by J. F. Collen
“Cornelia Rose Entwhistle, I do declare. Is this some mirage my brain, addled from nigh a year’s time in this wilderness, conjured to deceive me, or could I be blessed with a true visitation from my Rose?”
Nellie’s mouth fell open in a positively unladylike gawk. There before her, tall and handsome as ever, was her rejected suitor, Lawrence Simmons Baker. Mercy, curiosity again killed the cat! But for the fact that I permitted my daughters to climb this tower, I might have escaped this awkward encounter. Would it have been too much to grant, Oh Lord, for Baker to be occupied and away on assignment elsewhere? Must the arduousness of this journey be further augmented by ghosts from my past?
Suddenly, she giggled. Quite the handsomest ghost one could conjure, however. This fort holds many surprises—first manna from heaven, now a phantom of love forsaken. Her mind flip-flopped to her next concern as rapidly as her heartbeat quickened. I prithee Lord, detain Obadiah! Prevent his encounter with Baker. I have no desire to haunt him with yet another specter from my past.
“Why Lieutenant Baker,” Nellie said, extending her free hand. Mercy, I hope my breathlessness is merely a product of mounting the tower ladder and not residual silly schoolgirl enchantment.
“Captain Baker, at your service my little flower.” Baker bowed over Nellie’s hand. Suddenly he pulled her in close. “Have you come to find me? Have you reconsidered my offer of a lifetime of happiness?”
Nellie shook her head no with vehemence. She pulled back, squishing the bread tightly under her arm, and looked wildly around for her daughters.
A voice sounded behind her, interrupting the awkward scene. They turned and saw a large hat floating up the ladder through the opening to the tower platform. Nellie giggled. How curious. A disembodied hat sent from heaven to alleviate this uncomfortable tête-à-tête and mercifully inject a humorous note.
The hat caught on the ladder’s top rung. There was a scuffling sound and a red-faced man jumped up to the platform, hat in hand. Nellie laughed.
“Allow me to formally introduce myself, Captain. I am Wilburforce Wells.” The peculiar man from Nellie’s wagon train rushed from the ladder to Baker and began pumping his hand. Baker looked both nonplused and confused. Wilburforce said, “I am the man who inquired down in the fort proper—how does one learn to be a tracker?”
“You little cotton-picker, I do recall. You have a most unexpected manner, my dear fellow,” drawled Baker, smoothing his mustache, an attractive addition since Nellie had last seen him five years ago.
Nellie looked down to hide her smile and her emotions. Baker even has charm when stating the obvious.
Baker grabbed the man’s arm and led him away from Nellie. “I do apologize. I’ve been busier than a moth in a mitten, and it plumb slipped my mind. Here, boy, you must dialogue with some of our Pawnee braves. There are many who live in the vicinity and trade at the fort. Bless your pea-picking heart, in point of fact, I do believe there are some braves loitering about the trading post, right this very minute.” Baker pointed toward the trader’s post and dismissed Wells with a curt nod.
Wilbur clambered back down the ladder. Nellie heard him miss the last two rungs, cuss under his breath and stumble to the ground. Baker stepped back toward her, again a little too close.
“Now, my sweetest little flower,” he drawled, offering her his arm. “May I escort you to my officer’s quarters?” he asked. Not expecting an answer, he took her hand and turned toward the ladder.
Nellie stood, feet planted. She pulled her hand back and adjusted her loaf of bread. “Not without my daughters,” she replied, smiling sweetly into his eyes.
“My word you have been extremely busy,” Baker said, as Nellie pulled her daughters from the wall where they stood on tiptoes peering over it. Nellie bent her head to hide her blush and assembled her girls in front of her like a shield. Her hands on her daughters’ shoulders, her bread tucked under her arm, Nellie raised her eyes to meet those of the tall captain.
“As I am sure have you,” said Nellie, deliberately ignoring the impertinence of his remark. “You have attained the rank captain! What, pray tell, do your duties entail?”
“Why, I command this fort. I survey the area, I negotiate with the railroad, I oversee the pioneers. My duties, you see, are quite extensive. Besides prospecting and arranging land leases with Grenville Dodge, the railroad surveyor, I supervise the distribution of supplies. The rest of my time, as you would expect, is spent on the obvious: I lead troops into battle, or dispatch them, as I see fit. We have some four hundred and fifty soldiers here at this present juncture.” He pointed down into the square below them. “Observe, my little Rose, the execution of my orders as I speak—twenty-five government wagons begin their journey to Fort Laramie, loaded to the gills with provisions.”
The Wright ladies looked appropriately impressed with this information. The reaction encouraged Baker to continue. “Yessir. One hundred and twenty-five yokes of oxen, hauling six tons of precious provisions to a wagon, from iron kettles to desiccated vegetables, constitute that train.
“Our timber for this fine village of houses was imported all the way from Missoura,” Baker mispronounced in his pride-filled southern drawl, gesturing to the cluster of houses just below them.
“Captain Baker, we have been imported all the way from Sing Sing, New York,” Emma said, with an earnest look at the formidable man.
He gave a hearty laugh. “I see you have inherited your mother’s pluck and wit.” Nellie smiled at her daughter and at the sideways compliment. How lovely to be known and appreciated.
“Your little one has a discerning eye. She knows I am not telling a thumper when I list my credentials.” Baker winked at Emma, who blushed and stepped behind Nellie’s skirt. “I welcome you little ladies. You now stand at the Gateway to the Great Plains.
“I insist that you spend your short stay here in my house,” Baker drawled. He stepped a pointed toe forward, and executed a grand bow ending in a flourish of his hand. The little girls giggled and Nellie suppressed a grin. He again reached for Nellie’s gloved hand. “If I do say so myself, the best one of the only eight wood frame houses is the place I call my home. Why should you spend your time here assembling your campsite only to dismantle your handy work upon departure in two days’ time? My housekeeper will provide you access to our laundry kettles.”
Baker stepped in again, just a little too close, lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes smiling at her. “Land sakes, I’m grinnin’ like a possum eating a sweet tater. Does a man’s heart glad to see your beautiful face again, my little Primrose. Allow me the small pleasure of saving these beautiful hands from a few menial tasks in your journey of grand deprivations and hardships.”
I would never have thought my joy would peak upon hearing the words laundry kettles, Cornelia grinned to herself. She gave Baker a small curtsey and looked into his eyes with delight, then hurriedly cast them back down. Mercy! I must ensure my joy at a laundry kettle and two nights of comfortable sleep does not convey an altogether different message to the ever-enchanting Captain Baker. I’ll grant the man this—he certainly has not lost his Southern charm.
“I must confer with my husband, of course,” Nellie said. Baker’s face fell. “Although, I am most certain he too shall be delighted at your hospitality.”
Baker’s eyes clouded with emotion as he said, “My joy knows no bounds at the sight of you. Whatever the circumstances, fate has seen fit to deliver you to me. I shall not vanquish my claim so easily this time.”
Nellie frowned at the implications of his statement and pulled her daughters toward the ladder. They backed down, leaving Baker at the top.
“I suppose there are some benefits to encountering your beaus throughout this vast land,” growled Obadiah when Nellie caught up with him at the trading post. He pulled the fresh loaf of bread from under Nellie’s arm and broke an uneven chunk from the edge. He took a large bite, closed his eyes, and chewed with evident satisfaction. When he had swallowed, he smiled
and said, “Fresh bread and some fresh straw tick on a tightly pulled rope bed! Now that’s a fine treat, even for a jealous husband, after 150 hard miles walked, far away from civilization.”
Desperate times call for desperate measures, thought Nellie with a giggle. Or should I quote Shakespeare’s line in The Tempest, ‘misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows’?
Chapter 30 – Escape
New Fort Kearney, Nebraska Territory, April 1857
If I had my druthers, I would choose dodging old beaus over walking the leather off my boots, any day. Moreover, the sport certainly accelerates time, making my days fly by. The duration of our respite at Fort Kearney seemed a mere heartbeat’s length. Two nights on proper linen sheets constituted a luxury I feared I might never again experience. Now that we take our leave and I have skirted every opportunity for confrontation, I must confess, at least to myself, my delight at Baker’s many attempts to charm me.
The wagon repacked, Nellie looked at the two-story box colonial house and sighed. It seems I must repeatedly renounce civilization and the last vestiges of its amenities. The Lord teases me with little tastes of my former comfort only to force me to forsake them again.
Nellie tugged the ox team into line behind the still overflowing wagon of the Wilton family. Unthinking, she bent and retrieved the youngest Wilton daughter’s cornhusk doll, the latest casualty of the common happenstance of spillage. She handed the doll to Emma, seated on the wagon tongue, to hold, until one of them desired a walk ahead for a visit with the Wilton’s wagon.
She turned at the sound of hoofbeats. Baker and his horse appeared at her elbow.
Captain Baker swept off his hat, its plume billowing grandly. “Come at once, Cornelia Rose Entwhistle Wright,” he commanded.
Nellie squinted up at the commanding figure on the high horse. “I beg your pardon?”
“One of my soldier’s wives has labored for over twelve hours now. Something is amiss. She needs immediate medical attention.”
“Surely the post’s surgeon,” Nellie said, eyebrows frowning.
“Hell, Nellie, she’s the wife of my sergeant major. That gentleman is the closest thing to kin I’ve had since I left my mama. The post’s surgeon doesn’t know a lick about birthing. I’ve oft heard him say ‘just leave it to the womenfolk—they’ve been birthing babies out for centuries’. My man is distraught beyond imagination. You must save this poor woman.”
Nellie hesitated. Her natural inclination was to drop everything to heed the call of her profession, but a tiny part of her was suspicious of Baker and the actual need for her aid in the emergency. All during their fairytale reprieve from the arduousness of travel, Nellie wondered whether Baker would make a last ditch effort to detain her. Is this his scheme for melodrama, coming to fruition? Is this emergency merely a ruse? She kept pace with the forward progress of the train as she contemplated her reply.
Nellie turned with relief at the sight of Obadiah running toward them.
“Trouble?” he called as he approached.
“I am faced with a dire need for a midwife,” Baker answered. “We have a complicated birth that requires your wife’s healing gifts.”
“We cannot stop the train,” replied Obadiah. “We cannot afford to dally here any longer. Delay would jeopardize the entire company’s chances of timely, safe arrival in California.”
“Jiminy cricket, not the train. I only need your wife,” Baker said, staring down at Obadiah. Mercy, that statement hardly addresses Mr. Wright’s concerns.
Obadiah tweaked his mustache and looked puzzled. “Surely you have a surgeon or someone at your establishment who usually attends these matters?”
“This situation is extraordinarily grave. The complications presented are far beyond anyone’s capacity,” replied Baker, trying to keep his horse in line with the wagon’s slow moving pace.
“Not the priest’s,” countered Obadiah.
Nellie drew in her breath sharply.
“Surely, we cannot abandon someone to the jaws of death who may be still be salvaged from a terrible tragedy,” Nellie cried. She looked at her husband in shock. “Death confronts us at every turn on this trail. Word came this morning that the thunderstorm yesterday smote two men and one child in a train ahead of us. I am armed with these skills and duty-bound to use them when called. Surely you understand?”
Obadiah caught her hand. “If you must,” he said, but through gritted teeth. “But at what cost? Moreover, how in heaven’s name will you rejoin us?”
Baker seized his advantage. “I shall send a military envoy with Mrs. Wright to return her to your wagon train, wherever its location.”
Nellie shook her head. “Mr. Wright, I feel compelled to at least diagnose this medical emergency. If the circumstances are not as dire as Captain Baker foretells, I can prescribe care for the poor woman and rejoin the wagon before our noon repast. In this wilderness, both my training and my Christian obligation dictate my response.”
“I cannot spare our horse,” said Obadiah.
Nellie raised her eyebrows. Is that truly the reason for his reluctance to agree to my decision?
Baker quickly interjected, “I will transport your wife now and dispatch her the moment her skills are no longer required.”
In an instant, Nellie climbed into the back of her wagon and retrieved her medical bag, along with a basket of herbs and potions commonly used in birthing. She kissed her daughters, wrapping them in tight hugs. She smiled at Obadiah, who held her eyes for a long moment. At last he helped her mount the back of Baker’s horse. Sitting sidesaddle, she clung onto the leather of Baker’s saddle to prevent herself from having to wrap her arms around him.
Baker wheeled the horse around and galloped to the sergeant major’s quarters. It was quite the rough ride. Is time truly of the essence, or does Baker simply ride as roughshod as possible to compel me to hold him, for fear I shall slide off? Determined to keep her distance, Nellie hung on to the saddle with all her might. Baker looked down at her and with one strong arm pulled her up off the side of the horse and put her in front of him, all the while still galloping. Nellie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Twould have been a pity to die on my way to saving a life. She relaxed, just a smidge, into the security of his arms.
Nellie rushed into the birthing room. With one look, her stomach dropped to her knees. Baker’s dire assessment of the progress of this birth was understated! A cursory examination revealed the woman, almost comatose on the bed, slipping in and out of consciousness, her loss of blood significant.
Tarnation. Here we have maternal exhaustion, hemorrhaging, prolonged second stage delivery with little progress. Mercy! Nellie spoke gently to the woman, in spite of her apparent lack of consciousness. “I shall now perform a quick internal examination to determine our best course of action.”
Nellie diagnosed the baby’s distress. It was lodged in a sideways position that prevented it from entering the birth canal. Would that it were an earlier point in the delivery, the mother could use our exercises to shift the position of the baby. Impossible now. Lord, help me. There is little time to rectify this matter. Forceps assistance offers the only possibility for saving either life.
Without exchanging any introductions or pleasantries, Cornelia gave orders to the woman standing in the room to reheat the kettle, obtain more linens, and retrieve medicines and salves from her bag. Nellie sterilized the forceps and gently inserted one blade. She reached the baby and slowly tried to turn it. With her other hand, she massaged the mother’s abdomen, trying to manipulate the baby’s position from the outside while she continued to guide the forceps blade within.
Please Lord, guide me, and let me help preserve the lives of these two souls, Nellie prayed, as she carefully turned the baby’s body. Soon she felt it line up, head first, with the birth canal. She slipped in the other blade of the forceps and gently guided the baby forward. Nellie was oblivious to all else around her, all thoughts of Baker, Obadiah, and her journey gone from her hea
d as she concentrated on the task before her.
Carefully, carefully, she admonished herself. Patience, patience, she cautioned.
It seemed an eternity passed as Nellie, with an unfaltering hand, persevered in her ministrations.
“Here she is!” Nellie exclaimed. “Alleluia.” The hands of the woman assisting her reached out and took the baby, as it gave a weak, but audible, cry. Nellie spun back to the mother, leaving the baby to the other woman’s care. This alarming loss of blood keeps this woman grappling with the grim reaper.
“Where are the needles I requested sterilized?” she asked. The woman guided Nellie’s hand to a linen, right at her elbow, where the needles lay, properly cleaned and threaded with her best silk thread. Nellie picked one up while her other hand remained pressed firmly on the largest rip in the tissue. Mayhap some thread will close the tears and facilitate the repair.
Her able assistant, the unknown woman from the fort, handed the baby to someone else and aided Nellie, applying more pressure to stem the bleeding while Nellie stitched.
Slumped over the table in the kitchen, uncharacteristically displaying bad posture, the trauma of the last several hours engulfed Nellie. Inert, she stared at her cup of tea, now lukewarm at best, not conscious of the passage of time.
A hand swam into her vision, interrupting her trance by placing a warm biscuit with melting butter atop it in front of her. Manna from heaven or the equivalent, the post’s bakery.
Captain Baker sat down and pulled his chair close to hers. “My word, little Primrose, you are beyond doubt a miracle-worker,” he drawled in his disarming southern accent.
Nellie shook her head and looked at him, blinking her dazed eyes. She caught a whiff of the enticing odor steaming from the baked good. Suddenly, she was ravenous. She smiled at Baker’s thoughtfulness. Straightening into her usual good posture, she spread the butter towards the end of the biscuit and cut it into a bite-size piece. In a dainty motion, she picked up the fork and nibbled.