[Home To Blessing 01] - A Measure of Mercy

by Lauraine Snelling

  “If you hold her, I’ll make the breakfast.”

  “You hold her. I’ll make the breakfast. If she sees another strange face, she might be frightened to pieces. Have you tried the telephone yet?”

  She shook her head. “But no one has called either.”

  “I’m thinking the lines might be down. The blow last night was enough to take them down even without the ice on the wires.”

  He walked over to the box on the wall and lifted the receiver. Even after he spun the crank on the side, nothing happened. “Hello? Hello?” He hung it back up. “Out between here and town at least. Who knows about the rest.”

  “You going to make gravy?”

  “I think I draw the line at gravy. Ham and eggs are plenty fine. Looks like we need to scrape the bottoms a bit on those biscuits.” He cracked four eggs into the popping grease and used the turner to splash the ham juice on them.

  “You do that like you cook every day.”

  “I learned a long time ago.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “Why mess up a good thing?” He grinned at her. “You want to eat at the table or in that chair?” He took the plates down from the warming shelf, slid the eggs and ham onto them, and headed for the table.

  Ingeborg leaned her head against the back of the rocker. Lord, you sure know how to throw a curve into my day. Again I know you have a plan. Thanks for letting us be a part of that plan.

  Haakan came over and held out his arms. She put the sleeping child in his strong arms, stood, and leaned into them both. A child in their house. Only a visitor most likely but a child to love nonetheless. “Let’s eat. If she wakes up, I’m sure she’d like something too.” By the look of the little body, she needed a lot of good food. Were the rest of her people in such bad shape as she was?

  23

  Joshua stared out of the boardinghouse window at the heavily falling snow. There’d be no more well drilling for a while, and he could only imagine how deep the snow would be in his cellar before this quit. He blew out a sigh and shook his head. Here he’d been hoping to get the basement finished and the house framed in before the snow so he could work inside in the winter.

  So much for good ideas. So much for earning enough money to pay off his lot. He shook his head and made his way downstairs to the dining room. At least he had food and a good roof over his head. What if they’d been on their way to do another well and windmill?

  “Sure is nasty out there,” Miss Christopherson said when he sat down at his table.

  “How did Mrs. Sam get here to cook?”

  “Well, we all spent the night here. That’s what we do when it starts to blow from the north, although this is early for a storm like this. Do you want oatmeal first or bacon, eggs, and fried cornmeal mush?”

  “I’ll pass on the oatmeal this morning, thank you.”

  “Coffee coming right up.”

  “Is that cinnamon rolls I smell?”

  “Sure is. I’ll bring you one with the coffee.”

  As she hurried to the kitchen, he looked around at the few others gathered in the dining room. A family that looked like they were planning on heading west. He wondered why they had gotten off the train in Blessing. There wasn’t any land around here for either buying or homesteading. The Bjorklunds and Knutsons bought up whatever came available. Two well-dressed men sat at another table. They obviously knew each other. Railroad men perhaps? Sure looked like businessmen. A drummer sat over against the wall. How many would still be here after the westbound train came through?

  He ate his breakfast and returned to his room to stare at the snow-blinded window.

  How long since he’d had a day with absolutely nothing to do? He mentally made a list. He could write to Avis. She would be pleased to hear from him. He could write to Astrid. Or he could write to Frank and see if there was any way to make things right there. Not that he wanted to, but Pastor Solberg’s sermon series on forgiveness kept eating away at him.

  If the snow let up he would go down to the smithy and see if there weren’t enough parts to put together another windmill head. A draft sneaked under the window, nearly freezing his midsection. He slammed his fist on the top of the lower frame in the hopes of driving it tighter into the frame. It slipped some, and he cranked the latch closed. That helped, and he could roll up a towel or something to block the remaining draft.

  Restless and feeling confined in his room, he took his writing kit and headed downstairs to the gathering room, where a fire roared in the fireplace and gas lamps cast a cheerful glow against the dim light coming from outside. Sitting in a chair at a table, he laid his supplies out and started with the letter to his sister. That would be the easiest.

  He told her about his job, playing his guitar for dances and church. He knew she would be appalled at the guitar in church. Back in Iowa only organ or piano music was proper for worship. He told her about digging the basement for his house and that the blizzard was filling it in far more quickly than he’d dug it. He closed with a question.

  I am thinking of coming back for Christmas. Do you think I will be welcome there? Or have Father and my brothers pretty much washed their hands of me? It all depends on the weather, of course, if we can finish the cellar and frame the house. Depends on if winter is really here or we will have another warmer spell for a time.

  Please write. I miss you and I know you miss Mother. I am still in shock I think, almost pretending she will be waiting and glad to see me when I get there.

  Your brother,

  Joshua

  Addressing the envelope, he overheard the two men talking. He realized they must be land speculators, buying land up in the West and then selling it again to those who wanted to still get in on cheap land. He knew that no matter what the monetary price of the land, it would cost them far more in sweat and heartache. He’d seen others already giving up and heading back East. He’d been one. What would life have been like if he had stuck it out here? There wouldn’t have been the showdown between him and his brother. He should have been smarter, that was all. His father had planned for Frank to have the farm all along, just stringing him along to get as much work out of him as possible. He’d never planned on paying for that labor.

  When Joshua realized his teeth were clamped and his fists clenched, he shook his head. Good thing he had put the remaining money from selling his land south of Blessing in the bank in Iowa so that he’d had some cash to bring north with him again. This time he would build a decent house, not even think about farming, and concentrate on building windmills and digging wells, something he enjoyed doing. When they released the gears and let the windmill spin for the first time, he felt like whooping himself. One more family had a well and a windmill to bring up the water. Seeing the water gush from a pipe into a stock tank or down a pipe to the house pleased him greatly. One woman cried when she used the hand pump to bring water into her sink for the first time.

  There was something beautiful about seeing windmills silhouetted against a sunset or sunrise. It said there were people there who cared about the land and the life.

  He took out another piece of paper but paused before writing when Miss Christopherson announced that coffee and cinnamon rolls were set out in the dining room if anyone was interested.

  He was. He stopped at a window in the dining room but couldn’t even see across the street. The wind was picking up again. Those two years in his shanty he’d nearly lost his mind when the blizzard closed him in like this. He’d strung a rope to the barn so he could care for his cows and horses, but the tar paper shack had been nearly useless for keeping the cold out. He got frostbite sitting right next to the stove. He’d finally glued newspapers to the walls to help insulate it.

  “The westbound train will be in the station in fifteen minutes,” Miss Christopherson announced a few minutes later. Sure enough, the two businessmen and the family all gathered their things and made their way to the door. “You just follow the fence, keeping close by it, and
you cannot miss the station. You can get lost in the middle of the street if you don’t.” She bid them good-bye and Godspeed and pushed against the door with her shoulder to shut out the screaming wind demanding entrance.

  “You think it is letting up any?” Joshua asked when she returned, brushing snow off her apron.

  She shook her head. “Not at all. Can I get you more coffee?”

  With two letters to leave in the box for the mail, he returned to his room after dinner and picked up his guitar. Here he’d been thinking there was no time to practice, and now with the storm blowing Joshua had plenty of time. He’d best be making good use of it. He was still trying to get the chording right on “The Old Rugged Cross” when he heard a knock on the door. After setting the guitar on the bed, he crossed the room to open the door.

  Miss Christopherson had raised her hand to knock again but dropped it to her side. “I have a favor to ask.”

  He nodded. “Was I bothering anyone?”

  “On the contrary. We were all wondering if you would be willing to play down in the kitchen so we don’t have to sit in the dining room to hear.”

  The earnest look on her slender face made him smile. “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

  “Oh, no bother. We could do some singing while we make supper. If you please, of course.” She paused a moment. “I’m sure we could find a couple of cinnamon rolls to make it worth your while.”

  Joshua chuckled and shrugged. “Of course I can play down there, and it would probably be warmer than here too. I’ll be right down.”

  “Thank you.”

  He picked up his guitar, a couple of picks, and what little sheet music he had, and made his way down the stairs, a rosy warm feeling clinging to his chest. He played while the staff cooked and laughed and sang along. Several other patrons drifted in, and what started out to be a dreary day turned into a party. Mrs. Sam taught him a couple of new songs that she said came from her people when still in slavery. As she sang them he fingered the chords, writing them down at the end so he wouldn’t forget.

  “How come you don’t come to the dances,” he asked during one of the eating times.

  “I’m always either fixing food or cleaning up. Just don’t work out, that’s all.”

  And that was why they were never in church either, he surmised. “A voice like yours needs to be heard more.”

  Mrs. Sam rolled her eyes. “Pretty words don’t cut no nevermind wit me.”

  But he noticed that she pushed an extra roll his way.

  * * *

  “WE HAVE TO have a name for her,” Ingeborg said that evening.

  Haakan glanced up from the table, where he sat with his Bible open and the kerosene lamp close enough to make reading easier. “She’s slept all day?”

  Ingeborg nodded. “I woke her to feed her some soup, and after eating what I fed her, she fell right back to sleep. Without ever saying a word.”

  “Perhaps she cannot hear.”

  “No, she can hear. The cat mewed, and she looked over to the stove.”

  “We can most likely get to town tomorrow, and I’ll ask around, see if anyone has seen any Indians passing through.”

  “I keep thinking about Metiz and wishing she were here to help me.” She pulled the coffeepot forward to the hot part of the stove.

  “Some days I still miss her so much the tears come. Metiz, and Agnes.

  I remind myself how blessed I am to have had two such wonderful friends, and I am grateful, but . . .” She huffed a sigh. “You want some coffee?”

  “Do I ever turn down a cup of coffee? And perhaps some of that rhubarb sauce with a bit of cream?”

  “I s’pose you’d like cookies with that too?”

  “If that’s not too much bother.” His eyes twinkled in the lamplight.

  “And all because I wanted a cup of coffee.” She fetched the canned sauce from the pantry and the cream from the icebox she’d moved into the pantry by the window, where it was cold enough to not need ice. For years they had stored cream and eggs and things that spoiled in the screened box off the window and let Mother Nature keep things cold enough. During the winter, they didn’t even need the outer box. The closed-off pantry sufficed.

  “Chocolate or gingerbread?”

  “Both.”

  Ingeborg chuckled as she dished up their rhubarb sauce and cookies. Haakan did like his cookies . . . well, all desserts. She turned from the counter to see two black eyes staring at her from the pallet by the stove. She smiled and nodded, but the child ducked her head. Putting extra cookies on the plate, Ingeborg carried the things to the table. “She’s awake,” she whispered.

  Haakan turned to look and gave his wife a questioning glance. Ingeborg returned to the stove and carried the coffeepot to the table to fill their cups. She picked up a cookie and brought it with her to set the coffeepot back. Then kneeling at the pallet, she held out the cookie.

  The child’s nostrils flared at the fragrance, much like a wild animal checking the wind.

  “Here, this is for you.” Ingeborg held it closer.

  The little girl stared from the cookie to Ingeborg and back again before tentatively reaching for the goodie. She sniffed it, and then stuffed it into her mouth as if fearing it would be taken away.

  “Well, that worked.” Ingeborg brought two the next time, and the same thing happened, only now without the waiting.

  “You better not give her any more,” Haakan said softly. “It might make her sick. Too rich.”

  “True.” Ingeborg rose and returned to the pantry, bringing back a jar of milk this time. She poured half a cup and took that over. It disappeared as readily as the cookies. “Well, she knows how to drink from a cup.”

  “I’m sure they have cups and plates or something similar on the reservation by now.” His teasing tone made her smile back.

  “Metiz said they used to drink out of tanned hides or a horn, sometimes vessels carved of wood.” She looked down at her moccasins, made so long ago with such love and care by Metiz. “I wonder if the school that was started on the reservation is still going. Or if they have any medical help.”

  There had been talk of combining the small reservation to the north of Blessing with some others in western North Dakota, but nothing had come of that. While the churchwomen sent a barrel of quilts and used clothing to the reservation once a year, they’d not maintained close ties. Metiz had come south from the Winnipeg area, where there was a gathering of Sioux French-Canadian families—not really a tribe but a settlement.

  How would they communicate with this child? Ingeborg dipped her cookie into her coffee cup, aware of the black eyes that watched her every move.

  “You suppose she needs to use the pot?” Haakan, ever practical, asked.

  “What do her people do?”

  “Probably just step outside the tepee, or whatever, and squat.”

  Ingeborg nodded. “Lesson one, then. Goodness, think how long it has been since I potty trained a child.”

  “I say we bring Inga out here for a couple of days, and she’ll take care of all kinds of training. You know how she loves to boss Carl around.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “It’s a good idea. I thought of it.”

  “But what if this little girl doesn’t speak English?”

  Haakan thought a moment. “I’ll lay money on Inga.”

  Ingeborg cleared off their coffee things and extended her hand to the child. Black eyes stared up at her, but finally the girl stood and reached out with her own hand. Together they walked to the rocker, where Ingeborg sat down and tugged gently on the small hand. “Come sit with me.” She patted her knees and held out both hands.

  After hanging back for a bit, the little one stepped close to her knees and allowed Ingeborg to help her up into her lap.

  “See, that didn’t hurt at all. You can be comfortable here with me, and we’ll rock a bit and maybe sing some songs.”

  The girl grabbed the arm of the chair when In
geborg first set it to rocking gently, but soon she relaxed and a smile touched her face at the pleasant motion. Slowly she sank against Ingeborg’s chest and heaved a big sigh.

  Ingeborg matched the sigh. The stink from the black hair made her wish she had washed her, but at the time, getting her warm was about all she could do. She started humming and moved into singing “Jesus Loves Me.” Following that with other songs, she let her mind wander ahead. Lord, you knew she was coming to us, and now please let me know what I am supposed to do. Take her to the reservation? Keep her here in the hopes that someone will come for her? I know to do one thing, to love her. Somewhere her mother can’t or is gone. Has she other family? How do we get her to talk?

  She felt the thin little body relax against her and her breathing even out. The most important thing was to keep her from any ill effects of her near to freezing.

  “Where will she sleep?”

  “I’m thinking of a pallet beside our bed. Do you think she would be warm enough there? Or she can sleep with us. What will Freda say when she comes back to see we have another guest?”

  “I think Freda will be just like you, delighted to have a child to fuss over.”

  “I’m that obvious, eh?”

  Haakan just smiled. “Well, for one thing, I hope you can get her bathed and her hair washed tomorrow. I’d forgotten the Indian smells of bear grease and smoke and who knows what else.”

  “I’m going to ask Kaaren if she has any clothes over there that might fit her. Your undershirt will do for tonight. Do I scrub her deerskin clothes like I do cloth?”

  “Did Metiz scrub her things?”

  “She did her wool and cotton things. How do we keep the deerskin from getting stiff if I wash it?” So many questions. Haakan took the sleeping child and laid her on the pallet by the stove so Ingeborg could stand. She let the cat out and retrieved bedding from the trunk at the foot of their bed.