The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (13 page)

Maggie pushed herself up, almost bumping her head on the bunk above.

“What is all this nonsense, Johnny? Of course I can . . . Oh.’’ She fell back again.

The lines returned. “What is it?’’

“I feel so weak~’’

“You’ve had nothing to eat for almost four days.’’ He turned and shouted out the door. “Jamie! Jamie! Your mother’s going to be fine! Get some soup from somebody. Anybody!’’

Maggie rode for the last hundred miles to the Whitman Mission. All but the last day of it. She insisted on arriving there on her feet. After all, how could an invalid be expected to be maid of honor at the wedding of her best friend? Or to join in the festivities for the wedding of her best friend’s brother?

Maggie’s latest adventure had been the talk of the camp for days. Tales were circulated, embroidered, and recirculated about how she had taken her own bear with just guts and a bread knife. Maggie pooh-poohed it all. Still, the children flocked around her while she recuperated, bringing little presents of late berries, or one of the wild onions they knew she valued, begging for the story to be retold.

Most of the women wished in their hearts that they had not been so tied up with the children or the cooking to make the gesture themselves. Most of the men looked upon Maggie as a pariah. She was the same one that’d almost got them all into a fix over the Indians. She was the one who had blatantly egged her husband into fisticuffs with that no-account gambler. Maggie Stuart was pure poison as far as the Jarboe and Smith and Simpson men were concerned, and many of the others, too. Luckily the trip was mostly over or there’d be no telling what mischief she’d be into next. Stringing her man around her little finger like that. Not that Stuart was a weakling where anything but his wife was concerned. That had been proven too many times already. He could’ve done in that bear without her interference. Lord only knew what ideas that Maggie Stuart would be putting in the other women’s heads. Women should be left to the cooking and the cleaning and the children~and bed. And in bed they ought to know who their masters were.

Johnny had been solicitous to a fault about Maggie since she’d come back to him. In his mind she had come back from the dead. He’d already had her buried so many times during those terrible three days. He’d had her buried and almost had the children raised alone in the new world. Raised by himself, without the love and support of his extraordinary woman.

He looked on Max and Hazel during this period with fresh eyes. He’d seen Max in agony. He’d seen his reprieve. Did he himself deserve the same reprieve? He prayed that it would be received, whether he was worthy or not. If he’d not been worthy enough before, he’d make it all up. In spades. Johnny worked himself to a frazzle worrying over these things while he went about his other duties. And when Maggie revived, he treated her like the most fragile of objects: the finest porcelain, the most delicate blown glass.

The Whitman Mission spread out before the Stuart Party in the gentle afternoon sun of late September. The land was flat between a few bald, parched hills. The grasses were dry and waiting to be mown for hay. They flowed like a small sea past a browning garden, between a handful of buildings~unprotected by any stockade~down to a narrow river. Where the grasses stopped was a pent up pond with ducks swimming upon it and a mill beside it. It seemed very idyllic.

The Reverend Winslow and his family had arrived at their new home. Winslow led up the train in honor of the occasion. It had been Johnny’s suggestion, as a parting gesture of grace and peace. Winslow accepted the gesture in stride, his confidence returned, his leanness hammered to the consistency of unmalleable iron. His wife Ruth and the boys had not fared as well. The children were pasty and weak and the woman had aged twenty years during the journey. But they’d made it with their Bibles intact.

The Stuart Party pulled up next to the water. Johnny left the wagons spread in a long line upon grooves remaining from those come during previous seasons. It was the first time in months their evening circle of security was unneeded.

In short order the small mission community was surrounding them: a flock of school children excused from their studies; assorted laborers and Indians; the Whitmans themselves.

“Welcome to Waiilatpu! Thank God you arrived before the snows!’’

Dr. Marcus Whitman was a tall, distinguished man. He wore a hat with it’s brim pulled down to keep the sun from his eyes, and a strong, hooked nose presided over a full moustache and carefully trimmed chin beard. His shirtsleeves were rolled over bronzed, hardened arms as if he were no stranger to labor.

His wife Narcissa was in her late thirties. Light brown hair was parted in the center and pulled back in a twist from a face that was pleasant and attractively feminine, yet worn by some struggle of the soul. Still awed by this first white woman to cross the plains, Maggie instinctively took to her as she’d never taken to Ruth Winslow. But Maggie bided her time and held back, waiting for the Winslows to be properly welcomed. Only then did she come forward as the wife of Captain Stuart. Narcissa Whitman took her hands in her own and made her welcome.

“You must be so weary from the trip, and the last part still to go! I would hear everything of it. We receive company so seldom. Please make your children and your stock comfortable and join us for supper this night.’’

It was settled. Gwen and Irish buzzed about Johnny and Maggie as they made themselves presentable for the social event.

“The weddings, Maggie,’’ pleaded Gwen. “Don’t forget to raise our boon during the meal. Sam and I have waited so long and patiently. And Irish, too.’’ She smiled affectionately at her younger brother. “Perhaps a little less patiently since he finally declared himself to sweet Sue. It’s too bad it happened right after your bear. You’d have loved the look of relief on Josh Chandler’s face!’’

“Mind your tongue, big sister. You’re still not too old for me to whup!’’

Gwen grinned mischievously at Irish as he wandered off in the direction of his Sue. The chatter resumed. “Tomorrow would be perfect. It will be another day as fine as this one. And it will be Sunday. I can freshen up my gown tonight.’’

Maggie couldn’t resist teasing her friend. “Are you sure you’d rather not wait a little longer, Gwen? There’s bound to be a priest in Oregon City.’’

“No!’’

The answer was emphatic. Sam had been strung to the end of his tether, and Gwen had grown in the past months from the spinster who feared the touch of a man more than anything.

“When we find a priest we’ll do it again. Sam says he doesn’t mind. Besides, he’s more used to preachers than I am, and Dr. Whitman does look like a godly man. I’m sure the Lord won’t mind a slight diversion. It’s the thought that counts, after all.’’

Maggie gave Gwen a hug. “For once I can’t argue with you. But after tomorrow Sam will have to take his chances with your cooking.’’

Gwen was crushed. “The evening meals, too, Maggie?’’

Maggie laughed. “Of course not! You’ll have to face him over breakfast, though. The suppers he’ll learn to deal with on your own territory when we reach the Willamette Valley.’’

“Thank goodness!’’

The Whitman dining room was austere, as were those parts of the main house through which Maggie and Johnny had been led. Whitewashed walls were unbroken save for two curtainless windows. Rough-hewn benches surrounded a plain board table that was long, and graced only with simple pottery plates and bowls of hot food. After Dr. Whitman intoned the grace from the head of the table, Johnny jumped right in with questions about the last leg of their trip.

“What are the chances of our taking that new Barlow Road I heard about at Fort Hall, sir?’’

“I’m afraid it may be out of the question, Captain. My Indians brought me word that the first snows have already arrived in the higher mountains. It will be impassable until spring.’’

“Then it must be the river.’’

“Yes. But I’ll send a few of my Cayuse along with you. They’ll be useful for bargaining with the river guides at Fort Walla Walla. You realize, of course, that you’ll have to break down your wagons and store everything aboard rafts?’’

Johnny nodded.

“And the Chutes. You’ll have to portage them. Although you should make it through the Cascades.’’ He turned serious. “It is not a pleasure trip, I assure you.’’

“I did not anticipate it to be, sir.’’

Johnny turned his attention to the food in front of him. Maggie knew he was thinking hard about this new information, else he’d certainly notice that he was shoving into his mouth the first potato they’d met in nearly six months. As for herself, she took a bite of hers delicately, and slowly relished its taste and texture. It actually had butter upon it, and a light sprinkling of freshly chopped green parsley. The Whitmans were faring better than she’d expected in this alien land.

Maggie glanced across the table to where the Winslows were seated. The Reverend Winslow was silent for a wonder. Ruth Winslow was only picking at her food. Maybe her stomach couldn’t accept the largess. Or maybe she was thinking about spending countless evenings to come among much the same company, discussing the day’s advances and defeats with her fellow missionaries, never again to have a white-steepled church nestled in a green, thriving, civilized community.

Seated next to Ruth was the schoolmaster Gray. His long white beard gave him a dour appearance. It was not a St. Nicholas sort of beard, and his face had none of the compassion in it that his age might imply. Maggie bet he’d be a strict taskmaster. Filling in the benches were the children~the Winslows and the others.

She’d heard of the Sagers, all seven of them adopted by the Whitmans after their parents had died on the trail during the emigration of ‘44. The children were quiet, but seemed healthy and content. She could have brought Jamie and Charlotte to dinner after all, instead of leaving them with Gwen. Gwen. The weddings. Maggie turned to the head of the table.

“Would it be possible, Doctor Whitman, to perform several marriages tomorrow? We have friends who met upon the journey, and are much suited to each other~’’

His face lit up and he smiled at his wife across the length of the table. “Surely the Lord is blessing us, my dear. There is nothing so pleasant as a wedding or a christening to bring joy into our lives.’’

“If it weren’t for the wagon trains,’’ his wife returned, “we’d have few enough of either.’’

Winslow spoke at last. “Surely you must be kept sufficiently busy with both amongst your flock here?’’

Marcus Whitman stabbed his fork into a potato. “You will learn soon enough, Winslow, that the Cayuse have minds of their own.’’

“But the Mission Board~’’

“The American Board of Missions is woefully behind in what is happening out here. On my trips home I have begged them for more laborers. I asked for over two hundred. They sent yourself.’’ He paused and reached for his water glass.

“Our mission at Waiilatpu has evolved differently than we expected. There are several outlying missions, of course, but here we have regrettably satisfied ourselves with looking after the bodies of the Cayuse who choose to come for medical attentions. And we educate our own and the children of the other missions, of course~along with a handful of converts. Then there are the annual trains. They’ve come to rely upon us as a stopping place, as you yourselves have done.’’ He nodded to Johnny.

“We had fifty-five emigrants winter with us last year. They were too sick and weary to travel farther. We must labor long and hard during the summer months to fill the storehouse with food enough for these.’’

“You have accounts overdue, sir!’’ boomed Winslow. “Your mission is to bring the word of God to the heathens!’’

Dr. Whitman waved a hand wearily at Winslow. “The bodies must be mended before the minds can be reached, Reverend. This you will learn soon enough. Like a mule, you can bring an Indian to the water of Life, but you cannot force him to drink of it. Even their bodies are hard enough to cure. I cannot understand how it happens, but they die from ailments which are mere childhood illnesses to us . . . the measles or the mumps. And when such diseases do occur, they would rather take their ills to their witch doctors.’’

Whitman was tapping his fork now with ill-concealed impatience, about to add another grievance to his already long list. “With all we have tried to offer, the Cayuse absolutely refuse to learn our language. To this I say that stubbornness may go both ways. Until they learn our language, I refuse to learn theirs.’’

“How then do you communicate, may I ask?’’

“Oh, a handful have come to us. You’ll see them at tomorrow morning’s service. They translate, and perform other useful duties about the mission.’’

As if weary of the subject, Whitman turned again to Maggie. “It would be an honor and a pleasure to perform the nuptials tomorrow. Ask your friends to be prepared after the usual Sabbath services. About noon?’’

Maggie nodded dumbly. She was still digesting what she had been privy to hear. Whitman seemed an intelligent man, yet he had chosen not to learn the language of his chosen flock in over ten years? It was beyond ken. Had she herself been doomed to Red Eagle’s village she would already have made strides in becoming fluent in the Pawnee tongue. Certain barriers must be jumped for the sake of understanding, whether one be present of free will or not.

The meal ground on with Mrs. Whitman recounting her own trip West. Maggie could tell Johnny was itching to add their Pawnee and bear stories, but Maggie gave him a silent nudge. She intuited that her independent actions in these events would not be well received. Winslow would be gossiping about the Stuarts in his own good time. But by then Maggie would be long gone, her current reputation intact.

The evening was concluded with a reading from the Bible, and Maggie gratefully returned to her own world, thankful for once that her journey had not yet reached its end.

The Stuarts were dressing in the best finery Maggie could devise for the momentous weddings. Jamie insisted on wearing his newly finished buckskin vest over his good clean shirt. Maggie had arisen at dawn to stitch a last row of Indian beads upon it, pondering all the while at the incongruity of the gesture. By rights she should be hating all things Indian. Yet she didn’t. Flower Blossom and her family back in Independence returned to Maggie’s mind for the first time in too long. She sighed. If only people could be accepted as just that~all members of the human race, all children of God, of the Great Spirit.