A Man for Temperance (Wagon Wheel) (4 page)

“Why, of course she will.” Silas moved down and leaning under the counter came out with a brown jug. He put it on the counter and said, “I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing here, Brennan.”

“Oh, it’s fine. You know she drinks herself.”

Silas was startled. “Who drinks?”

“Why, Miss Temperance. She gets drunker than Cooter Brown after it gets dark, but I don’t want you to tell nobody. She’s downright ashamed of it. Put that stuff in a sack for me so I can tie it over my saddle horn, will you? I’ll carry the jug.”

Five minutes later Brennan was on the road again. The first thing he did when he cleared town was uncork the jug and take several long, deep swallows. “I forgot to make a toast, Judas. Here’s to that psalm-singing woman who thinks she’s my boss. She’s paying for this here drinking whiskey and mighty nice of her, I might say.” He began to sing a ribald song, and by the time he was halfway to the Dutton place, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle.

* * *

PULLING THE LAST OF the worn diapers off the line, Temperance dropped them in the basket, then moved back toward the house. She had been thinking of Brennan as she loaded the basket. She had become absolutely sick of the man. He was filthy, refused to bathe, shaved only on occasion. He
did his work but was sullen and critical of her, especially of her religion.

“I’ll be glad when he’s gone,” she muttered. “He’s the most trifling man I ever saw in my life.”

She moved inside the house, quickly folded the diapers, and went to the cradle where the baby lay sleeping. She reached out and gently touched the blond hair and then straightened up and moved across to the stove. She filled a deep bowl with broth and, plucking a spoon from a box, moved into the bedroom.

Martha Dutton lay on the bed, her thin form outlined by the cover. Her eyes were sunk back in her head, and her lips seemed to have shriveled up.

Her husband had died a week earlier, and she had been too sick to attend the funeral, a fact that grieved her greatly.

“Well now, Martha, you’ve got to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry, Temperance.”

“You’ve got to keep your strength up.” Temperance put the bowl on a table beside the bed, sat down in a cane-bottom chair, and filled the spoon. Martha, however, turned her head away. “I can’t eat,” she whispered. Her voice was thin and reedy and seemed like an ethereal sound from somewhere outside herself.

“Martha, you’ve got to eat.”

“I’m going to die, Temperance.” Martha Dutton turned, and her face was like a death’s head. Pity ran through Temperance, for she remembered how pretty this woman had been before the cholera had struck her down. She and her husband had been one of the finest-looking couples in the area, and now Clyde was under the sod and Martha, in all probability, would be there soon.

Tears ran down Martha’s face, and she whispered, “I couldn’t even go to Clyde’s funeral.”

“You were too sick, Martha. Clyde would have understood. I think he does understand.”

“You think people in heaven know what’s going on on Earth?”

“I’m sure they do.” Actually Temperance was not certain of her theology, but she would say anything to give this dying woman some assurance.

“Why does God let bad things like this happen? We weren’t bad people.”

“Of course you weren’t.” Temperance had gone through this before with others who had had loss. She quoted several Scriptures and laid her hand on the woman’s brow. Martha’s face was like a tiny furnace, and as she leaned down and pulled a blanket over her, Temperance said, “You’ve got to sweat this fever out.”

Martha Dutton lay still for what seemed like a long time. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving. Temperance could not understand her, and she leaned forward. “I can’t hear you, Martha.”

“My sister—Kate.”

“What about Kate?”

“She and her husband, Tom Blanchard, they—”

The words trailed off, and Martha passed into a semiconscious state. Quickly Temperance got cool water and a cloth and began to bathe the sick woman’s face. “Can you tell me about Kate?”

The water seemed to have revived Martha. She opened her eyes, and there was a haunted look in her expression. “Kate and her husband tried to talk me and Clyde out of coming to
Oregon, but Clyde wouldn’t listen. They don’t have any children of their own. They had two, but they lost them.”

“Where do they live?”

“In St. Joseph, Missouri.”

Suddenly Martha reached up and grasped Temperance’s hand. “Please, Temperance, they’d take my Timmy for their own. Promise me you’ll take him!”

Temperance Peabody did not make promises lightly. She took each one of them as a sacred vow, and for that instant she pictured the immense distance and the terrible difficulties that lay between Walla Walla in Oregon Territory and St. Joe, Missouri. She looked down and tried to think of some way to deny the woman, but Martha Dutton’s eyes begged her; and almost despite herself, Temperance took the woman’s hand in both of hers. It felt frail; the bones were like fragile bird bones. “I promise I’ll take Timmy to Kate.”

For a time they sat there as Martha thanked her and then finally she heard a horse. “That’s Brennan coming with things from the store,” she said.

She left the sick woman’s room and opened the door, but instead of Brennan it was the Reverend Cyrus Blevins. He took his hat off and stepped inside, saying, “How’s Mrs. Dutton?”

“Not well at all. I think you’d better pray with her, Reverend.”

The two went back to the room, and Blevins laid his hand on the sick woman’s head and prayed a fervent prayer. When he ended, Temperance said, “She’s asleep. Come along. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

The two left, but Blevins said, “I don’t have time. This cholera is getting worse. I don’t think Martha’s going to live.”

“She may.”

“Of course, God could work a miracle. That’s what it would take, I think.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair and said, “Did you hear about the Abbotts?”

“No, what about them?”

“Same old story,” Blevins said wearily. “But it happened so quick. Cholera got both of them.”

“Oh, Pastor, how terrible!”

“It is terrible. Vance was a deacon in the church. Virginia was one of the finest women I ever knew. Always cared for everybody.”

“When did it happen?”

“Yesterday. They got sick three days ago, and it took them like a whirlwind. They died within six hours of each other.”

“And the children. Where are they?”

“The Johnsons have taken them in for now.”

“How old are they?”

“Billy’s two and Rose is six. Billy doesn’t really understand but Rose does, I think. It’s hard to tell children about things like this.”

“What will happen to them?”

“Virginia’s parents live in Fort Smith, Arkansas. They left a note begging for someone to take the children there. I don’t know how in the world we’d get them there, Temperance.”

For a moment Temperance hesitated, then she said, “I promised Martha that I’d take Timothy to her sister. They live in St. Joe, Missouri.”

Blevins was startled. “Why, Temperance, how are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll have to. We’ll have to find a way. I gave my word.”

“Well, that’s three, all babies really. If they were older, it
might be possible to get them with a freighter, but no freighter’s going to take three babies like that.”

The two talked earnestly about a way when suddenly Blevins lifted his head. “Somebody’s coming.”

“Probably Brennan.”

The two stepped out on the porch, and Brennan pulled his horse up. He dropped the sack on the ground and said, “There’s your groceries. The stuff from the store.”

“Brennan, I need to talk to you.”

“I ain’t coming in that house.”

“Well, go home then, but I want you to feed the stock, gather the eggs, milk the cows. Do all the chores. I’m going to stay here.”

“If you want to be a crazy woman, that’s fine with me,” Brennan shouted. He turned Judas around and galloped off.

“He’s drunk, isn’t he?”

“I expect he is, Pastor.”

“How do you put up with him?”

“I try to talk with him about God and he curses me. But he’s all I’ve got. ” Temperance shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I’ll have to stay here with Martha and take care of Timothy.”

“We’ll have to pray about a way to get these children where they can be taken care of. I’ll have my wife come out and help you with Martha.”

“She’s got plenty to do with two children. I’ll make it fine.”

* * *

BRENNAN WAS PLOWING WHEN he looked up to see Temperance pull up in front of the house with the wagon. He tied the mules off, walked over, and saw that she was taking
something out of the seat beside her. When he got closer, he saw an infant.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

Temperance turned and he saw that she was disturbed. “It’s a baby. Timothy Dutton. Martha died this morning at two o’clock.”

“What in the cat hair are you going to do with a baby?”

Temperance Peabody had an even temper as a rule, but suddenly all of the fatigue and the worry over Martha and Clyde and the care of the baby seemed to make her boil over. “Don’t you have an ounce of goodness in you?”

Brennan stared at her. “No, not an ounce. That kind of thing can get people into trouble.”

“You’re hopeless, Thaddeus Brennan!” Turning around, she walked into the house.

Brennan watched her, then walked slowly back to the mule. “She’s crazier than I thought. She’ll probably take that baby and raise it.” He unwrapped the lines and began plowing again, but the scene had troubled him. “I guess I can feel for people as well as anybody,” he addressed the mules. “What does she want me to do—make my voice quiver and bust out crying?” He slapped the mules with the line, cussed them, and the startled animals broke into a stumbling trot.

* * *

THE FUNERAL OF MARTHA DUTTON had been one more in a long series. Temperance had stood beside the open grave and watched as the casket was lowered. The men had uncovered the wooden coffin of Clyde Dutton, and she had watched as they had wedged the coffin containing his wife beside him.

The March wind was cold as she stood there, holding Timothy, who grew fussy halfway through the closing remarks. Looking around the small crowd that had gathered, she realized how the cholera had decimated the community, the whole area it seemed. People who would have been there were now under the sod themselves. Others were home taking care of the sick.

When the service was over, Pastor Blevins asked for a meeting of the men to discuss the fate of the children. They went to the church, and Temperance attended the meeting along with the pastor’s wife. They were the only women there. She listened as Pastor Blevins outlined the situation and explained that now there were three children who had to be taken back East.

“Couldn’t we find someone here to take them in?” Joe Smedly said. He was a short, barrel-shaped man who had lost two of his own children to cholera.

“Not Timothy,” Temperance broke in. “I promised his mother I’d see that he got to her sister.”

“Well, I don’t know how you’re going to do it.” Smedly shook his head. “Who’d take on a chore like that?”

“That’s right,” Pastor Blevins said. “The trains are all coming this way, not going back. The only wagons going that way are freighters. Mule skinners are a rough bunch.”

Joe Meek had attended the funeral, and he listened for a time, then said, “Well, I hate to tell you about this, but Sadie Overmeyer died last night.”

“Poor soul,” Blevins said, his voice tinged with compassion.

Indeed, the Overmeyers were both poor souls. Everyone in the room was thinking about Fess Overmeyer, who was serving a life term in prison for murder and would never see a free day.
His wife, Sadie, had always been a rough woman and turned to prostitution. She had three children.

“What about those kids of hers?” Smedly asked. “How old are they?”

Meek shrugged his shoulders. “There’s one girl just a year old. The boy is six and Rena’s the oldest at twelve.”

“Nobody’s going to take them in,” Tom Finley said. “The oldest two are wild as outlaws.”

“Sadie left a note. Said she’s got relatives in Louisiana, a sister and her husband. Name’s Maude Slaughter; husband’s name is Ed. They live in Baton Rouge.”

“Might as well be on the other side of the world,” Smedly said. “It looks like we’re just going to have to farm those kids out.”

No one had any solution, but as Temperance left the meeting, she had a burden such as she had never felt before.
Six
children—all orphans, all needing to go thousands of miles away.
God,
she prayed,
I just can’t do this thing!

SILAS SATTERFIELD LIFTED HIS flyswatter, took dead aim, and brought it down with a resounding thump. He examined with satisfaction the mashed remains of the fly he had annihilated, then his attention was caught as the front door slammed. Turning, he saw Judge Phineas Henry had stepped inside and was advancing to the counter where Silas waited.

“Good morning, Silas.” Judge Henry was a short, rotund individual of fifty-two. He had a red bulldog face, a pair of hard gray eyes, and a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair neatly clipped with a roughly chopped beard to match. “You got my cigars this morning?”

“Sure did, Judge. They just came in.” Satterfield moved down the counter, reached under it, and came up with a box. He laid it before Henry and shook his head. “I’ll never understand why a man spends so much money to burn dead leaves and then suck smoke into his lungs.”

“You have no appreciation of the finer things of life, Silas.”

“Breathing smoke from dead weeds don’t seem very fine to me.”

“To each his own poison. Life has few enough pleasures and this is one of mine. What’s yours?”

Silas Satterfield stopped for a moment and thought hard. “I guess gluttony would have to be my favorite sin, Judge.”

Henry laughed shortly. His round belly shook, and he opened the box carefully and pulled out a cigar. Closing the box, he removed a small knife from his pocket, cut the ends off, licked the cigar hungrily, then chomped down on it with his teeth. He took a kitchen match from his inner pocket, struck it, and drew mightily on the cigar. He watched as the purple smoke rose, then sighed with satisfaction. “Well now, I sure hope they’ve got Havanas in heaven.”

“You’re bound for that place, are you, Judge?”

“That’s my intention.”

“Doubt if they got cigars there.”

Judge Henry studied Satterfield, then laughed shortly. “I guess we’ll find out. How’s that fellow Brennan doing? Giving Miss Peabody any trouble?”

“He’s just ornery, I expect.” Satterfield shrugged his thin shoulders and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He does his work though. Has he been paying his fine?”

“Miss Temperance pays it. We don’t let him have any money.” He puffed thoughtfully on the cigar for a moment, then said, “He’s what we’ve got too many of in this country—broken-down whiskey bums.”

“I guess he is, but I don’t know what Temperance would do without him.”

“Why don’t that woman get a husband? She’s got a nice farm out there.”

“Maybe men want more than a farm when they go looking for a wife.”

Judge Henry blinked with surprise. “I thought you had more sense, Silas. You never heard of a man marrying a rich woman just to get her money? Seems to me I have a time or two.”

“She ain’t rich, Judge.”

“No, she’s not, but she should be married. How old is she?”

“Around thirty-two, I think.”

“She ain’t no beauty, but she might be if she’d redd herself up a little bit. She ought to be married.”

“I guess most men are scared off by her religion. She’s got enough to load a boat.”

Henry and Satterfield spoke for some time until finally they came to the subject that everyone had to speak of every day: the cholera epidemic.

“Seems like that cholera leaves and then it comes back stronger than ever. Have you found out any way to get those children back East to their families?”

“No. Men are too busy making money to do that.”

“I was in Portland recently, Silas. I talked to Captain Charles Beckwith. He owns the
American Eagle.
He said he’d take them around the Horn on his ship, but somebody would have to go along and be responsible for the kids.”

“Why, that might be an idea. How much would it cost?”

“Nearly a thousand dollars for seven passages.”

Silas whistled a low note and shook his head in despair. “Nobody’s going to pay that. Did you ask him about children’s rates?”

“You don’t know Captain Charles Beckwith. He wouldn’t give his own mother a better rate.”

“Well, something’s got to be done. The preacher and his wife are keeping those wild Overmeyer kids, but they’re too much of a handful. They’re driving the preacher’s wife crazy. When does the
American Eagle
leave?”

“Not for three weeks at least.”

“We’ve got to do something before then, Judge. I declare I just don’t know what.”

* * *

TEMPERANCE MOVED SLOWER THAN usual as she fixed breakfast. She had been up most of the night with Timmy, who had been fussy, and the dark circles under her eyes gave evidence of her weariness. The work on her place, which was already heavy, had been augmented when she had taken the Abbott children. Billy was two and Rose six, and she was shocked at how much work two small children, along with a two-month-old baby, could create.

Boots sounded on the porch, and she looked up to see Brennan, who came in looking shaggy and unshaven as usual. “Is breakfast ready?” he grunted.

“Sit down.”

Billy and Rose were already at the table, Billy sitting on a box placed on a chair and Rose beside him. Temperance ladled out large spoonfuls of mush, filled Brennan’s bowl, set it in front of him, and then added a plate full of fried ham.

“What’s this?”

“It’s mush.”

Brennan picked up a spoon, mined the bowl, and then tasted it. “A man can’t plow all day on mush, woman.”

“Then you cook your own breakfast. Go out and collect the eggs, and I’ll scramble them for you.”

Timmy began to cry, and Temperance rocked him in her arms, looking down in his young-old face. He was really an attractive baby, but he was the first that she had ever had to care for full time. She had held other women’s babies but handed them back almost at once. Now a sense of despair came to her as she thought of the task she had taken on.

Brennan began to eat noisily. He deliberately magnified his indifferent table manners because he knew it irritated her. He made slurping noises and was pleased when he got a disgusted look from his employer. He stopped suddenly and said, “What’s that I smell?”

“It’s Timmy. He needs changing. You want to do it?”

Brennan stared at her in disbelief. He went back to his mush and cramming his mouth full of ham and washing it down with large swallows of the black coffee.

Rose had been watching Brennan carefully. She had watched him from the beginning as if he were some kind of dangerous wild animal. Rose was small for her six years but had a maturity that many young children lacked. She fixed her eyes on his face and forgot the breakfast before her.

“You’re going to have to milk the goat, Brennan,” Temperance said. She had been thankful that she had a goat because Timmy evidently had a delicate stomach, and without mother’s milk, goat’s milk was the only thing that agreed with him.

“I ain’t milking no goats!”

“Yes, you are!”

Rose suddenly piped up. “Why are you so mean?” she demanded, looking up into Brennan’s face.

Brennan glared at her. “I like being mean. It keeps kids from expecting me to be nice.” He got up abruptly, kicked his chair back, and left the room.

“I don’t like him,” Rose said. “Why don’t you make him go away?”

“Believe me, Rose, I’d like to, but I have to have a man around to do some of the work.”

For the next fifteen minutes Temperance tended to the children. She had put Timmy in a dishpan filled with warm
water, and he chortled gleefully, splashing water all over her. This amused her despite the wetness of the situation. Rose and Billy watched, and Billy said, “No bath!”

“Yes, you get a bath, you dirty little boy.”

“No bath!” Billy shook his head firmly.

Brennan came in the door, bearing a small pail. “Here’s your blasted goat milk.” He put the pail down with unnecessary force and glared at Temperance. “What else you want done?”

Temperance felt her nerves giving way. She thought suddenly,
I never used to get nervous at all, but now all this is getting
to me.
She had struggled with the problem of the orphans for weeks, and she wanted to scream at Brennan, who had told her she was crazy. But, instead, to her horror she suddenly felt tears forming in her eyes. She tried to hide them by turning away quickly and muttering in a thick voice, “Just—just
leave,
Brennan! Go do something useful.”

Brennan stared at her silently. He had seen the tears, and they were something new. Temperance Peabody was not a crying woman, he knew that well enough! She had scowled at him too many times for him to miss the acid side of her character. Now he saw that her shoulders were trembling, and he said loudly, “That’s just what I need, a squalling female.” He turned and stomped out again, kicking the chair as he went and sending it over backward.

Blinded by tears, Temperance picked up the pail. Her hands were trembling as she filled the bottle, heated it, and affixed the nipple. She had to shift Timmy in her arms to do this, but when she started for the chair, Rose said quickly, “I can feed him.”

“Can you, Rose?”

“Sure I can. Just let me get in the chair.” Rose plopped herself in the chair, and Temperance put the infant in her lap, then
handed her the bottle. She watched as the girl stuck the bottle into Timmy’s mouth and had to smile when he began to suck greedily on it.

“You make a good little mother, Rose.”

“I like babies. I helped tend to Billy when he was born and I was only four. Why are you crying, Temperance?”

“Oh, I’m just not feeling too well today. Don’t worry about it.” She began to clean up after Billy, who usually made a complete wreck of his side of the table. He protested strenuously as she took a wet cloth and began to wash his face. “No wash!” he cried out, beating at her with his fists. “No wash!”

“Yes, wash, you dirty little pig.” She helped him to the floor. He went at once to the side of the kitchen where he had blocks he had built into incomprehensible forms.

Temperance started cleaning the kitchen and inwardly she was praying,
Oh, God, I can’t do this. Please help me!
It was not the kind of ordered form of prayer that she most often prayed, but she found out she was in quicksand and sinking deeper every day.

Looking out the window, she could see Brennan had hitched up the mules and was plowing. She watched him for a time and, as usual, had the same struggle to like the man. He was one of the most unlovable humans she had ever seen, and his attitude was rotten. She had to admit that he could
do
things well. She knew plowing was not easy, but he moved the team easily. Despite her feelings, she had come to admire the way he made hard jobs look easy. There was a grace in the man at such times that belied the shambling walk he usually affected.

She went about her work, but thirty minutes later she heard a buggy. Going to the screen door, she saw the pastor, Brother Blevins, unfolding his thin, gangly form and getting out of his
buggy. She saw him wave to Brennan, who ignored him pointedly, then he turned and came up on the porch. Temperance opened the door and said, “Come in, Pastor.” She noted as he came in that his face was thinner than usual and that he had a drawn look.
It’s those Overmeyer kids,
she thought.
I’ve heard
how bad they are. They’re probably wearing his wife out too.

“Sit down and let me fix you something to eat.”

“I’ve already eaten. A cup of coffee would go good though.” Blevins sat down and she joined him. They sipped the coffee, talking about the various illnesses, and he gave her a report that was at least partly good. “Only been two deaths this week. Maybe this thing’s about over. I pray it is.”

“I’d gladly pray that, Pastor,” Temperance said. “Have you had any success finding somebody to take the children back East?”

“Well, the judge talked to the captain of the
American
Eagle.
It’ll be leaving in about three weeks to go back around the Horn. Trouble is, it’ll land in New York. That’s almost as far from Missouri and Arkansas as we are here. Besides that, it’d cost a thousand dollars.”

“Surely we can’t afford that.”

“No, we can’t. These are hard times, Temperance.”

“Maybe we could find somebody.” In her heart she was begging God to provide that somebody for she was vaguely feeling that God wanted her to do this thing. She had never challenged God, but many times during these days she had wanted to say,
God, You’re making a terrible mistake here. I can’t do this. I’m
only a woman.
She buried those feelings and said, “Surely we could hire somebody.”

“Hire who?” Blevins asked gloomily. “Married men are afraid to leave with this cholera like it is. Besides, no man could take care of six small children.”

Doubts had been plaguing the Reverend Cyrus Blevins for some time. His theological views had been badly shaken by the way person after person had been taken out of this life without so much as a warning. Many of them were good Christian people. He had watched the believers die among the unbelievers and struggled with the age-old question: Why did bad things happen to good people? His faith was shaken, but he carefully concealed it from Temperance. “Don’t worry, sister,” he said gently. He supposed that she was simply going to help find a way and perhaps help pay for the expenses.