“So small. You must have been born during their journey.” Indignation raced through her. “Couldn’t they have waited, stayed in Iowa where your mother wouldn’t have had it so hard?”
Susannah dipped the rag into the cool water, wrung it out, and wiped the baby’s face, starting with the tears she had dripped onto the tiny forehead.
“I don’t even know your name, or if you’re a boy or girl.” She unwrapped the blanket. “A boy. Little boy, when you get to heaven, you can play with my baby. I can’t tell you who to ask for or what my baby looks like. Check the choir.”
Susannah washed his round back, the tiny folds at the base of his neck, the creases of his legs. She dressed him in a clean diaper and rewrapped him in the blanket, tucking in his hands and feet, leaving only his pale face visible. She nestled him in her arms and willed some of her body heat into his still form.
The opening of the tent darkened. A man brought in a packing crate, resized to fit. For a second their eyes met, then Susannah looked away, unable to see her pain reflected and amplified in his face.
“I couldn’t find any clothes for him,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She placed the baby in his long pale hands. The first words of his hoarse-voiced reply she recognized as “Thank you,” but she lost the rest of his message.
He laid the body in the box and smoothed the blanket around ears smaller than his fingertip. He fitted the lid, then raised his mallet. It landed with a thud and Susannah flinched. The man swallowed, adjusted his grip, and finished the job. Stooping under the ridgepole, he carried the coffin out.
Susannah dried her face, then followed him into the noon sunshine. She blinked. It should be November gloomy, not early September bright.
Ivar handed Sara to her. “Where in Isaiah?”
“Try chapter 49. About mothers remembering their babies.” Susannah embraced Sara with both arms. The child was so warm. So wiggly. So alive.
“Ja. Here it is.” Ivar clamped his hand on her shoulder, then hustled up the slope to join a cluster of mourners.
Susannah trailed behind, pausing to pick some feathery stalks for Sara to hold. The prairie grass shimmered violet, crimson, and bronze in the wind; winter would arrive soon.
Mournful music pulled the group tighter. The dirge emanated not from the violin Susannah expected but from an instrument similar to a bagpipe. It rested on the lap of a curly-haired man with close-set eyes. He pumped the device with movements of his right elbow.
“Uilleann pipes,” a voice behind her whispered. “Irish excuse for a bagpipe.”
Susannah turned to find the hotel keeper. “Mr. McFadgen. How do you do?”
His apron had been replaced with a frock coat and matching vest. “The musician is my partner, John Morrison. Fool is playing a tune lamenting one of the many defeats of the Irish at the hands of the Vikings. Hope these Norwegians don’t recognize the song, just hear the sadness.”
He nodded at the group of men removing their hats across the circle. “Appears the whole town has turned out. Saloon must have closed. There’s Pat Flood, the section boss, Hendrickson Lee, John Olson, and Pat Burns from the section house. The other Irish is the pumper, Connors, but I can’t remember if his given name is Pat or Mike. Colonel Marsh wants to build a mill on the Sheyenne. Frank Wright has a claim north of here. He’s from Jesse’s neck of the woods.”
Donald McFadgen drew a line in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. “Sorry about Jesse. Had I wind of his plans, I’d have appointed myself sheriff and jailed him until he thought better of it.”
The music droned to an end. Ivar stepped to the edge of the freshly dug hole and read a psalm. Susannah let the Norwegian words ripple over her while she scanned the mourners behind him. Marta supported a sobbing woman, the mother. The grim-faced man beside her must be the father. The younger man from the tent, who now placed the crate in the ground, would be, perhaps, the baby’s uncle. The stair-step children hovering solemnly behind were the baby’s brothers and sisters. The family was dressed in new clothes and shoes. The mother and two oldest girls wore gloves. Why would people with money come here?
Ivar concluded and led the congregation in a hymn. The railroad men filled the grave. Susannah turned to a touch at her elbow. Mrs. Rose stood behind her, accompanied by her flock, each hair slicked down, each mouth quiet.
Susannah braced for the onslaught, but the storekeeper drew from a previously untapped well of decorum. “Mrs. Mason, I’ve got to get back to my store. If you would be so kind as to bring my soup kettle once it’s empty.” She nodded at the pot over the campfire, then placed a sack in Susannah’s free arm. “Here’s some bread and cookies for the young’uns.”
“I’ll have Mrs. Vold tell them it’s from you.”
Susannah lost track of Marta in the flow of people down the hill. A competent-looking older girl took charge of Sara. Susannah stationed herself at the open fire. Through cow chip smoke, she ladled soup to a blur of faces while mediating the battle between the fire, the wind, and her skirts.
Ivar’s familiar voice cut through the hubbub. “Eat. Before it’s gone. They can serve themselves.”
Susannah filled a bowl, grabbed a chunk of bread, and followed him to a seat on the grass next to the uncle.
“Susannah, the Hansens need to get their soddy up, and quick. It’s a wonder it hasn’t snowed already. Could they use Jesse’s cutting plow?”
“Of course.”
“They won’t be able to pay rent until their wheat comes in next summer.”
“That’s hardly necessary.”
“Jesse isn’t the only man with pride around here.”
Susannah contemplated the Hansen man through the steam of her soup. The firm set of his mouth, broad shoulders, eyes that would not meet hers for more than a second. Yes, considerable pride there. “I’ll need to board the stock, if I’m to teach. And I could use some help with firewood.”
After a quick consultation, Ivar told her, “We’ll divide up your stock. He will cut your wood. Saturday next.”
“I’m coming back up tomorrow to teach school at the depot. I’ll bring the plow then.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Mr. Hansen’s face. Ivar snorted. “He asks if you are Freya, the Norse goddess, that you can load a plow by yourself.”
Susannah closed her eyes. Every day, every conversation brought continued reminders of Jesse’s absence. “I haven’t thought this through. I’ll need help with my trunk too.”
This time they pulled the father into the conference.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. Magnar”—Ivar pointed to the uncle—“and Mor Hansen and her little girl will go back to your claim tonight. In the morning, you and Magnar and the plow will come back. Mor will stay and take care of your stock.”
“But, Ivar, it’s just a soddy and a long ways away. Will she be all right out there?”
“It’s away from that.” Ivar nodded at the grave atop the windswept knoll. “Just what she needs.”
Despite the frost, Susannah propped the door open. Fresh morning air cleared the soddy of the smells of too many people. Mrs. Hansen and the three-year-old had slept in the bed with Susannah. The uncle had flipped the table upside down onto her trunk and spread his bedroll on the floor.
Why had the uncle come? Maybe the father had stayed to comfort the other children. Or the parents weren’t getting along. Or the uncle was in charge of building the Hansen soddy. This morning he’d studied the house and shed. Susannah had shown him Jesse’s trick, using a rope with twelve evenly spaced knots to square the corners. She’d written out a list of supplies he’d need from the store. Then he’d left to load the cutting plow.
Mrs. Hansen had taken the little girl, Tove, to do the milking, giving Susannah a welcome moment of solitude. She packed Jesse’s army chest with potatoes and a few kitchen supplies. Then she opened her trunks to sort through her clothes. She set aside her father’s cavalry knapsack; the medicines and surgical ins
truments were irreplaceable. Better take long underwear and flannel petticoats.
Her hand paused over a drawstring bag filled with bird’s-eye and outing flannel rags. Frowning, she went to the almanac.
What day was today? Not yet this month. Not last month. How could that be? She turned the pages, back before the grasshoppers. Her jaw dropped. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered and sank to the bed. “All this queasiness, sleeping so much, bursting out of my clothes. A baby.”
When the supply of condoms had run out, she and Jesse had tried one of the other methods. The doctor had said fertility increased closer to menses, so they used days in the middle of her month. And now she was pregnant. Having a baby. “Oh, Lord, thank You.”
Her trembling fingers set the almanac in its place under the Bible. She leaned on the doorpost, facing west. “Jesse, you’ve got to come home. Oh, God, please bring him back.” She laced her fingers over her abdomen. “Please, please let me keep this one.”
Jake herded Tove back to the soddy. Time to pack for teaching, not think of a baby in front of a woman who had just lost hers.
Chapter 26
Lord, I thought I was doing all right in the faith and
trust department. But this is beyond all my efforts.
Magnar swung the wagon around the north side of the army shanty. The ride from the claim had been one long English lesson, with no time to worry about the baby, Jesse, winter, or anything else. The big Norwegian handed her off the seat.
“Takk,” Susannah said.
His eyebrows shot up. “T’ank you,” he answered with a quick smile. Then he climbed into the wagon box for her luggage.
“Mrs. Mason!” A small-framed man hustled across the grass from the store.
“Mr. Rose, you’re back already.”
“Who’s this?”
Susannah made the introduction and the two men shook hands. “Mr. Hansen will be over soon to purchase supplies.”
Mr. Rose waited until the Norwegian man entered the shanty.
“Do you have news for me?”
“Sorry, no. Government’s not letting anyone into the Black Hills. General Sheridan’s orders.”
“Did you see Jesse?”
The older man shook his head. “Asked around town, every business and bystander, and over to the fort. No one’s seen him. I’m afraid he’s gone prospecting.”
Susannah slumped onto the steps and closed her eyes. A door creaked and banged shut; Mr. Rose entered his store. Susannah leaned forward and willed herself to breathe. This was no time to cry. There was a job to be done, a baby to think of. But the tears would not be held back.
She did not hear Magnar Hansen step out of the shanty and sit beside her. He pressed a handkerchief into her fist and spoke gentle Norwegian words. She cried harder. His hand cupped her shoulder, slid across her back to her other shoulder, pulled her to his chest. She leaned into him, gathering strength from his warmth, until the storm subsided.
Suddenly she realized she was sitting in public, in broad daylight, in the arms of a man who was not her husband. She got up and stumbled away without thanking him, without even daring to look at him.
“I’m a married woman,” she mumbled. He couldn’t understand most of the words, but she was saying them as much for her own benefit as for his. “You must not touch me. People will gossip.” She headed for the pump to wash her face. “Please send the children to school.”
Chetan saw Medicine Mother first and raced off to hide behind Hehaka’s tepee. But Misun was studying the white man’s wood beaver and did not see Medicine Mother until she grabbed his ear.
“Misun. I talk to you about your captive.” She lifted her chin at the tepee behind him.
The boy focused on her Peace Medal and bent to keep from losing his ear. “Yes, Grandmother. Winona has done as you told her. She pushed food into his mouth and washed his blanket.”
“Yet he continues to sleep. He smells like a skunk.”
“He opened his eyes yesterday.”
“It has been forty-two days.”
“And he no longer coughs.” Did that mean he was dying or healing? Misun did not have the makings of a medicine man.
“He is a lazy, worthless dog.”
And everyone knew what happened to lazy, worthless dogs. “He does not eat much.”
“None of us eats much.”
“But he said ‘Tatanka.’ He has an eagle feather.”
Medicine Mother had refuted this argument when Misun first brought the white stranger home. She narrowed her eyes and the boy braced to be hit by lightning. “Misun, you should be out hunting and fishing with the men. Instead you waste time waiting for this dog to arise.”
“Please, Grandmother. He will wake, teach me to use the wood beaver, then—” Then what? If Misun took him to the fort, he would be shot by the soldiers. Sitting Bull had forbidden any contact with the Standing Rock Agency, so Misun could not take him there. Maybe a trader would come by. Or a boat—except boats did not come until spring filled the river.
“You have until the full moon.”
Susannah adjusted the pillow under her head, aligning the knothole in the gable with a star in the southwest sky. “Well, Jesse, you talked to me before I came out here. I guess I can talk to you now. Please come home. Or write. Let me know you’re safe in Bismarck or wherever you are. Even if you haven’t found work. Just don’t go down to the Black Hills, don’t go looking for gold.”
She steadied herself. She couldn’t afford to cry; her tears would freeze. “I found some verses for you and turned them into a prayer. Psalm 91. Lord, because Jesse loves You, please deliver him. When he calls You, please answer him. Be with him in trouble and save him. Amen.”
Susannah pulled the quilt under her chin. “I hope you’re warm. Living in this shanty makes me appreciate your sod house. Every morning the students bring bags of cow chips and twists of cordgrass for the stove, but the water in the bucket still freezes overnight. The wind finds every crack in the walls, all the gaps between the boards, every knothole. For such a little building, it sure can creak and rattle. Last night I dreamed you were singing to me, but it was only the stovepipe. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Jake were here, but he’s guarding Mrs. Hansen, Tove, and the animals on the claim.”
Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she touched her finger to the icy hole. “You once asked if I thought of you as a handsome prince on a white horse. Tonight I wish you’d dash up on that black steed, the Northern Pacific Railroad, and slay this dragon of a teaching job. Who would have thought eight students could be so difficult? Four don’t speak English, the other four can’t sit for more than a minute, and none has ever attended school. All I’ve got is one McGuffey second reader, three slate pencils, and a stack of broken slates. No parsing sentences or spelling bees for this group. Most of my first week’s pay has already been spent trying to make this building into a schoolhouse.”
She slid her hands to the curve of her abdomen. “I’ll need to buy ten yards of wool to make a wrapper. I’ve let out my waistbands as far as possible. This child of yours is growing like wheat in a spring rain.” She turned her head a fraction of an inch to follow the star’s path through the night. “If only I could feel your arms around me. Come home, Jesse.”
The flap of the tepee opened, admitting the sergeant with the gray braids. She launched into her usual harangue, whipped off Jesse’s blanket, and flailed him with something that felt like a porcupine. “Ow. Ow! There are more efficient ways to kill people,” he croaked out. “I’d prefer to be shot. Where’s my rifle?” The memory returned in a rush. His rifle had sunk to the bottom of the Missouri. Wonder if those two ferrymen made it. No sign of them.
When the beating was finished, the old woman propped him upright on a frame. The tepee swung around and grayed at the edges. Jesse closed his eyes and gulped a breath. A handful of slumgullion filled his mouth.
“Mmph.”
The woman held a bowl up. The expression on her fa
ce let him know, in no uncertain terms, he would be eating its contents. His taste buds voted no but were overruled by his stomach and the old woman. He reached for the bowl. What was this? Something runny and brown with a bitter taste. Like army food. Better off not knowing. The sergeant continued her lecture until he finished. She yanked the bowl away and gave him a dipper of water. One swallow later, she dragged him out the door. A cold wind sliced whatever skin he had left.
“You, my dear, are no Florence Nightingale.”
And she didn’t care. She was a head shorter than he, but somehow she managed to get him standing. The ground circled and the world started to go black, but she slapped him a good one and hauled him to the latrine. She waited while he did his business, then dragged his wheezing carcass back to the front of the tepee. “And you’re not Clara Barton either.”
He ought to worry about being naked, but he was more afraid he’d freeze to death. The old woman, paragon of kindness that she was, threw a blanket at him. When she bent to give him another piece of her mind—how much did she have left?—Jesse got a look at the medal hanging from her neck: Jefferson on one side, clasped hands on the other.
Lewis and Clark had given her a Peace Medal? She looked old enough.
With a final warning that left him wondering what other tortures she might have up her buckskin sleeve, she left.
Jesse looked around and tried to focus. Tepees. More than a dozen, tucked into a fold of a bluff. The grass rippled yellow and brown. He’d been sick a long time. Was he a captive, a slave? Newspapers said they kept women and children but tortured and killed men. With his red-brown hair and light skin, it wasn’t like he’d blend in here.
“Anyone here speak English?” he asked. But the wind blew away his feeble voice.
Between the nearest tepees, a woman stretched out a pelt. Another woman pounded grain. She stood, her silhouette showing she was in the family way. Susannah, I miss our little one. But what if he had a third mouth he couldn’t feed? A trio of small children played in the dirt farther on. A yellow dog nosed through a pile of debris.
Spring for Susannah Page 23