by Judith Pella
“You never did belong here.” Mae’s voice was suddenly husky.
“Neither do you, Mae.”
The older woman shrugged. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Liz only nodded. They both knew they might never see each other again.
The heightened energy from a midnight flight kept Liz going for some miles. When that wore off, weariness attacked her like a ferocious beast. Her arms were numb, her shoulders ached, her feet, clad in old boots that might have been made for dancing but certainly not for hiking miles over broken, slippery terrain, felt like stumps of sheer pain. The hem of her skirt was also soaked, weighing her down like lead. At least Hannah felt fairly dry.
In the dark, Liz could scarcely discern her direction, but earlier in the week she had taken a walk a short distance in the proper direction and left subtle markers. She had encountered them all, obliterating them the moment they were found. But there were no more markers now. Only instinct and a lot of prayer were left to guide her.
By the time daylight came, she judged she might have traveled five or six miles—a distance Maurry could cross in less than an hour on horseback. So despite her weariness, she pushed on, stopping only for short breathers. She kept off the trail as much as possible. Once, when she saw a rider coming from the opposite direction, she veered so far into the woods that she lost track of the trail altogether. Still she trudged on. If she discovered she was going in the wrong direction . . . well, she would deal with it when the time came.
Along about noon—though she could not tell exactly because it was still raining and there was no sun to judge by—she knew she had reached the limits of her endurance. Retreating to a part of the woods where the canopy of trees was thickest, she found a stout trunk and crumpled down, using the tree as a backrest. She made a kind of tent of the mackintosh to protect them from the moisture that found its way past the trees. Now, more than ever, she could feel rivulets of water running down her back. But she made sure none fell upon Hannah.
The baby was so quiet Liz had to bite back panic. She was still alive but her breathing was shallow. And while Liz was shivering with cold, Hannah was hot to the touch. If only it meant that the child was snug and warm, but Liz feared another fever had crept upon her.
“You need some nourishment, sweetheart,” Liz murmured. Getting into the bag without soaking everything was awkward, but she finally managed to remove some jerky and bread and the water bottle. “No milk, honey, but have some water.”
She touched several drops to Hannah’s lips but the child made no response. “Come on, Hannah. You need this. Take it for Mama, all right?”
After a bit of coaxing, Liz got her to take in a couple sips of water and a few crumbs of bread. Only then did Liz take food for herself. She ate sparingly because she judged she had only about two days’ worth of food. It would take twice that and more to get to her destination.
Though she knew it would be impossible to sleep in the rain under the poor shelter of the mackintosh, she closed her eyes. She surprised herself when she suddenly jerked awake. Had she slept a few minutes? A few hours? She could not tell but felt rested enough to continue the journey.
The rain had stopped while she slept, but the sun still made no appearance, and heavy black clouds continued to hang in the sky. Shortly after she began her trek, she struck upon the road again.
“Thank you, God!” she murmured.
A little later she passed close to a cabin. How inviting was the smoke curling from the chimney, even if it was buffeted about by wind. But she had to avoid contact with others. There was no way she could innocently explain why she was trekking through the woods with a baby on such a miserable day. And even if some benevolent soul didn’t care who she was and offered her an hour of warmth and shelter, there was always the chance that word of her passing would get back to Maurry. The settler might let a word slip next time he was in town about the strange woman and baby he had helped. That could get back to Maurry, who would then know his runaway slave had gone north, not south.
No, she must avoid all contact at any cost.
However, that resolve was harder to adhere to when it began to rain again. She tried to tell herself that rain indeed was her friend, but— oh!—why did this friend have to cling so closely to her? The mackintosh was next to worthless as the wind whipped it up around her, making it more an obstruction than a help. Even Hannah was wet now.
Liz trod on through the second night and day, stopping only for a few minutes at a time to rest and eat. Late that afternoon she came to an outcropping of rock in a hilly expanse of the forest. She nearly whooped with delight when she discovered a small cave in the rocks. It went back into the rock about three or four feet and was about the same in height.
“Hannah! We’ve a home for the night.” She didn’t care that there were still a few hours of daylight good for traveling. She was going to sleep out of the elements, do or die.
Nestled in the dry cave, she slept better than she had in weeks. She was still cold and wet and stiff when she awoke, but there was no wind and rain lashing at her. If nothing else, this experience was teaching her to appreciate small blessings.
As if this signaled a celebration, she ate the last of her food after first coaxing Hannah to eat a bit. Then, with great reluctance, she started to prepare to leave their fine little hole.
The rustling of brush made her gasp and freeze. Had a stranger stumbled upon her? Had Maurry caught up with her?
At first she saw nothing. Then the creature moved, rearing up on his thick hind legs. A bear! It was about twenty feet away, but she knew the beast was looking at her, the errant intruder in his home.
Trying not to make any sudden moves, she slowly inched her hand around until it came to her bag. Just as carefully, she lifted the flap and removed the knife. What she could do against a three-hundred-pound bear with a kitchen utensil, she had no idea, but it gave her enormous comfort just to hold it in her hand.
Ready to do battle, she held her breath and waited. But all at once the beast lowered onto its four feet and, incredibly, lumbered away.
There had been many times in the days since her escape that she had felt so alone, so desperately alone, as if only her poor, frail body was all she had to fend off a thousand enemies. Yet now she knew she had never really been alone at all. She had been fair prey to countless wild animals, but none had molested her, nor had any highwaymen, whom she was certain were looking for helpless creatures such as she.
The dangers lurking in these wilds were countless, yet none had touched her. A picture sprang into her mind. As she held Hannah, protect.ing her from the elements and danger with her own body, Liz saw God holding her—nestled in His arm aswas cuddled in hers. Perhaps God was even big enough for her to ride in the palm of His hand.
Oh yes! He was big enough!
For some reason she could not fathom, He had taken a prostitute, surely the lowest of all human creatures, and extended His watchful care over her. In the New Testament, He had spoken to the woman at the well. Later He had rebuked the men who had been about to punish another prostitute. He had gotten into trouble for consorting with people whom the more respectable citizens deemed unworthy.
Now He was doing it again. And in a strange, inexplicable way, she no longer felt like the dirty whore she had been for so long. Just the fact that He cared about her made her feel clean.
Filled with renewed strength, Liz rose from the cave and continued on her journey. An hour later the sun came out, but the warmth in her heart was only partly from that source. Most came directly from the Source of all light, of all hope.
CHAPTER
31
HOW A CREATURE BARELY LARGER than his hand could make such noise, Benjamin had no clue.
The newborn had screamed until he was red in the face. And that must have reminded Leah that she was hungry also, because she started crying, too. But worst of all, Isabel, who was old enough to put words to her misery, added to the din.
“I want Mama!” she cried over and over.
Benjamin raked his hands through his hair. His head was throbbing. The incessant racket had rarely ceased since Haden had left four days ago.
“Isabel, be still!” he yelled. “You’re too old to act like that!” He regretted the harsh words as soon as they came out. At least he hadn’t slapped her, as he had been so close to doing.
He started toward the cradle, stumbled over something, finding, when he looked down at his feet, the dustpan. He kicked it out of the way, barely repressing an angry outburst. Besides all the noise of three miserable children, the cabin itself was in shambles. Dirty kettles and dishes were everywhere—who had time to wash up when the demands of the children were so pressing? Clothes, also, were strewn all over—very dirty clothes at that. Laundry was the least of Benjamin’s concerns. Yet it was close to becoming as large a concern as the newborn’s screams. With two babies in diapers, he was quickly running out. He’d seen that Rebekah sometimes dried out diapers that were only wet and reused them two or three times, but even using this method, the pile of unusable diapers was growing.
Filling the demanding stomach of a newborn quickly became his most overwhelming task. He had not the proper natural equipment, and any substitutes he tried were more often than not rejected. Micah, in one of his rare cooperative moments, told Benjamin that Haden, while on the trail, had sopped bread in water, wrapped it in cloth and dripped the resulting liquid into the baby. But the baby would be growing now and would need something more substantial than bread and water. It was only after much prodding that Micah remembered a feeding bottle his mother had in one of the cupboards. This contraption helped, but the baby often sputtered distastefully when the coned pewter spout was set to his lips.
The problem of what to feed the child was another headache. Benjamin berated himself for not paying more attention to such things in the past. Micah, again, was helpful in this, though Benjamin felt like a dentist extracting teeth to get any information from the boy. Micah had spent far more time around his mother than Benjamin liked to admit and had thus picked up a few helpful tidbits.
“Mama always boiled the milk first,” he offered upon being questioned by his father. “And she put water in it and some sugar.”
“How much sugar?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you must have an idea.” Benjamin, desperate as he was, could not help that his tone sounded like an interrogation. “A lot? A little? A pinch? A cup? How much, boy? If I make a mistake, the baby could get sick.”
The boy’s recalcitrant behavior should not have surprised Benjamin. Micah had been a burr in his side from the moment Haden had ridden off. When he wasn’t outright rebellious, he was silent and sullen. He helped only when threatened with physical reprisals—and even then Benjamin had to be pretty convincing. Not that Benjamin hadn’t taken Micah over his knee several times in the last four days.
“Don’t blame me!” Micah shot back defensively. “If you hadn’t killed Mama—”
“Enough of that!”
If this altercation proved no different from the others, Benjamin would react in one of two ways. Either he would smack Micah across the face or he would grab him for a more formal spanking. Micah would escape from the cabin if he was fast enough, which was usually the case since Benjamin most often had too many other distractions to go after him.
There were times, however, when those very distractions were actually welcome. More than all the mayhem in the cabin, the absolute worst times for Benjamin were those rare hours, usually late at night, when all four children actually slept at the same time and complete quiet reigned. Facing himself proved more terrifying than the plight of starving children and dirty diapers. He seldom slept, despite sheer exhaustion. His mind simply raced far too much to give way to sleep. Pain, guilt, confusion, and yes, even terror, plagued him. Prayer grew impossible because the words caught in his throat. How could he ask for God’s intercession when it became clearer each day just what a wretched soul he was? Everything Haden had told him and all the words in Rebekah’s letter replayed themselves over and over in his mind, accusing him of his failure. And it didn’t help that Micah chose to remind him almost every day that he was responsible for his wife’s death.
Infant screams penetrated his dismal thoughts, and he glanced gratefully down into the cradle. “I guess you are good for something, little fellow.”
He picked up the baby, but the screams did not cease. The child wanted food, not a father’s awkward touch.
“Micah!” Benjamin yelled, though it was obvious the boy was not in the cabin. He had escaped outside in the pouring rain. Benjamin opened the door. “Micah, get in here this instant!”
Micah poked his head out through the partially opened barn door.
“Are you finally milking the cow?” demanded Benjamin.
“The cow?”
“Don’t act dumb,” Benjamin snapped. “I asked you to do it an hour ago.”
“Why should I?” Micah retorted.
So he wasn’t going to act dumb, just belligerent. “Why? Why!”
Benjamin stammered, incredulous. He would never get used to such behavior. Whatever restraints had kept Micah obedient in the past were gone now.
Benjamin choked back his anger. He remembered his own father— the beatings, the scathing words. He still carried resentment toward his father for that, but now he wondered if he hadn’t driven the man to it.
“Your baby brother will die if he doesn’t get something to eat,” Benjamin’s voice shook. “Is that reason enough?”
This proved to be a good approach. At least it prodded Micah into action. He would do nothing for his father’s sake, but he had no grudge against his siblings.
A few minutes later Micah returned with a pail of milk. Benjamin was helplessly holding the unhappy baby. Isabel had tried to help by tending Leah, but while trying to fetch a toy, she had accidentally knocked Leah in the head. Leah was now wailing over the minor injury and Isabel was wailing out of sympathy or guilt.
As Benjamin rubbed the small red welt on Leah’s forehead, he told Micah to fix milk for the baby.
“I don’t know how.” Micah said, sloshing the pail onto the sideboard.
Benjamin cracked then. Spinning around from tending his crying daughters, he whipped out his free arm, grabbing Micah by the shoulder so quickly even the agile boy could not escape. With the newborn still tucked under one arm, Benjamin used the other to shake Micah soundly.
“What do you want from me, boy!” he shouted. “I admit it. I forced your mother away. I killed her! I am everything you believe me to be. I am a rotten, dirty sinner! The worst reprobate! A hypocrite, a miserable, no-good . . .” He floundered for a moment because he could think of no worse things to say. He gasped in a breath. “I deserve your hatred! But . . . I . . . I need help! I can’t do it. I can’t . . . dear God! I just can’t.”
Breathing hard, shaking all over, Benjamin stopped just short of joining all the other raving, crying beings in the cabin. Through it all, Micah stared silently. Benjamin could not tell if the boy had heard a word he’d said. The only hint that maybe something had penetrated was that Micah slowly began to prepare the milk. Slowly, methodically, with a cool deliberateness almost frightening to watch, he poured milk into a small pan, added water from the bucket, then sprinkled in a couple of teaspoons of sugar. Stirring this, he carried it to the hearth and set it over the flame. Contrary to his words, he knew quite well what to do.
Benjamin watched, as if observing a stranger, and he wondered if he had created some kind of cool, unfeeling monster.
A knock on the cabin door intruded into the scene as reality intrudes a nightmare. When the discordant sound finally registered with Benjamin, he was regaled with a new barrage of emotions. In a panic his gaze swept the cabin, which resembled a battlefield. His first thought wasn’t that help had possibly arrived, but rather he lamented that an outsider was about to see his life in such sh
ambles.
As the thought flickered into his mind, he nearly laughed. You fool! He silently berated himself. You have single-handedly destroyed your life and that of those you love, and still you worry about appearances! Benjamin Sinclair, you are the worst kind of reprobate.
The knock came again.
With an almost wicked, masochistic determination, Benjamin stalked to the door and flung it open.
What met his gaze was a creature that looked as wretched, dirty, and pathetic on the outside as he felt himself to be on the inside. And though the rain had stopped, his visitor was as soaked as the proverbial wet hen. In spite of strings of wet hair hanging in her face, which was sprinkled with splatters of mud, he recognized the countenance staring back at him. Only now the defiance and pride were gone, replaced by bone-deep weariness.
“R-Reverend S-Sinclair . . .” Her teeth were chattering with cold and her lips shook so badly she could barely speak.
“Miss . . . uh . . .” He could not think of her name. Had he ever heard it? Then it came to him—Liz—but before he could say it, she spoke.
“P-please . . . c-can I c-come in . . . ?”
“Yes, of course.” He stepped aside. “You’re soaking wet.” He meant the statement to be sympathetic, but it came out rougher than he had intended because he was still shaking from the encounter with Micah.
“I’m s-sorry."
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Is M-Mrs. S-Sinclair here?” She brushed a strand of wet hair away from her eyes and glanced over Benjamin’s shoulder. “I s-so want to s-see her.”
“That’s not possible.”
“P-please! I kn-know . . .” She paused a moment, biting her lip, seemingly in an attempt to get control over the chattering. “I know I’m not good enough for her, but . . . I don’t know, I just thought she was my only hope.”
Touched and indicted further by this woman’s words, Benjamin replied, “You don’t understand. It has nothing to do with you. Mrs. Sinclair . . . is gone . . . passed away.”