by Judith Pella
“That would be preferable. Is she not a Christian?”
“She’s as God-fearing as they come. It’s just that . . . it ain’t never set well with her what she done when she came to Texas. She only did it for my pa. He was set on having land and—”
“And he converted to Papism in order to do so?” Benjamin’s words were far more an accusation than a question. Logically, he could understand the difficult position of the settlers, but in his heart he could not abide the choice they had made in rejecting their born faith for material gain. Perhaps these people had little choice, yet he saw them as weaker for it.
“In our hearts we’re still Methodists, Reverend.” Hunter’s tone was understandably defensive. “It’s just on paper that we are Catholic.”
“You minimize both faiths by your actions.”
“We had to have land. What else could we do?”
“Whatever you did in the past, Mr. Hunter, you must now turn from those things. Humble yourself before God and implore His mercy.”
“That’s just what my ma wants to do, Reverend. That’s not to say I oughtn’t to do it, too, but right now she’s my main concern. Will you come to my place and speak to her? It’s been a powerful long time since we seen a preacher. There ain’t even been a priest through here since . . . I can’t remember when.”
“I will come, Mr. Hunter. Where do you live?”
“Northeast of here a mite. If we leave now and ride hard, we’ll get there late this afternoon.”
For the first time Benjamin hesitated. He could not forget, though he almost had, what awaited him at his own home. “I don’t know how soon I can leave,” he said, desiring to do the right thing. “We only just arrived last night, and I don’t like leaving my family alone in this strange place so soon.”
“I hate to be pushy, Reverend, but I just don’t know how long my ma’ll hang on.”
Benjamin chewed on his lip in thought. “Come back to my cabin with me.”
By the time they arrived at the cabin, everyone was awake. Isabel was playing outside in the front yard, and Micah had passed them on the path carrying a bucket in order to fetch water from the creek. Ramsey had gathered a load of firewood and was carrying it to the cabin. Benjamin relieved him of the wood and, asking both men to wait outside, headed toward the cabin. He deemed it wise to confront his wife outside the earshot of strangers.
Upon entering the cabin, Benjamin saw Rebekah bent over the low hearth of the stone fireplace attempting to place a castiron kettle on a hook. Benjamin strode up to his wife, laid his burden of wood down near the hearth, then reached for the kettle.
“Let me do that,” he said gently. He knew he had to make up for her anger last night and for the decision he had made as he approached the cabin with Mr. Hunter.
Rebekah stood aside, giving him a cold glance, unsmiling, unwelcoming.
“Rebekah, I must speak to you.” He fastened the kettle into place, then reached for a handful of the smaller branches of wood to use for kindling. “Please get me my tinderbox.” He arranged the branches under the kettle.
She found the tinderbox in his knapsack and gave it to him. In a few minutes he had a nice blaze going.
Straightening his back, Benjamin looked around the cabin. “It is amazing how much a fire does to warm a home and make it cozy.”
She replied only with a sour look.
He rubbed his hands together over the flames. “Rebekah, God has confirmed to me how vital is my mission to Texas. I have been here less than a day and already there is an urgent call for my ministrations. Isn’t that wonderful? A man has come seeking for me to visit his dying mother. I doubt they have seen a minister in at least a year. Imagine that! No spiritual guidance for that long! This place is truly ripe and ready for harvest. Haden might have been jesting when he said Texas needed men like me, but it was God’s truth nonetheless.” He paused and looked at his wife, hoping for some break in her icy demeanor. There was nothing. He almost preferred her tears to this. He forged ahead. “I must be gone about three days—”
“What?” A crack now appeared in the ice.
“The Hunter place is a day’s ride away.”
“How could you, Benjamin!”
“Why can’t you support my ministry?” he retorted, forgetting his desire to be conciliatory. “You did when we were first married. You basked in being a minister’s wife! Now you behave like a heathen." He grabbed a chunk of wood and tossed it into the fire. Sparks sprayed everywhere, and he had to step aside to avoid them singeing his boots.
“I can’t believe you would consider leaving me—leaving your helpless family in this Godforsaken wilderness. We don’t even know where we are. Our nearest neighbor is more than five miles away. I haven’t even a—“ She stopped as her voice broke in emotion, and her ice melted altogether. New tears sprang to her eyes. “There’s not even a stove to cook on.”
Her voice shook, and Benjamin could not tell if it was with anger or misery.
“We don’t even know where to get water. Micah could be lost forever trying to find it. And what about Indians—”
“There are no hostiles in these parts.”
“How do you know that? Because the mission board told you? The same people who forgot to tell you your predecessor had been arrested?”
The truth of the words stung, but Benjamin focused only on the tone and attitude in which they had been spoken. “Rebekah, bridle your tongue before you say something you will regret.”
“My only regret is that I came here in the first place.”
“Please, Rebekah, I don’t want to leave like this.”
“Oh, you want my blessing? Is that it?” Her sarcasm was especially ugly coming from her usually soft-spoken voice.
“I will speak to Mr. Ramsey. I’m sure he will agree to remain here a few days to help out.”
“I don’t want Mr. Ramsey. I want my husband!”
“You cannot always have what you want. I belong to God. You know He comes first.”
“Go then!” she yelled in a most ungodly way. “Good riddance, too! We will manage just fine without you. It will be nothing new for us.”
“Rebekah . . .”
He came to her and put his arms around her, but her body stiffened in his embrace. He tried to remember when it had been different, when she had responded to his affection. But those early years of their marriage when it had been so were dim in his memory now. He held her anyway and kissed her forehead, taking a very small comfort in the fact that she did not pull away. Perhaps a few days apart was just what they needed after all. It would cause her to appreciate him more. They both had known from the beginning that his job as a Texas circuit rider would take him away from her for long periods, though he did conveniently forget that he had never asked her if it was what she wanted.
He felt bad that his job had to take him away so soon, but he could not ignore God’s call. He never had in the past, and he never would.
CHAPTER
17
LIZ WIPED BACK A COIL of hair from her eyes, smearing a swath of soapsuds across her nose as she did so. She brushed a damp sleeve over her nose, then continued washing the shirt in the big wooden tub.
Texas was not New Orleans. Here a small aura of respectability was needed to cover Maurice Thomson’s business, so he had put his girls to work doing laundry for the many single men in the settlement. Of course, most folks knew what really went on but were apparently quite willing to overlook the hidden activities. There weren’t enough women around to make a loud protest, and the men, well, they certainly weren’t going to protest, now, were they?
Thomson had settled his entourage on his brother’s land about five miles west of San Felipe. Lyle Thomson was more than happy to welcome them. He was a bachelor with the same moral fiber as his brother. He had only a two-room cabin, but he and Maurry set about immediately to add on a couple of rooms for what they hoped would become a burgeoning business. Even when the rooms were finished, the girls would
only have cubicles separated by thin walls. Privacy was almost completely obliterated by expediency.
Liz rubbed the shirt against a board to get out the sweaty dirt. The thing hadn’t seen the benefit of water for years, nor had its owner. He was with Gina now, poor thing—Gina, not the oaf who owned the shirt.
Sighing, Liz dropped the shirt in the tub filled with clear water. In an hour, Gina, or one of the other girls, would be doing the laundry for one of Liz’s customers. That was the usual routine.
Routine.
Yes, it had become so. Liz had come to accept her life. Struggle was not only futile, it was upsetting. Acceptance seemed the only way to obtain for herself and Hannah a life of relative peace. She had given up any serious thoughts of running away or of being rescued. The only one who might possibly rescue her was her father, and . . . well, it had always been futile to count on him for much of anything. She had even dismissed from her mind the mysterious painting of her mother. She’d asked Maurry about it, but he had been vague in his answer. It certainly was nowhere in the cabin. And what good would seeing the painting do anyway? Just give her another impossible fantasy to long for.
Another outward sign of Liz’s surrender was her acceptance of the name Mae had dubbed her with that first day. She ceased being Elise. She was now a slave and a “soiled dove” named Liz. It far better suited what she had become. The more she thought of herself in those terms and the less she remembered the genteel lady named Elise, the more peace she had.
And Hannah, far more than she, needed that desperately. Though Hannah had recovered from the illness on the ship, she was becoming what Mae called a “sickly child.” She almost always seemed to have a runny nose and a bit of congestion. She was not growing as Liz believed a child should. Liz recalled her sister-in-law saying her baby had sat up on his own at six months. At five months, Hannah had not even rolled over on her own power. She rarely smiled. Mostly she cried. Even now Liz imagined she could hear the baby’s pathetic whimpers. And that was reason enough for Liz to do whatever she had to do to get a normal life, at least one free of strife for the child.
“Liz!” Mae called from the cabin.
Liz looked up. The woman’s voice was full of frustration. She had left Hannah in Mae’s care while she did the wash.
“What is it?” she asked with no small trepidation.
“This kid woke up crying, and I can’t get her to quiet down.”
So she hadn’t been imagining it at all. “I’ll be right there, Mae.” Liz wrung out the shirt, laid it across a line Lyle had built in the yard, then trod back to the cabin.
No wonder Hannah was crying, Liz thought, entering the room in the cabin where the girls lived. Not only were the six of them cramped into the small room, but customers were also entertained there. However, until the new rooms were built, Maurry agreed that only two customers, privated behind two curtained cubicles, could be handled at a time. There was now noise from both cubicles, not to mention conversations among the other girls.
“I tell you that’s my blouse you’re wearing!” Ruby hovered over Belinda as if she would rip the garment from the girl’s body.
“It is not! Mae, tell her. You was with me when I bought it.”
Mae was holding the crying baby and could not be bothered with the petty argument. “Liz, do something with this baby!”
“Yeah!” came a male voice from behind one of the curtains.
Liz took Hannah. She was a bit warm, no doubt from having just woken from her nap, but her nose was crusted with secretions, and her cries sounded like rattles.
“Oh, babe . . .” Liz’s tone was gentle but revealed her frustration. “What’s wrong now? Maybe you’re just hungry.”
“I’m warming some milk for her,” Mae said.
Liz gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mae.”
Except for Sheila, who wanted nothing to do with Hannah and constantly complained about the child’s noise, the other girls were fairly fond of the baby. At least they played with her and fed her when Liz was busy.
Liz held Hannah against her shoulder, bouncing her gently as she liked when she was crying. Mae poured the warm milk into a bottle and gave it to Liz, who first tested the temperature, then gave it to Hannah. But the baby wasn’t much interested because it was hard for her to breathe when she sucked the liquid. Liz turned questioning eyes on Mae.
“You got more of them leaves that woman on the ship gave you?”
Liz shook her head dismally. “Used them up last week.”
“When I was croupy like that,” offered Ruby, distracted momentarily from the dispute over the blouse, “my ma would rub bear grease on my neck and make me drink it, too.”
“Camphor is what you need,” countered Belinda. “Mix it with a little spirits and hartshorn. Rub that on her throat and it’ll fix her right up.”
“Suddenly everyone is an expert on child care,” Mae observed. “Wasn’t long ago you didn’t know one end from the other.”
“Well, we been trying to put some thought to it seeing as how Hannah is one of the girls now—” Belinda stopped, lifting apologetic eyes to Liz. “I’m sorry, Liz, I didn’t mean . . .”
“That’s all right,” Liz didn’t make her finish. She knew it had been an innocent faux pas, though the words still stung. But it was an issue Liz could not—would not—let herself think of. She could only think of the here and now. If she worried about the future, she would go insane. “Anyway, I appreciate all of you. Ruby, I don’t think I’m going to put bear grease on my child, but next time I get to town I’ll see if I can find camphor.”
“That still don’t help the problem now,” Mae said practically.
“Maybe just plain steam would help,” Liz said. “I’ll get a kettle from the kitchen.”
“I’ll do it, Liz. You just sit and rock that child.” Mae headed for the room across the dog run where the kitchen was located and where Maurice and Lyle lived.
Liz sat in the rocking chair with Hannah. Humming a little tune, she tried to block out her surroundings—the bickering of the girls, the sounds behind the curtains, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. She thought it would help if she could think of something pleasant, but there wasn’t much. Thinking of her previous life was out of the question, and her present life simply did not fit the bill. All that came to her mind was the kind lady she had met aboard the ship.
Rebekah Sinclair had seen Liz for the person she was inside, not for what she did. It was really quite incredible. The respectable women Liz had thus far encountered in the settlement had not been nearly so accepting. Of course, it got around quickly what Liz was and what she did, and probably these women had every right to avoid her. She represented a threat to them and also a reminder of what could so easily become of any of them if they lost the security of a husband or a father. Thus, it was no surprise to her that conversations became hushed when she entered a store. Or that she was given a wide berth whenever she passed a lady on the street.
Not so with Mrs. Sinclair. Could it have had something to do with her being a minister’s wife? Liz didn’t think so, because the Rev. Sinclair had been full of rebuke and judgment. She knew that most of the ladies in the settlement claimed to be Christians. But Rebekah Sinclair had said that Jesus wouldn’t have turned away from her and that Rebekah would be no Christian if she saw a need and ignored it. Obviously she had a different idea of Christianity than these others—than even her own husband.
Rebekah had said something else, too. What was it . . . ? That she shouldn’t base her personal faith on others because people can be so fallible. That was why she had given Liz her New Testament.
Liz felt bad that she hadn’t read it yet. There was so little time— no, that wasn’t the real reason. It simply felt sacrilegious to read holy writings in her present situation. She supposed she could walk a ways into the woods.
“Yes, Hannah, I think I will do just that.” She smiled at the baby, who had quieted a bit.
Liz reason
ed that she had nothing else good in her life besides Hannah. Perhaps if she could find something else, she could survive. She had never thought of Christianity as more than attending church on Sundays and the occasional social where the ladies gossiped and the men argued politics. Actually, as she had once told the slave Hattie at the Hearne plantation, God and religion had never been important to her. She had never given such matters any thought at all.
Hattie had said God might be punishing her for her lack of interest, but Rebekah, instead, had told her of a God of love. She said it was that God—the God of love—she herself clung to. Perhaps, too, it was that God who gave Rebekah her loving spirit. Liz thought of the way Rebekah had spoken the words “That is the God I cling to.” She’d meant it in the most passionate sense, as if God were a lifeline. Liz had been so wrapped up in her own problems at the time that she hadn’t noticed just what Rebekah had meant. That kind and compassionate woman did not have a life in perfect order. Now Liz could see the undertones of dissension Rebekah probably had with her husband and certainly her unhappiness in making the move to Texas.
Rebekah Sinclair was not a happy woman. Yet she found contentment in her loving God. Perhaps Rebekah’s God could offer the same to Liz.
“Soon as I get you settled, Hannah, I’m going to get that Bible and find a quiet place in the woods. I’m going to find out for myself about this man Jesus.”
CHAPTER
18
AFTER THAT FIRST CALL ON John Hunter’s mother, heavy rains from a hurricane in the gulf kept Benjamin at the cabin longer than he had planned. Rebekah, of course, was pleased about the delay. And in truth, Benjamin felt better about beginning his work after he had laid in a good supply of wood and meat for the winter. John Hunter, as payment for Benjamin’s services, offered his help around the cabin for two days. He went hunting with Benjamin and bagged a deer and a couple of turkeys. Benjamin had shot nothing, or at least he didn’t hit anything at which he fired.