooded hills hugged and sheltered them, where wide expanses didn’t leave you vulnerable. Loneliness crept into her chest again. How would they protect themselves with nowhere to hide?

  Green now appeared on the trees. The grasses, however, were brown along the long vista of small hills. She walked along the less rutty, less traveled trail of beaten-down grass, glad at least for softer footing.

  She waited until Laura’s wagon rumbled up to her. “Looks like rain later this morn. We’ll put up canvas on the wagon to protect when we stop midday.”

  Laura wiped her brow. “I’ve been watching the darkness in the west, too. Let’s stop here. James’ll find us. He’s hunting off east at the last creek.”

  Carrie covered the wagon’s supplies with canvas, fretting about wet flour. Laura took Permelia to her breast. Carrie corralled the other children and handed them deer jerky and dried peaches and apples for their midday meal.

  Carrie’s shoulders drooped when dark clouds tumbled overhead. Wet wool, cranky young’uns, chafing leather, and cold feet. Ugh.

  James crested a small rise, shouldering his rifle and a stuffed bag. “Gonna need help dressing out a deer over yonder. Enough venison for a few days.” He pointed east to a stand of trees and dropped his bag of small game.

  Josh and George leapt up and looked inside.

  “Four rabbits.” Josh pulled them out and unpocketed his small folding knife.

  Carrie cringed and held back the urge to take the knife and do it herself.

  “Now, boy, make sure you do this clean. One skin, you hear?”

  “Yes, Poppa. Aunt Carrie taught me how,” Josh said, making the first cut at the rabbit’s neck.

  James and Carrie went off to retrieve the deer and returned about two hours later just as sprinkles began falling. Four rabbit skins lay drying on top of the canvas of the wagon.

  Carrie hauled her half of the deer carcass into their campsite, wrapped it in smaller bits of canvas, and slung it atop the wagon, followed by James doing the same with his half.

  The rain now came down in earnest.

  Permelia, tied to Laura’s torso, cried tiredly. “She doesn’t like being wet.” Laura pulled a cloak tighter around them.

  Carrie peeked past the blanket at the red-faced babe waving arms and legs. “I can take her for a while.” She untied the bundle and carefully lifted her from Laura’s shoulder onto her own, tied the shawl, and drew the oilskin cloak over Permelia’s face.

  “Thanks, honey.” Laura kissed Carrie’s cheek.

  Carrie blushed. “It’s nothing.”

  Carrie’s strides rocked the baby, and her crying became quieter by the minute. Carrie exhaled to see her little eyes closed.

  “I reckon you’re the better momma today.” Laura patted Carrie’s back as she walked alongside her.

  “Mayhap. I was fresh. Calmed her some.” Carrie relinquished the babe back into Laura’s arms. She didn’t like the responsibility for young’uns. Something always went wrong with them, and she felt so clumsy compared to Laura.

  Sam, George, and Josh ran up.

  “Momma, when do we get to where we’re going?” Sam asked.

  “Poppa says we arrive on the morrow or the next day. Moss Creek never sounded so good, huh?”

  “Tomorrow?” Josh pulled his brothers into an impromptu dance around Laura and Carrie. Sam and George yipped.

  “We’ll all be glad to be off the trail. But, it won’t be easy, boys. We have a lot of work to do when we arrive. Poppa has to find us a place to settle and clear it of trees and brush. Auntie Carrie and Poppa will be busy setting up shelters, then we have the hard work of building a house. So, don’t be too quick to kick up your heels, Georgie.”

  The boys stopped dancing around and frowned at their mother. “Oh, Momma. We know. Work, work, work. We know.” They ran off onto the trail ahead, playing tag.

  “They bounce back quick, don’t they?” Carrie chuckled.

  Laura sighed. “I hope they all continue their good spirits. They’re good boys.”

  “I reckon we’re here.” James consulted his plat. Several oaks topped a five-foot ridge bordering a stream. “Far as I can figure, this here’s the Moss Creek acreage we bought.”

  Carrie noted the date: April 13, 1821. Her heart felt light and she inhaled deeply of cool air tinged with grasses greening, black soil, and creek water. And hope.

  The children hopped off the wagon and yipped and yelled, waking Permelia.

  “Boys, hush now,” Laura said with a sharp look.

  Little Gerta ran to Carrie and asked to be held, her little mouth quivering. “It’s fine, now, child. The boys can be loud every once in a while. We are here at our new home. See? Poppa’s unloading the wagon. Let me go now. You play with Sam while we do our work.” She set Gerta on the ground.

  Gerta looked up at Carrie. “Home?”

  “Yes. Good girl. Home.” Carrie patted her head and unloaded shelter and kitchen goods.

  Laura corralled the children. “Y’all pick up sticks off the ground. We need to put up good shelters afore we can make a cabin.”

  Everyone worked like bees, bustling and spinning about.

  Carrie sighed, happy to be off the trail, finally. She stretched her back and hefted the nearest crate of kitchen goods.

  Carrie rolled the ache in her shoulders. Clearing the brush took muscles she hadn’t used in a while.

  Someone on a mule rode up. “Good morn,” the man said to her and James.

  “Sir.” James walked over to the stranger. “I’m James Stratton. This here’s my sister Carrie Fletcher.”

  “Good to meet y’all. I’m Blanton Forrester. I think your wife met mine some days ago back on the trail.”

  Blanton got off the mule and shook hands with James and tipped his hat to Carrie. “Thought I’d see if we could trade out working on cabins. Mine isn’t near started, but I could help you first, then we could start on mine. There’s another man up the trail about ten miles that would help. His cabin is all but chinked out.”

  The man had a tuft of thinning blond hair. Carrie reckoned he was not more than twenty and one or two. He was clean-shaven, in contrast to James’s rough beard, taller than James and not as stocky.

  “I reckon that would work fine. My sister is pretty good with construction, but it would be helpful to have more hands.”

  Blanton sized up Carrie like most men did when they met her, and nodded. At least he made no comment about her wearing breeches. Nor did he sneer.

  They talked and agreed on Blanton’s offer to start that very afternoon, another thing to like about him.

  “He looks a likely man.”

  “Aye, I liked his look. Strong back, although a might skinny. I’m pleased to have his help. Neighborly and friendly of him.”

  Blanton returned after midday with Elizabeth and Thad in a wagon pulled by the mule.

  Laura and Elizabeth greeted each other like old friends. They talked and laughed easily. When Permelia had been fed and cleaned, Elizabeth held her, cooing over the small bundle.

  Life looked lonely to Carrie, out here in the wilderness. Where would she make friends? The old granny she learned all her healing from counted as her only friend at home. Hollowness swept through her chest again. Did God mean her to live solitary all her life?

  Thad immediately smiled in recognition of his new friends, and they ran around the clearing. She didn’t fret about the boys making friends.

  All afternoon, Carrie, James, and Blanton worked like mules, hauling rocks from a natural qu
arry down the stream and hefting them into a foundation in the newly cleared space. Thank heavens the ground had few rocks to clear, unlike their Kentucky homestead. Carrie inhaled the scents of the new green of spring showing in budding leaves around the clearing, and wiped sweat that had soaked her shirt. The sting of blisters she hadn’t noticed now registered.

  They all woke right before dawn to their usual chores: James to tend to the ox and to Maisie and Napoleon, Laura to tend to Permelia, Josh to take care of Gerta, and George and Sam to tend to themselves, washing and dressing. Carrie’s job included putting the kettle on the fire for the hot meal. She scraped the bottom of the oat barrel for thin porridge.

  After breakfast, the daily rhythm continued. Carrie and James chopped tree trunks as logs for the cabin walls.

  Blanton arrived on his mule.

  While the boys stacked the trimmed limbs, the adults sweated despite the cool air.

  A little toward midday, a strange horse and rider appeared from the path.

  A woman about Carrie’s age carried a bundle in her arms. She reined in at the canvas shelters, where Laura dropped her washing back in the steaming tub. Laura took the bundle and the woman slid from the horse’s back.

  Carrie appraised the well-proportioned gelding. Its chestnut coat shone in the sun. His muscles rippled and he danced with just-controlled power and energy. A real beauty with racing potential. This woman had some means, for sure.

  Carrie told James and Blanton she would return.

  The woman with a dark braid dangling down her back shook Laura’s hand and held it out for Carrie, meeting her eyes directly and keeping them in a gentle smile. “I’m Emma Reynolds from over on Locust Hill, which is just up Moss Creek less than a morning’s ride. I brought some cornmeal and oats.”

  James and Blanton, who had wandered over, immediately trudged back to the logs. Carrie reckoned they weren’t interested in women’s concerns.

  “I see I caught you on wash day. I can help.”

  “I would be grateful. And I thank ye kindly for the grains. We are about down to our last bit.” Laura cradled Permelia and went into the shelter.

  Emma turned to Carrie. “I don’t believe I caught your name, miss.”

  Carrie, shuffling and stammering, blurted out, “Carrie. That is, Caroline Fletcher. You heard we just arrived from Christian County, Kentucky. I am James’s sister and—” She stopped abruptly, embarassed.

  Emma smiled, tugging at Carrie’s heart and catching her in the depths of gray-blue eyes. Is this what dime novels meant when they described a woman as alluring? She wanted to be near her. Something about her. She calmed in her gentleness. “I’ll help with the washing, too,” she said. Carrie led Emma to the tub and they dunked clothes into the hot water. “Where do you hail from?”

  “I came with my parents from York State on the Hudson River, just above Manhattan. Father needed more elbow room from neighbors who encroached closer every year.”

  “He surely found it here on the prairie.”

  “Aye, he did. The journey west taxed both Mother and Father.” Emma paused. “Mother succumbed along the way, just as we crossed into Indiana.”

  Carrie stopped plunging clothes into the cauldron and looked directly at Emma. “I am sorry you lost your ma. You live with your pa?”

  “I do. Father farms one hundred acres and I have my own work. Back East, I developed healing skills from a granny midwife and healer in our town. I brought my seeds and now have a thriving pharmacopeia of medicinal herbs and plants. My patients trade and bargain for me to tend anything from fevers to childbed. I also milk a cow after I tended Mrs. Wallace’s latest illness.”

  “You don’t say. I reckon we are sisters of a sort, then. I carried my herbs and plants with me as well. Come, let me show you.” Carrie’s hollowness filled with excitement at the prospect of another person who shared her interests.

  They left the clothes soaking in the tub and, like a child showing her newest toy, Carrie pointed out the plot James had said she could have to plant later in May. “Here’s where the mint goes. Over here garlic, here goldenrod, and here rosemary and sage.” She spread her hands along the plot’s unplowed area, glee filling her.

  “Impressive indeed,” Emma said, nodding. “I hope you will visit me to see my gardens as well.” Emma smiled, her eyes danced.

  Carrie’s heart soared. “I would be glad to.”

  “Momma!” George ran from the creek bordering the west side of the Fletcher-Stratton holding.

  “Shh, Georgie. Momma’s taking care of Permelia.”

  George stopped and he stared up at Emma.

  “Did you and your brothers have any luck with your traps?” Carrie asked.

  George’s attention snapped back to Carrie. “Yes, Auntie. Come, see.” He pulled at her hand.

  “Maybe later, Georgie. I’m busy with this lady. Her name’s Emma and she’s our new neighbor.”

  “I’m George.” He held out his hand and stood straight as a sentinel.

  Emma took his hand. “I am Miss Reynolds. I live up the creek at Locust Hill.”

  George bowed. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Reynolds.”

  Carrie smiled with auntie pride.

  Emma made a small curtsy in return. “Likewise, Master George.”

  George waved and ran back to the creek.

  “I’ll be on my way. Miss Fletcher, I am pleased to meet another woman with medicinal knowledge of plants and herbs. I am sure our paths will cross again.” She cupped Carrie’s hand in her warm one.

  Carrie felt the blush rise on her cheeks. She muttered, “Aye.”

  Emma rode off on the fine horse she called Titan.

  “Not much washing got done.”

  Carrie abruptly turned, embarrassed, and mumbled, “We found common ground to talk about. Sorry.”

  “No matter. Get along now. I reckon James misses your strong arms getting those logs notched and set.” Laura waved Carrie away.

  Carrie sighed. That woman. What a surprise. Never had she been taken by the lure of another man or woman. What was happening?

  “Go on now.”

  James chided her lack of attention to their work. She shook herself back to the present and raised another log into place.

  By candle-lighting the logs had built up past the window level. The roof work would go quick next week, at this fast clip. Once both roofs were finished on James’s and Blanton’s cabins, she would be free to visit Miss Reynolds. Carrie took a deep breath. The log she hefted felt lighter.

  Emma’s day started with the animals. She stroked the soft udders of her goats, bringing down the milk. She also now had a milch cow named Millie which Mrs. Wallace gave her after her latest bout of pleurisy. Milking into a tin pail, she hummed into the sunrise as it lit her little corral where the animals grazed. But after a while, her father’s illness crowded her mind. She dosed him regularly for his lingering winter cough. The rhythmic hiss of the milk and its splash into the pail, combined with the warmth of the cow’s side, usually stilled her thoughts, but today she could not but fret over him.

  She brought in the milk pails and served breakfast. She frowned at Father’s stooped back and lumbering walk.

  After breakfast things were cleared and William had left for his fields, Emma took her coffee out to a chair in the yard and breathed. The coffee tasted of home. The green of spring gave her hope for her garden and animals, as well for Father’s cough. Sighing and humming a cheery tune, she drained the cup, washed it in the sink with water from her barrel, and gathered eggs and fed her chickens. She spent the remainder of the morning washing laundry in the sunshine.

  Her father came in for the midday meal, his face ashen. Her heart clutched.

  “I don’t have much of a hunger, Emma. I want to lie down just a bit. I feel a might sluggish.”

  No farmer napped on a sunny day when the fields needed plowing. Her spring joy wafted away.

  Later that day, a wife visited holding a two-year-old babe. Emma n
odded to her tale of the child’s cough. She led them into her cabin and made a tea using poppy leaves, her remedy for children’s coughs. Would Carrie use the same? Emma stirred in a spoon of honey and the mother held the cup to the babe’s small lips.

  “Take these leaves and make a tea with a handful whenever she coughs.” She looked sternly at the mother. “Make sure to get word to me if this cough doesn’t play out by the end of the week. It could be something more than a spring cold.”

  “Aye, that I will. Thank ye, Miss Reynolds. I figured you’d know what to do.” She handed Emma a sack. “Take these taters for your trouble. We had a good crop last summer.”

  Emma gladly received the sack.

  At candle-lighting, William’s breathing still rasped loudly as he lay pale and chilled still abed. She piled blankets atop him, holding a thread of hope he may come through. It was evident now. His failing health pointed to lung fever. She had not tended that illness before, but it was mortal. She held her breath, dosing him again with her herbal teas.

  He mumbled in his sleep, but did not wake for supper.

  She fretted and tended him until she, too, went to bed. His breath had become even more rasping and he had not eaten. She turned around in the bed like a top, her head spinning. Tears wet her pillow. How long was he to suffer? She finally drifted off.

  The next morning he weakly slumped on the bed when he attempted to rise.

  “Father, please lie down.”

  “The plow’s calling me.”

  “I know, but if you don’t rest…” Her throat closed up.

  William rose gingerly. It took him longer than normal to come out of the bedroom dressed for work. She coaxed him to eat part of a biscuit with some honeyed tea. Emma watched him closely. She did not like his gray pallor. Stubborn farmer. The sun shone again today and there was no holding him back from the plowing.

  The business of milking and feeding goats and the cow kept her thoughts from straying. She fixed midday dinner and rang the iron pot’s clang across the fields. Her father came in.