The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  A small herd, Lilac had said, yet it seemed to go on and on—the choking dust, the pounding hooves, the majestic animals—Forsythia even glimpsed a calf or two.

  As the last of the buffalo passed, a man suddenly rode out on horseback toward the stragglers near the end. Raising his rifle, he aimed and shot. One buffalo stumbled, then wheeled dazedly. Catching sight of the rider, it paused, then shook its massive head and charged toward him.

  Mr. Hayes gave a shout. The horse under the rider—Forsythia could see it was John Manning—danced frantically in place, the man fighting to get it to turn, to get away. The wagon master swung up on his own mount and rode toward the wounded animal, shouting, but he was too far—another instant and the buffalo would reach Manning.

  Then the wooly beast roared and toppled to the side. Another quiver and it lay still, two arrows sticking from behind its shoulder.

  From atop his horse on the other side, Little Bear lowered his bow.

  Forsythia gasped out a breath she didn’t know she’d held. Thank you, Lord. Lilac clung to her arm. They’d no great love for John Manning, but nor did they want to see him and his poor horse gored to death before their eyes.

  Manning was now getting the talking-to of his life from the wagon master. Meanwhile, Little Bear dismounted and led his horse to the fallen buffalo. He knelt quietly for a moment, then began to skin the carcass.

  Mr. Hayes returned to the wagon train. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I said no shooting.” He glared at the assembled crowd. “Thinking you can shoot into a herd of these creatures without proper know-how is as dangerous as poking a rattler. But since this foolishness didn’t end in tragedy, thanks to our guide, let me have a few volunteers to help skin and gut the animal. We’ll divide the meat among the wagons and have steak tonight.”

  A few tentative cheers.

  Still a bit shaken, Forsythia and Lilac made their way back to their wagons.

  Lark met them, but when they poured out the story, she just nodded and held up a hand, her brow furrowed.

  “While we were stopped, Jesse spotted some buzzards circling off to the side of the trail. I’m going to see if anything needs tending to.” Lark swung up on Starbright.

  Sobered, Forsythia nodded and watched her sister ride off. Her brother, to anyone else watching. Lark filled the role faithfully, and it seemed no one suspected any differently. So far.

  A few minutes later, Lark came loping back and slid off Starbright almost before she stopped.

  “About a mile away there’s a wagon broken down. Father dead, mother close to it. Two little children—you’d better go get the doctor. It’s a good thing the train is still stopped.”

  Forsythia ran, lifting her skirts to her ankles.

  “Dr. Brownsville?”

  He looked up from checking his oxen’s hooves. “What’s wrong?”

  “Clark found a family that needs help. Their wagon broke down off the trail—it’s those buzzards Jesse saw.”

  He set his pick aside and reached inside the wagon for his bag. “I’m coming.”

  Forsythia was out of breath by the time they reached the broken-down wagon, the doctor striding ahead. She could smell the stench of death and sickness even before she saw the poor man’s body lying under the wagon, flies buzzing like smaller versions of the buzzards overhead. No oxen or horses—they must have been cut loose or run off.

  A small child’s whimper came from inside the covered wagon.

  “Go ahead.” Doctor Brownsville inclined his head. “I don’t want to frighten the woman.”

  “Hello?” Forsythia lifted the canvas flap aside. “We’ve come to help you.” She climbed up.

  Sunlight streamed over a thin mother lying amid barrels and bundles. A newborn baby squalled at her breast, wrapped in a soiled blanket. A little girl, perhaps two years old, stared at Forsythia with big blue eyes swimming in tears.

  “Thank . . . heaven.” The mother gave an exhausted sob. “Answered . . . prayers.”

  Forsythia pushed aside more filthy bedding to reach the woman and her children. This woman had not only given birth but been ill, by the look and smell—perhaps dysentery like Alice? Or worse, given her husband’s passing. Oh, Lord, what are we dealing with here?

  “A doctor is here to tend you. May he come in?”

  “Of course.” The woman waved her hand weakly.

  Forsythia scrambled down to make room for the doctor. “Careful, it’s a mess.”

  He climbed into the wagon. “Dr. Brownsville, ma’am.”

  “Lena . . . Olsen. Thank God you have come.”

  Olsen? Forsythia perked up her ears. The name sounded Norwegian. She’d wondered from the woman’s accent, faint though it was.

  “Miss Nielsen?”

  She peeked into the wagon.

  “Would you take her, please?” The doctor handed the toddler out to her.

  “Here, little one.” She smoothed the little girl’s tangled blond hair. Her skinny little legs clung to Forsythia’s waist. When had the child last eaten?

  “How long since your husband passed, Mrs. Olsen?” The doctor listened to her chest and felt her forehead, looked into her sunken eyes.

  “Two, three days . . . not sure. He died the night before . . . this one was born.” Her voice trembled, and she lifted a shaky hand to her newborn’s head.

  “Were his symptoms the same as yours? Diarrhea, vomiting?”

  A faint nod.

  “We need to get some liquids into you. You’re very dehydrated.” The doctor lifted the baby, who wailed afresh. “Has he nursed?”

  “Some . . . don’t have much milk.”

  “We’ll take care of your children. Don’t worry.” The doctor climbed out of the wagon, the infant in his arms.

  “What do you think?” Forsythia jiggled the little girl.

  “She’s extremely weak. Heart rate rapid, dehydrated. We’ll do what we can, but she may not make it.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “The symptoms could be many things—bad food or water, dysentery. Or cholera, but I don’t want to think that yet. She’s weak from childbirth too.”

  Forsythia swallowed. The cholera epidemics of recent decades were still fresh in everyone’s minds. “Why don’t I take the little girl back to camp and fetch some water?”

  “Good.”

  At a sudden thrashing from within the wagon, they both turned.

  “Oh no.” The doctor thrust the baby into Forsythia’s free arm and hauled himself back into the wagon.

  “What is it?” Juggling both children, Forsythia strained to see.

  “She’s convulsing. Must be the dehydration.” The doctor tried to hold the woman down. “Mrs. Olsen, we’re here, I’ve got you. God help her.”

  A few more moments of thrashing, then the woman lay still.

  “Is she . . . ?”

  “Still breathing, but barely.” Dr. Brownsville blew out a sigh. “I don’t know what else to—”

  “My babies?” Lena Olsen opened her eyes.

  “Bring them.” The doctor beckoned.

  Forsythia passed the little girl up to him, then climbed up herself with the baby boy.

  “Sofie. And little . . . Mikael.” The mother tried to lift her head but couldn’t. Instead, she met Forsythia’s eyes with a fierceness that went to her heart. “Take care of them . . . for me.”

  Dear Lord, was this really happening again? Forsythia nodded, unable to force words past the lump in her throat.

  Lena closed her eyes and breathed her last. The doctor bowed his head.

  “Mama!” Sofie reached for her mother and started to cry.

  Numb, Forsythia cradled little Mikael, who had mercifully fallen asleep. Father, what do we do now?

  In a daze, she and the doctor got the children back to camp, sending Lark, Jesse, and Martin back to bury the bodies as quickly as possible. With the buffalo herd passed and the meat distributed, folks were eager to get moving again. Meanwhile, Del and
Lilac helped Forsythia bathe the children and get some food into their bellies.

  The doctor examined them, making a game of his stethoscope with little Sofie and looking over tiny Mikael, who still had his umbilical stump.

  “Are they all right?” Forsythia pulled an old nightshirt of Robbie’s over Sofie’s small blond head.

  “Seem to be, other than hungry and dehydrated.” The doctor handed the newborn over to Del. “I don’t see any signs of infection or illness.”

  Forsythia breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor passed a hand over his face and beard, a habit she’d noticed when he was weary. He’d certainly had cause to be weary of late.

  Lark returned. “We decided to burn the wagon, just to be safe, since we don’t know what they had. We’ll start up again now, Hayes says. Try to make a few more miles before dark. Folks are impatient.”

  Dr. Brownsville stood. “I hate to ask it of you on top of Robbie, but do you think you can take the children? At least for now?”

  What choice do we have? They have to be taken care of. Forsythia looked to Lark. Her older sister hesitated, gave her a hopeless look, then nodded. “We’ll have to find some milk for the little one somehow.”

  Martin walked back from their wagon. “Hayes is calling a meeting of all the men tonight to try to iron out some of the ill feeling lately. Maybe you can find another family willing to take the children.” He held out a pail. “Our cow is going dry, as she’s with calf, but here’s a little milk to get him started.” He nodded at the baby.

  “Bless you.” Forsythia took the pail. What a gift these friends were.

  “We can ask about other milk cows tonight too. I know there’s one three wagons ahead with the family who shared milk when Alice Durham was ill, but I don’t know how much they can spare.” Lark wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “We’d better get the little ones in the wagon. I’m going to start up.” She nodded at the wagons ahead beginning to roll.

  Dr. Brownsville turned to head back to his wagon, but Forsythia stopped him. “It’s been one thing after another lately. Are you all right?”

  He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We go where needed, don’t we?”

  “You are a godsend to this train, that is certain.”

  He pressed her hand ever so briefly. “As are you.”

  Adam Brownsville could smell the tension in the air that evening as soon as he arrived at the meeting.

  The men had gathered near Hayes’s wagon, the area lit by lanterns hung along its side. A small folding table sat near the wheel, and Little Bear leaned off to the side. Many of the men murmured among themselves, Otis Bane’s strident tones easy to pick out above the rest. John Manning’s too.

  Clark Nielsen approached, and Adam made room beside himself. Though at times something about the young man bothered Adam, Clark and his family were the closest thing to friends Adam had so far in this group. And it wasn’t like he could put his finger on anything specific.

  “I’ve never had such a cantankerous train,” Hayes muttered near the doctor’s shoulder, making his way through the crowd.

  Adam stepped aside, offering a look of empathy.

  Hayes strode to the front and slapped a piece of paper down on the table. “Meeting come to order.” He planted his feet and stared around the group, the men’s voices gradually quieting. “It has come to my attention that certain of you have some disagreement with the way I’ve been handling things. If you’ve got anything to say, the time is now.”

  Silence reigned for a moment, but then Otis hobbled forward, nudged on by Manning and a few other men.

  “Well, sir, I do have something to say. And I’m not the only one who thinks it.”

  “And that is?”

  Otis looked at his followers for support. “We think you’ve been making some mighty bad decisions of late. Panderin’ to the Indians. Takin’ time off from being on the trail for, well, unnecessary reasons. Keepin’ us from organizin’ a proper buffalo hunt when the opportunity presented itself. Even wastin’ a whole day every week when we could be makin’ tracks for that promised land.”

  The wagon master shifted his jaw. “Is that all?”

  Otis looked over his shoulder again, then back. “Ain’t it enough?”

  “Good. Thank you for stating your opinion.”

  A bit nonplussed, Otis hobbled back to his spot.

  “I have listened to your grievances, and now I ask you to listen to me.” Hayes raised the paper in the air. “This here document was signed by all of you some weeks ago when we started out on the trail. You all agreed, freely and of your own accord, to be bound by these rules and guidelines all the way to Oregon or however far you stay with the train. I am now going to read these articles aloud once more, as it seems some of us have mighty short memories.”

  The men stood silent as Hayes read the entire document, then looked around the group once more.

  “Let me repeat a few things. I am the wagon master. What I say goes. You may not always agree, but I didn’t take on this position without being over this trail a heap of times. I may not always know what’s best, but I know a sight more than you do. We stop when I stop, and we go when I go. And about Sundays, you all signed your names to this document that you’d honor the Sabbath and our God, whether you believe in Him or not.” He flattened the paper. “Your teams need that day of rest even more than you do. Your oxen can’t pull your wagons if they’re worked half to death. And we’re not going to make it to Oregon unless we can start pulling together as a team. This is the last gripin’ and bellyachin’ that I want to hear till we reach Willamette Valley. Any questions?”

  Silence. Hanging heads.

  “Good.” Hayes straightened with a sigh. “Dismissed.”

  Adam raised his hand. “Mr. Hayes, if I could?”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “As you may know, we found two orphaned children on the trail today. Clark Nielsen and his sisters have graciously taken them in for now, but they have already taken on the Durhams’ son and wagon after the parents passed. I was wondering if any other family might be willing to open their hearts to these little ones.”

  “How old are the children?” someone asked.

  “A newborn boy and a girl about two.”

  Several shaking heads. Other men looked away.

  The doctor bit the inside of his cheek. No one? “Could anyone wet-nurse the infant?”

  Nothing.

  “Guess that’s your answer,” Hayes said. “Sorry, Doc.”

  “One more thing, then.” Adam cleared his throat. “Would anyone have an extra milk cow to spare? Or at least be willing to share some milk? The baby needs it urgently.”

  Clark shot him a grateful look.

  A middle-aged man raised his hand. “We might.”

  “All right, then.” Hayes nodded. “Get some sleep, folks. We move out at first light.”

  Adam followed Clark to speak to the gentleman with the cow.

  “Josiah Hobson.” He shook the young man’s hand, then the doctor’s. He looked at Clark. “We’ve got two milk cows along. We’ve got seven kids, so we need ’em. But I guess we could spare one for a while. Want to take her over to your wagon?”

  “Can we pay you for her?” Clark asked.

  “We’ll figure that out later.” Hobson patted the young man’s shoulder. “Just come get her for the little’un.”

  “Thanks.” Clark followed the man with a grateful nod to the doctor.

  Thank you, Father. Adam headed back to his wagon and Jesse, grief and gratitude warring in his weary mind. At least there is some kindness left in this world.

  But all these orphaned little ones. What would become of them?

  And what was it about Clark that dug at him?

  18

  Forsythia couldn’t get the baby to take the milk.

  Cradling a screaming Mikael on the wagon seat, she set the milk-soaked rag aside and shifted the newborn to her shoulder. “Shh, little one.” She patted h
is back. Her shoulders and neck ached with tension. Lord, why won’t he drink?

  Lark looked up from driving the oxen. “Still nothing?”

  “Nearly.” Forsythia fought the urge to cry.

  Lark cracked the whip a bit harder than usual. “This is why taking on other people’s children doesn’t work. What do we know about raising babies? None of us is a mother.”

  “Well, we couldn’t leave them there,” Forsythia snapped. “Can I help it if dying mothers keep giving me their children and no one else in the train wants to be bothered?” Her throat ached. She was so tired.

  Sighing, Lark turned the oxen over to Lilac and reached up for the infant. “Give him to me awhile.”

  “We’ve got to get more milk down him.” Forsythia held on to Mikael. “He’s only had a few teaspoons since yesterday. If he doesn’t drink soon . . .” Tears of worry and exhaustion cut off her words. Between the baby’s wails and poor little Sofie sobbing for her mama, she’d hardly slept last night. Her sisters were up, too, of course, but she felt a responsibility—after all, Lena Olsen had asked her to care for her children. Just as Alice had. Lord, why me? I want children of my own, but I surely wouldn’t have chosen this.

  “Get some sleep, Sythia.” Gently but firmly, Lark took the baby and rubbed his back. His wails calmed a bit. “You’re no good to him worn out like this.” She met Forsythia’s gaze, apology in her eyes. “Sorry for being short.”

  Too weary to argue, Forsythia lay down in the stuffy warmth of the canvas interior and let the wagon’s jolting rock her to sleep.

  She woke when they stopped for nooning and climbed out to find Lilac taking a turn with Mikael. She was trying a spoon this time to offer the fresh milk they’d drawn from Buttercup, the Hobsons’ cow, that morning.

  “Come on, little one. Drink.” But as soon as the milk trickled down his throat, Mikael sputtered and coughed, twisting his tiny face away.

  “It’s like he doesn’t understand what it is.” Gently, Lilac poked the tin spoon between the baby’s pursed lips again. “If he knew, surely he would take it.”

  “Or he just wants his . . . m-a-m-a,” Del spelled, holding Sofie on her lap. At least the waiflike little girl was eating, taking bites of cold biscuit and bacon from Del’s fingers as if she’d been starved. Which was not too far from the truth.