[Home To Blessing 01] - A Measure of Mercy

by Lauraine Snelling

  Joshua waved and nodded. Ever since they’d rigged up the pulley system, carrying the lumber to the next level had been easier. While they were building with wood as yet, Hjelmer was talking about building out of steel soon. As someone had told him, Hjelmer was always trying out the latest inventions Joshua looped the chain around the pallet that held the braces he had already cut to fit, tested it to make sure it was solid, and led the team out to pull up the load. The pulley and chains creaked and groaned as if someone were torturing them, and the load lifted into the air, swaying some with the motion. He watched as they unloaded it onto the boards that had been laid across the struts and then he backed the horses to lower the wooden pallet. Until he’d come up with this rig, they’d been carrying the wood up the ladder. The man on the ground had sawed while another one had nailed.

  For safety’s sake he banished all thoughts of Astrid from his mind while working. And since they worked until dark in the long evenings, the only thinking time he had was on the trips back and forth for supper and sleep. That’s when thoughts of Astrid took over. She’d been right when she’d said she probably wouldn’t have time to write much. He’d received a note from her a few days after she arrived in Chicago, and that was it.

  The woman at the farmhouse clanged the iron triangle, signaling that dinner was ready. Gilbert Brunderson and Trygve slid down the ladder, their feet barely touching the treads.

  “One more level, and we set the machinery,” Trygve said, wiping his forehead with a grimy handkerchief.

  “I think we should bring Mr. Sam out with us to do that,” Gilbert said. “Four pairs of hands will come in right handy.”

  Joshua nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing. The head on this windmill was heavier than the others due to the longer blades.

  “My neighbor off to the south came by and admired the mill,” the farmer told them, his hands shoved in his overall pockets as he eyed the windmill.

  Joshua nodded for him to continue. “Does he want me to come by and talk with him?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt none. His well went dry last summer. Can’t get too deep hand digging.” He led them to the washbasin set up on the porch. When they’d finished cleaning up, the men headed indoors, where the wife had the food dished up.

  “Have some more,” the missus said when the plates were nearing empty. “I got more on the stove.”

  The men nodded, and the bowls and platters made it around the table again. Sometimes one ate more because the food was so good, but sometimes one did so to be polite. This place was not like the boardinghouse or the Bjorklunds’.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The men took turns saying the words before they headed back out. Stepping out onto the porch, they drew their hats tighter down on their heads and pulled leather gloves from their rear pockets.

  “Lookin’ mighty fine,” the farmer said from behind them. “Matilda is making noises like now we can pipe water into the house too. Ain’t that the craziest thing?”

  “They sell hand pumps for the house at the mercantile in Blessing. Running water would make her life a lot easier.”

  “What would she do with all the extra time? Leastways she won’t have to crank it up out of the well no more.”

  Joshua and Trygve swapped looks. Why, she might have time to cook better food, Joshua thought but kept his comments from his face. One thing certain, when he had a wife, he planned to make sure she had house machinery like men had farm machinery. Or like the drill press back at the shop in Blessing that had an engine to run it.

  That evening the crew left a bit early since they wanted to hoist the head first thing in the morning when they were all fresh and had another set of hands. He’d thought to ask the farmer if he wanted to help them but thought the better of it. From the looks of the farm and the house, the man lacked some in work habits.

  “Pa would have something to say about that fellow.” Trygve slapped the reins, and the team picked up a trot.

  “Your pa sets a mighty fine example,” Joshua said. “No places cleaner and prettier than the Knutsons’ and the Bjorklunds’.”

  “Andrew’s too,” Trygve added. “Someday when I get married, I’ll do like he did. I think. But sometimes I dream of homesteading myself. Maybe head to western North Dakota somewhere. I’ve heard about the Badlands, and I’d like to see them.” He turned to Gilbert sitting in the wagon bed. “You ever thought of going west to homestead?”

  Gilbert nodded. “Ja, I think on it.”

  “Be smart like those first Bjorklund brothers were and make sure you have someone to start out with. From the stories you told me, the two working together made a mighty big lot of difference.” Joshua looked over at Trygve.

  “Ja, you get Mor and Tante Ingeborg talking about the early days, and it’s hard to believe what they went through. Both their husbands dying like that. Mor said she wanted to die too, but Tante Ingeborg wouldn’t let her. You know what the winters can be like here.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I don’t want to be a farmer, especially not here. But the grasshoppers took my father’s crop in Iowa last year, so there is always something, no matter where you settle.” Sometimes Joshua felt bad that he didn’t speak Norwegian. While Gilbert tried to follow their conversations, he most likely missed out on a lot.

  “You know, I was thinking. We could set up the cook shack for a place to sleep when we get farther away from Blessing. We wouldn’t have to camp under the stars or drive so far back each day.” Trygve braced his elbows on his knees, the lines loose in his hands. “They’ll be using that for harvesting pretty soon.”

  “True. Maybe it is time to build another one.”

  Joshua looked over his shoulder to the young man riding beside him. “You have a good head on your shoulders. I’ll mention it to Hjelmer. Or you can.”

  “Who’s going to help you after harvest starts? You know I’ll be going with the threshing crew.”

  Joshua shrugged. “No idea. It all depends on if we have more to do.”

  “Oh, Onkel Hjelmer will be bringing back lots of orders.”

  After they started drilling this well, Hjelmer had left on horseback to call on farmers. He had pictures drawn of the new windmills, and a photographer had taken pictures too, so he could show the real thing in action with cattle drinking from a full watering tank.

  “I hope you are right.”

  “Mor says he has the Midas touch.”

  “Oh.” He remembered hearing about King Midas in school but didn’t remember much. Joshua thought about asking, but he brushed it aside. “What else has he done?”

  “He used to be a gambler and won all the time.”

  “No one wins all the time.”

  “Maybe not, but when he won, he won big. Tante Penny made him promise to not gamble anymore.”

  “So he went into farming? Huh, that’s the biggest gamble of all, and most of the time you have no recourse.” His brother and the grasshoppers came to mind. The weather, the hoof and mouth that nearly wiped everyone out all over the West.

  “No, he’s worked on the farms, but he’s never cared much for farming. He apprenticed as a blacksmith, Mor said, in New York City before he came west. He likes to work with new inventions, new ideas, things like that.” Trygve nodded over his shoulder. “Like the windmills. He had an automobile for a while but said that was more for those living in bigger towns. We didn’t have gas to run it nor roads to run it on.”

  Joshua tucked all the information away for future thinking. He’d had a feeling from the first that he and Hjelmer had a lot in common. He had a couple of ideas of his own that he’d tried talking over with his brother Frank, but he was too hardheaded or just plain proud to use an idea from a younger brother, especially one who let his mouth get away at times. Perhaps what Pastor Solberg spoke on was true for him too. That God put people in places at certain times for certain things. What was it he’d said? Joshua lifted his hat and scratched his head. The words danced in, darted out, and brought others with
them. For such a time as this. He’d been talking about Queen Esther from the Old Testament.

  But he’d applied it to each of those sitting in the congregation, fanning themselves in the heat. Something else he’d said. Words did the same, only this time they played ornery and refused to join up. Something about a plan. But how did that fit with Astrid so far away? Or was that his own plan and not God’s?

  They trotted up to the livery and handed the team and wagon over to young Solberg, who’d been hired on to take care of the animals since Mr. Sam had all he could do with the blacksmith shop.

  Trygve waved as he and Gilbert jogged off across the fields toward home. They’d leave again before sunrise. He should have stayed in town. Ah, to have the energy of the young. Joshua snorted at himself. Here he was, not even thirty yet and thinking Trygve, at nearly eighteen, was so much younger. He set off for the boardinghouse whistling. Perhaps there would be a letter from Astrid. Now, that was something to pick up his pace for.

  “You have a letter. I put it in your room,” Miss Christopherson answered his greeting with the news, accompanied by a smile.

  “Thank you.” Joshua took the stairs two at a time. Surely it was from Astrid. In his haste he fumbled with the knob and nearly burst through the door. He could tell from across the room that the handwriting was not Astrid’s. He flung his hat toward the coat tree and crossed the room.

  Only Frank wielded a pencil like he was drilling a well. With foreboding weighing his shoulders, Joshua sat down on the edge of the bed to read. Of the family only his mother wrote to him.

  Dear Joshua,

  I write this with a heavy heart and sadness. Our mother went to be with our Lord last week, Monday. She was fine in the morning, but when Pa went to the house for dinner, she was lying on the floor. It must have been her heart, although none of us knew anything about a bad heart. I don’t think she did either.

  We buried her in the churchyard the next day.

  Rage ripped through him. No one called or even sent a telegram.They could have given me a chance to make it back. He could have caught the train. What felt like a scream came out as only a moan, thanks to his clamping his teeth so tight his jaw cramped. He forced himself to return to the letter.

  With the heat and all, there just wasn’t time for you to get here, so we decided to not go into town to call but write. I told Pa I would do this for him.

  Joshua laid the letter aside and went to stand at the window. His mother was gone. She wasn’t that old, not even fifty. He counted out the years. Forty-eight. Her birthday in June made her forty-eight. His father was ten years older, and they’d always assumed he’d go first, since he had trouble sometimes with his breathing. His mother had said she would come visit him as soon as he had a house. He’d told her she needed to come for the wedding, when the time came.

  The moisture in his eyes leaked halos around the gaslights that dotted Main Street, something else new that had come to Blessing while he’d been gone those three years.

  “Gone. Lord, I can’t believe it.” He blew his nose. A tap at the door caught his attention. “Yes?”

  “Will you be coming down for your supper?” Miss Christopherson’s gentle voice questioned.

  “Ah yes. I’ll wash and be right down. Th-thank you.” He left the letter lying on the bed and, taking towel and washcloth from the bar on the side of the washstand that now did duty as a nightstand since the running water had come in, walked down the hall to the washroom. What he really wanted was a bath, but that would wait until after he ate. They were so good to keep a meal hot for him as it was. He washed hands and face, ignoring the wounded eyes that caught one glance before he thought to shield them.

  He heard several men laughing in the cardroom, where they often suggested that a bar would be advantageous. But Mrs. Wiste stood firm. They could play cards, and there were plenty of spittoons throughout the room, but she would not sell liquor nor could they drink in her establishment. Also, if they smoked, it had to be outside on the porch. If they wanted to stay here, they had to abide by the rules.

  He made his way between the tables to the one that had become his. A basket of rolls with a pat of butter sat waiting for him, along with a glass and pitcher of iced tea.

  “Your supper will be right there,” Miss Christopherson said from the door to the kitchen. “It is almost warm enough.”

  He nodded his thanks and pulled out the chair. How his mother would have loved this room with starched white tablecloths and napkins the same. A small blue vase held a single rose bloom, and all the food tasted as good as hers, including the pickles.

  “Ah, Ma, I wish I’d insisted you come to visit. You could have enjoyed a few days without taking care of anyone.” He wasn’t sure he’d said it aloud, but he felt someone beside him and looked up.

  “Your letter was bad news?” Miss Christopherson held his plate in both hands.

  He nodded. How did she figure that out? He heaved a sigh and motioned for her to set the plate down in front of him like she always did. “My mother died last week.” There. The words were out, somehow making the news a reality.

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No thank you. I guess I thought my mother would live forever.”

  “This was sudden, then?”

  He told her the gist of the letter. “And it’s all over. Life goes on.” He’d only glanced at the remainder of the letter. Looked to be other family news. Things his mother usually wrote, always ending with and one day, I hope you’ ll come home again, at least for a visit, and bring your bride with you. One time he’d told her about Astrid and how he thought on her so often. She’d said she’d pray for them, and he knew she had.

  Who would pray for him, for there to be a them now? And was it even possible? Astrid had barely spoken to him when she’d told him she was leaving for six months. No warmth, no tears, just basic facts. He’d wanted so much to ask if she really wanted to go, but it seemed like she was holding herself together with twine. After all this time he could wait another six months. Not that he had much choice if he loved Astrid.

  15

  SEPTEMBER 1903

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  Passing the tests when she first arrived soon became the least of her worries. Now that the term had officially started, the subtle animosity coming from the other students was something else. And dreaming of Blessing. No matter how often she reminded herself that her banishment was only for six months, something inside refused to believe it. Add to that the insidious nagging thought—would Joshua really still be there when she finally did get home? She pushed his face to the back of her thoughts before tears came again. She paused outside the door to the lab, where she’d been assigned a cadaver with Dr. Red Hawk. The name didn’t surprise her. She had been told he was half Sioux and half white. What bothered her was his barely suitable civility. She’d heard that Indians didn’t like to talk a lot, but still he could be polite. He wasn’t uneducated, since he’d been accepted into the program here.

  If only she could dissect her half of the body when he wasn’t there. But they were supposed to help each other. She’d heard other students laughing and sometimes telling macabre jokes in the cadaver lab. But most of the other students were female. She knew her mother would say that God had a purpose in all that was happening to her. And she should keep her eyes on Him instead of the situation.

  Easier said than done. She clasped the handle and turned. The smell of formaldehyde made her eyes burn as soon as she pulled open the door.

  “Glad you could make it,” Red Hawk said with one raised eyebrow.

  “I’m not late.”

  “Oh, pardon me. Guess I got here early.”

  Shocked that he had spoken that many words in a row, she ignored him, opened her kit, and laid out her tools: scalpels, forceps, paper, sharpened pencils to take notes with, and most importantly, the textbook that contained all they needed to know. She and D
r. Hawk were still working on the legs.

  Two other female students tried to stifle their chuckles when they came through the door but didn’t quite make it. The instructor glared at them from the front of the room.

  “Thank you for bringing him out.” Astrid knew her voice sounded as stiff as she felt. The first one to arrive always went into the cold room and wheeled out the gurney that held their cadaver. Since she had rounds with Dr. Franck just before this class, she was never the first one here. Dr. Franck was another reason for her hesitation. He’d made his opinion quite clear. She should not have been given the privilege of the six-month surgical rotation without having been in a classroom situation the same amount of time as the others.

  With the mistakes she was making, he was probably right, not to mention those she had made on the entry examinations. She had known the answers, but she couldn’t bring them to mind on command. All she’d wanted to do was vomit and run back to the first train heading west. There would be no joy in telling Elizabeth her scores, but at least she had passed.

  She closed her eyes for a moment against the burning and opened them to find Red Hawk staring at her across the sheet-draped corpse. If he made one more disparaging comment, she would . . . she would . . . She had no idea what she would do other than what she did. Squaring her shoulders, she slipped the apron over her head, tied it, and picked up her scalpel. Today she would be working on the muscles and nerves surrounding the knee.

  Several minutes of cutting and writing notes had passed when she said, “There is something on this one that you might want to see.” She caught herself in surprise. Why on earth had she said that? Because that was the way they were supposed to act whether he chose to cooperate or not.

  “Thank you.” He came around the end of the gurney to where she was pointing.

  “Scar tissue?”

  “A lot. He was severely injured at one time, and it looks like it healed without any medical assistance. I can’t see how he walked on it.”