The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (14 page)

Now Jamie was parading like a young peacock in the vest and his new moccasins.

“Pa! Pa! Do I look fine?’’

Johnny paused with his straight-edged razor to admire the boy. “Never finer. A true citizen of the frontier. Incredibly motley.’’

“Motley is good, isn’t it?’’

“Son, out here motley is best. It’s what we’ve got to offer~a little of everything, without the constraints of structured civilization. Improvisation.’’

“Oh. Well, then. Think I’ll go show Matty and Jube.’’

Maggie giggled as she tried to force Charlotte into a dress she’d long since outgrown.

“What exactly is so funny, woman?’’

“You could have just told him that he was handsome.’’

“He is handsome. And I’d rather have him dressed like that than in some fancy tailor-made duds. At least the boy has benefitted from his experience. There’s something to be learned and taken from each of our encounters, whether they be with the civilized or uncivilized. Even if you do still tremble at the passing of any new Indian.’’ Johnny finished his shaving and wiped his face.

“Yes, I know you still do, Meg, and I don’t blame you. Still, after all this time you haven’t spoken ill of the race. You’ve accepted that their ways and ours are just plain different. You’ve settled this in your mind, the same as you settled that your grizzly had a right to keep living, but needed to be killed when our need was greater than his.’’

“God did give us dominion over the animals, Johnny,’’ Maggie broke in softly, starting to take a brush to Charlotte’s red curls. “But He never gave us the right to kill them without need. I was of mixed mind on that point when I climbed that mountain after you. But seeing you there, about to be attacked . . .’’

Johnny nodded in complete understanding. With his back up against the side of that particular mountain he’d known fear, real fear. But the fear had gotten worse when Meg had entered the scene. He tried to wipe the memory from his mind, tried to complete the thought he’d been working toward, thinking about since their meal with the missionaries the night before. He gestured past their wagons to the buildings beyond.

“Whitman has stretched himself farther than Josiah Winslow ever could, but he still hasn’t learned his lesson well enough. His little settlement here is set out and run as if it were a village back East. He doesn’t trust the Indians, yet won’t put up security to prove he doesn’t trust them. The man’s living in a dream world with his bubble ready to be burst. Indians are a little bit like bears that way. They’ll reach out for offered berries, beads, baubles . . . yet fight to the death to keep their freedom and their lives as they know it.’’

Maggie finished with her daughter and rose to give her husband a kiss on smooth cheeks.

“Are you ready yourself, Professor Stuart? We’d best get started before we forget that the weddings are the purpose of this day.’’ She caressed him again. “We can’t really understand what the Whitmans are about after one night of conversation, dear. Although I must admit that I, too, feel uncomfortable with the strange accommodations they’ve made.’’

Johnny hugged Maggie close. “I got on my high hat again, didn’t I? It’s all the
Captain
this and
Captain
that. It has me talking off the top of my head. The world’s expert. Makes you forget you’re as mortal as the next man . . . Oh, love, I can’t wait till we reach Oregon City and become plain Johnny and Maggie Stuart again.’’

Maggie lingered in his arms a final moment. “Neither can I, Johnny.’’ She eased out of his grasp to twirl before him. “And how is Mrs. Stuart looking this morning?’’

“As lovely as the day. And it’s a fine day for a wedding!’’

The Stuart Party casually strolled toward the field that would be used for the Sabbath services. They were feeling festive. The weather was perfect and it was Sunday. They were being given a respite from travel and a celebration at the same time. Everyone had on their Sunday best, the clothes carefully hoarded during the trip to be saved for an occasion such as this. They were looking forward to the marriage feast that would follow, too. Sam and Irish had pitched together and bought one of the Whitman’s beef steers. It would be roasted on the spit during the course of the morning, to be ready for all after the `I do’s’ had been made.

Jamie was running up ahead. Maggie was following with Johnny, little Charlotte in the middle, holding a hand of each parent. Every other step she would giggle, cling extra tightly, and raise her feet from the ground to be suspended in midair by her parents. Laughing together at their daughter’s enjoyment of this rare sport, the Stuarts bumped into Narcissa Whitman. Maggie made apologies with smiling eyes that moved up the severe gray dress to the white face of the woman before them.

“A fine Sabbath morning, Mrs. Whitman~’’ She stopped. The woman looked as if she’d seen a ghost. She was staring fixedly at Charlotte.

“Is something wrong?’’

Narcissa Whitman bent for the child only to break her advance and rise again, head shaking.

“Forgive me. Your child. She is so like my own was. Little Alice. So full of joy and life.’’

Maggie shoed Johnny and Charlotte ahead.

“What happened?’’ She really didn’t want to know. She already felt icy from the encounter.

“Drownded. Playing by the river. Our only child.’’

Maggie silently digested the information as Narcissa Whitman relived the experience yet again. She’d known there was more to this woman. She’d seen the sorrow hiding in her face.

“Joseph, one of our Indians, brought her up to me in his own arms. I was baking the bread. There were tears in his eyes as he laid Alice before me. She was a special child. Even the Indians loved her~’’

“I’m so sorry . . .’’ What else could Maggie say? She was sorry. Just the relating of the story had caused her to grow cold, to lose the pleasure that had been in her heart.

“Marcus told me it was my punishment for having loved Alice too greatly, for having put her above God Himself. Maybe that is so, but there were tears in his eyes, too. We were both punished.’’ Narcissa still stood before Maggie, in a trance.

“It was a marriage of convenience. I had put my application before the Mission Board to come West. They refused me. It was too dangerous to consider sending an unmarried lady to the heathen. Then I heard Marcus speak, a friendship was formed . . . In a year we were wed, and started West the week of our nuptials.’’

“Surely the Sager children have been a reprieve for you? Surely they were sent by God as a measure of forgiveness?’’ broke in Maggie. She herself could not believe that a merciful God would punish a mother for loving her only child. If that were so there would be even less affection in a world sorely in need of more.

Narcissa Whitman slowly came out of her trance.

“Yes. The Sagers. They are good children. But I hold myself back very firmly with them. I train them to obedience and learning carefully. It would not do to repeat my mistake.’’ She looked around her hesitantly, noting the sunshine once more, and her husband standing before the group ready to preach.

“I must go to my husband’s side. He likes me at hand. He is so pleased to have a real flock to speak to today.’’

And the woman in gray was gone, leaving Maggie to search for her own little family, to thank God for their deliverance thus far, and to think how she might lavish more love upon them. There were too many already in this world grown distant and cold from fear of it. She understood this well. She’d already felt the very marrow in her bones growing chill when her foolish pride had kept her from Johnny for so long.

Gwen had done herself proud with her wedding dress stitched in secrecy by candlelight. It was teal blue merino with fitted sleeves. The waist was narrow and came to a `V’ before ballooning out into a full, round skirt. There was a collar of lace around her neck, and bits of lace edging the sleeves from the underblouse, as well as a band of black velvet trimming the skirt. She’d made a charming bonnet of matching material. It lay flat over the crown of her head, with a ribbon tying it beneath her chin. Her blonde hair was done up in spaniel curls for the occasion.

Gwen was truly a fetching sight as she stood proudly before Dr. Whitman, her breasts heaving slightly with exhilaration. Beside her, Sam Thayer looked like the cat who’d swallowed the mouse in an ancient, snug frock coat, a white shirt, and a cravat borrowed from Johnny.

Sue Chandler was no less lovely. She’d not had the foresight to bring along a wedding dress, or even the cloth for one, so was married in her best yellow calico. Irish Hardisty did not mind one bit. He did not even seem to notice.

Irish was a little under the weather from having celebrated his upcoming wedding late into the previous night with most of the men of the party. This morning he looked at the object of his affections with a mixed expression of pleasure and confusion. Had he really committed himself? Apparently so. Everyone was looking at him as though he had. And Papa Chandler would surely take his shotgun to him if he pulled out at this point. Irish assayed another glance at his bride to be. She was fresh. She was full of the bloom of youth and love. And he ought to get married sometime. Especially now that Gwen was deserting him. He wasn’t at all used to fending for himself in the world.

For a final time Irish took in Sue’s soft brown hair, pert nose, smiling lips, petite figure, the feminine characteristics which had egged him on. She hadn’t Gwen’s authority, of course, but she had time to grow into it. She would do. With a sigh, Irish turned back to Dr. Whitman. His headache would go away eventually, but he’d be married forever. He might as well put his heart into it.

Marcus Whitman stood before the two couples, beckoning them a step closer. A smile was on his lips as he read them their rights and duties as husband and wife. He gracefully led them through their vows, to conclude with:

‘Rise up, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of the singing of birds is come,

and the voice of the turtle

is heard in our land . . .

Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away.’

“Let your joy together, your wisdom toward each other be as that of Solomon. Let your patience and steadfastness be that of Ruth. May you bring children into the new world to praise and love the Lord.’’ He raised his hands in benediction over them and uttered an “Amen.’’

A general sigh of pleasure and satisfaction spread from the group surrounding the newlyweds. Few of the women’s eyes were without tears. Even Grandma Richman snuffled into her voluminous handkerchief. Weddings were new beginnings, after all, and who could resist the fantasy of what new beginnings might bring? Hadn’t all of those present left behind everything they treasured most for this very fantasy?

Maggie herself found tears unexpectedly streaming down her face. She was remembering her own wedding back in Ohio. She and Johnny had married in September, too. He’d gone off the summer before under orders from Maggie’s father to grow and learn. He’d come back a full year later, after a week of autumn rains, bringing with him a preacher and the sun. Since then their joy had increased with the adoption of Jamie, the birth of their own daughter, the lessons they’d learned on the trail. She and Johnny were still growing. Weddings were more than new beginnings. They also made people grateful for what they’d hung on to.

Maggie looked down at Charlotte. She’d been pulling at her mother’s skirts, almost unnoticed, saying, “Ma-ma, Ma-ma’’ over and over. She was alarmed by her mother’s tears. Maggie wiped her eyes, smiled at her daughter and gave her a hug.

“It’s all right, Darling. Mama is just crying because she’s happy.’’

While the Stuart Party was celebrating the weddings, at ease in its joy and with the end of the journey in sight, Gentry and his brother Danites were not more than several hundred miles distant. They’d set up camp at a site that had harbored their prey not too long before. Gentry was discussing their future strategy.

“I say we take the cut-off around the Whitman Mission. It will shorten our trip. I intend to catch the train~and Winslow~before it makes the choice of the Cascades or the river.’’

“We’ve gone over this before, Jack. I still think this Winslow might have been travelling purposely for the mission itself.’’

Gentry shook his head at Hoskins and leaned over him for another go at the coffee pot.

“I say no. Winslow never would have been accepted as a candidate for captain of the train if he didn’t intend to go the whole way. And if it’s Indians he means to save, he’ll find plenty of them beyond the Cascades. From what you’ve told me of him during his Carthage days, though, he’s not the sort to go after the heathen. He probably means to set himself up in Oregon City with a sweet little white church like the one he ran off from. He left a rich parish, and you can’t tithe the heathen, gentleman.’’

A round of chuckles met Gentry as he tossed the dregs from his cup and rolled into his blankets. His muscles still ached from the hard ride of the past week. But a few more days and Winslow would be his! Gentry pulled the blankets more closely around his face as an image of Maggie Stuart’s bright hair and flashing eyes pushed Winslow out of his head. That vixen would be a pleasant reward, indeed. A fitting dessert to top off his dinner of revenge. And just maybe he’d throw in her husband’s Ramage press, too. Brigham would be pleased to find it waiting for him at the Great Salt Lake. The written word would be necessary to keep the newly arrived Mormon tribes in line with proper church teachings.

Gentry sighed with contentment. Soon it would all be his. But he’d keep the subject of the printing press to himself. No point in spreading the credit for what he now intended as his own special present to Brigham.

Before they departed the morning after the weddings, Maggie went up to the Whitman’s storehouse and squandered four whole dollars on ten pounds of potatoes. She clutched them to herself like a talisman all the way back to her wagons, turning only to gaze a final time on the brown clay bricks of the mission buildings.

Dr. Whitman had been as good as his word. He was leading two Indian men down to their camp. They would be the guides to set them upon the Columbia safely. The potatoes would be her own little remembrance of the place. They would be a sign that the fullness of the Willamette Valley so close, yet still so far, would soon enfold them all in its greenness and succor them. There were less than three hundred miles to go. Surely nothing could stop them from reaching their destination now.