Margaret Brownley

by A Long Way Home

  She pressed a clean flour sack against his wound. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She opened the door and held her breath as she monitored the sounds of the night. Except for the squeaky strains of a fiddle, the night was quiet.

  She ran down the steps and across the road to Logan’s cabin. She banged on the door with both fists. “Hurry,” she whispered. She only hoped he was home. To her relief, the door swung open. She was so glad to see him, she could barely talk.

  “I need your help!”

  Logan looked startled. “Is something wrong with Noel?”

  “No,” she whispered urgently, “it’s Macao. He’s been shot.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Not wanting to leave Macao alone a moment longer than necessary, Libby raced back to her cabin, leaving the door ajar. The Chinese man failed to stir when she moved the blood-soaked cloth from his wound.

  Logan walked in moments later and with practiced fingers felt Macao’s pulse. Libby found his commanding presence comforting. Right now she needed someone strong. He straightened and drew his knife from its sheath.

  “Run the blade through the fire.”

  Grateful for something to do, she took the knife from him and dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace. She ran the blade through the flames as she’d watched Logan do in the past. Behind her, Logan lifted the slightly built man onto the table.

  Logan held the lantern high as he leaned over Macao’s motionless body. “The bullet is deep. It may have damaged a nerve. We need alcohol.”

  Libby handed him the knife and reached in a cupboard for a bottle of medicinal alcohol.

  “We need clean cloths and you’d better bring a blanket. He’s going into shock.” As an afterthought added, “We also need pincers.”

  Libby raced around the room gathering up the things he asked for. In her haste, she accidentally knocked over the little dream keeper that Macao had given Noel, and it fell to the floor with a clunk next to Logan’s buckskin pouch. Fearful that this was a bad omen, she quickly scooped up the box and placed it on the mantel.

  Logan set the lantern down and stretched out his leg.

  Libby bit back the urge to ask him about it or to let on that she noticed his discomfort. Instead, she set the supplies on the table and took her place opposite him, all the while praying.

  Taking the knife in his hand, he looked across at her “Ready?”

  Her heart fluttered nervously. She’d never witnessed surgery, but knowing that Macao’s life hung in the balance she swallowed her fears, lifted her chin, and nodded. “Ready.”

  Logan leaned over Macao’s still body and carefully worked the tip of his knife into the wound at his shoulder.

  Libby averted her eyes and willed herself to remain strong. Except when he requested more cloths or alcohol, Logan worked in silence. She watched his face, looking for something that would tell her if Macao was going to make it. Logan hadn’t looked so intense since the night she gave birth to Noel. Only then, he looked wild, almost panicked. Tonight, he was in full control; his jaw was clenched in concentration, his brow lined with deep furrows.

  At last he dropped his knife into a basin of water and called for the pincers. Their fingers touched lightly as she handed them to him. His eyes met hers and for a moment they shared their unspoken concern for the man who lay between them.

  Logan carefully worked the pincers into the wound. Macao lay so still Libby couldn’t tell if he was still alive.

  Finally, Logan straightened and held the pincers up, a bloodied bullet caught in the metal grip.

  Libby breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed a handful of clean linen, which she carefully pressed against the wound while Logan washed his hands in the basin of water she’d set out for him.

  “I’m going to have to sew that up,” he said. “I’ll need a needle and thread.”

  She waited for him to take over before rummaging through her sewing supplies.

  “Which one will work best?” She arranged several needles on the edge of the table for him to see.

  He chose a fine-pointed bone needle. She handed him flaxen thread, but he decided to use buffalo sinew.

  “It’s easier to work with and it’s stronger,” he explained. “I have some back at the cabin. Here, hold on to this.” He indicated the cloth pressed against the wound. She moved to his side and placed her hands according to his instructions.

  He checked Macao’s pulse. The face of the unconscious man was pale and clammy to the touch. “He’s breathing steadily.” Logan surprised her by laying his hand against her cool pale cheek.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered, his eyes filled with concern.

  She bit her lip and nodded, and apparently satisfied, he headed toward the door. “I won’t be long.” As an afterthought, he added, “Don’t let anyone else in.”

  Logan returned moments later, bringing with him a leather pouch filled with various supplies. Locating the card wrapped with buffalo sinew, he threaded the bone needle and with nimble fingers quickly sewed up Macao’s wound.

  “Where did you learn to do surgery?’ she asked.

  “In the wilderness.” He refused the scissors she offered him, preferring to use his knife to cut the thread. “A trapper better know how to take care of himself, otherwise he isn’t going to last long. I know one trapper who was forced to cut off his own leg.”

  “How awful,” she said. “Is he all right?”

  “Last I heard he was fit as a three-legged table.”

  Logan was obviously trying to make her laugh but under the circumstances all she could manage was a thin smile. She replenished the water in the basin with fresh hot water and handed him a bar of lye soap. He carefully scrubbed his hands and his supplies while she wiped away the blood from Macao’s shoulder.

  “That’s about all we can do for now. Do you want me to take him back to my cabin?”

  “I don’t think we ought to move him,” she said.

  Logan checked the patch of matted beaver hair that he used to stop the bleeding. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll watch him.”

  `“Logan…thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “It could be dangerous, you know; his being here.”

  She lifted her chin. “No matter, he must stay.”

  *****

  Logan insisted upon spending the night and slept on the floor next to Macao. Libby heard him leave just before dawn. Unable to sleep, she dressed and checked on Noel before tiptoeing to Macao’s side.

  He was awake and greeted her in a weak voice. “Mr. St John a good man. And you good woman. Is it possible that you and he…?”

  The ache in Libby’s heart deepened. “My place is in Boston and Logan belongs up north in beaver country.”

  Macao looked surprised. “I thought it was only us Chinese who were bound to our birth right.”

  “There are some things that can’t be changed,” she said and sighed. “I’ll fix you something to eat. You lost a lot of blood.”

  He stayed her with his hand. “No eat. Must leave.”

  “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

  He released her. “I cannot stay here. My presence puts you and your little one in grave danger.”

  She shook her head. “The miners would never hurt me or Noel.”

  “They would not mean to. But there is much hatred for my countryman. Hatred does strange things to a man’s soul.”

  From the next room came Noel’s cry. Libby was torn between trying to persuade Macao to stay and attending to her young son’s needs. “Please, Macao,” she begged, “please stay. After I feed Noel, I’ll fix you tea and biscuits.”

  “You are a good friend,” Macao said, his voice almost inaudible. “I shall never be able to repay your kindness.”

  “The only thing I want is for you to make a complete recovery.”

  Noel’s first tentative cries had now turned into high-pitched wails.

  “Go to your son.”
When she hesitated, he added, “We will discuss my situation later.”

  Taking this to be his promise to stay, she left the wounded man’s side and hurried to Noel’s room. “Good morning, young man.”

  At the sound of her voice, Noel stopped crying. She picked him up, holding him close, and was almost overcome with the love she felt for him. “You aren’t going to grow up hating anyone, are you, my dear sweet son? Promise Mama.”

  Noel cooed as she changed him, and then nursed hungrily at her breasts.

  After attending to his physical needs, she carried him out to join Macao, but the room was empty and there was no sign of him anywhere outside. She hated having to bother Logan again, but she had no choice. After wrapping Noel in a blanket, she donned her shawl and slipped out the door.

  The sun was just beginning to spread its warmth across the valley. A bird warbled from a treetop, filling the clear morning air with its lovely sweet song. Compelled to act as normal as possible, she resisted the urge to quicken her steps.

  Logan’s door opened before she knocked and she wondered if he had been watching for her. Or had he simply sensed her presence as she had so often sensed his? “He’s gone.”

  Logan stepped outside to glance up and down the street before hustling her inside and firmly bolting the door shut.

  “He was afraid his presence here would cause problems for Noel and me.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right.”

  “This is terrible! All this hatred.”

  “I don’t suppose you have to worry about hatred in Boston.”

  Libby placed Noel on the table and moved the blanket away from his face. “I wish that were true.” She felt a guilty start at the realization that she’d never given the matter much thought in the past. She’d heard talk in the elegant parlors and at the fancy dress balls, heard the hatred directed at the Italians who had recently flooded the city. Still, she’d not considered the implications or thought to take a stand. “I’m afraid Boston has its own prejudices.”

  Logan folded his arms across his chest. “Why, Libby, I can’t believe my ears. You can’t mean it. Calico Corners has something in common with Boston?”

  “Don’t make light of this, Logan. This is too serious. Would you watch Noel while I go to Chinatown? I’ve got to know if Macao’s all right.”

  He grabbed her arm. “I can’t let you do that. It could be dangerous and you have Noel to think about.”

  “Are you saying I would be a better mother to Noel if I stay here and do nothing to help a person in need?”

  He released her and turned to stare at the fire, his hand on the mantel. “I’ll go.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  He turned his head to meet her gaze. “You didn’t.”

  Chapter 26

  During the next week Logan made nightly trips to the wooden shanties that clung to the hills above Calico Corners in the area known as Chinatown.

  After each visit Libby insisted he give her a full report on Macao’s condition. What he told her varied little from one night to the next. The wound was healing with no sign of infection. For the most part Macao seemed to have regained his strength.

  At first Libby received his reports with relief and thanksgiving, but gradually she grew uneasy and suspected that Logan was holding something back. Logan denied it, and she decided it was only her imagination. But when he appeared on her doorstep late that Friday night, he looked troubled.

  While Logan warmed himself by the fire she poured him a cup of coffee. She then sat down on the hearth next to his feet and braced herself for the bad news she was certain he’d come to tell her.

  “Logan?’

  He regarded her solemnly. Not even the light from the fire could chase away the shadow of worry at his brow.

  “He has no feeling in his right arm.”

  For a moment she stared at him in relieved silence.

  Compared to the fate she’d imagined, this was encouraging news. Macao was still alive and that’s what counted, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Logan would never understand.

  In the short time she’d known Logan, she’d come to realize that a trapper prizes physical strength and endurance above all else. She understood this, at least in part. An injured leg—or in Macao’s case, an injured arm—could make the difference between life and death in the wilds.

  She also knew that, unlike Logan, Macao was a man of the soul. While Logan communed with nature, Macao tapped into the spiritual world. While Logan heeded the wind, Macao took counsel from his long departed ancestors. His physical being held little or no significance to him.

  Still, Logan looked so depressed, she probed for more. “Is…is there anything else?’

  “Isn’t that enough?” he asked bitterly, and she knew he was thinking of his own leg. Regretting her careless words, she laid her hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean that like is sounded. But knowing Macao…”

  As if regretting his brusqueness, he covered her hand with his own and nodded. “He lacks spirit. He does nothing but sit and stare. He keeps saying that he’s going home horizontally.”

  Libby frowned. “He thinks he’s going to die?”

  “I’m afraid so. And you know for a Chinese man, to die on foreign soil is the worst possible fate.”

  Libby closed her eyes and felt a strange kinship with Macao. She knew how it felt to be deprived of home and loved ones, to be so consumed by homesickness that it was almost impossible to perform the normal duties of everyday life.

  “Do you think he’s going to die?”

  “Maybe we should pray about it.”

  Surprised, she studied him and nodded. His hand covered hers and together they bowed their heads. Logan said the Lord’s Prayer like they did in church and Libby added her own words at the end. “Please, God, watch over Macao. Help him find a way home. Amen.”

  Logan squeezed her hand tight. “Amen.”

  Long after Logan left Libby sat in front of the fire reading the Bible. She found the answer she sought in 1 Peter 4:10. As every man has received the gift, even so administer the same one to another. She closed the Good Book and stared at the slow burning log. Every man, eh, God?

  Maybe, just maybe, she had the answer to her prayer.

  *****

  The Golden Hind was packed to capacity that Saturday night. The men were growing restless and bored. The weather had turned cold again and temperatures had dipped below freezing. The ground was frozen up at the diggings and the mines had produced slim pickings.

  Logan sat in a corner by himself. He wasn’t there to gamble or indulge in other vices. He craved the company, poor as it was. Anything was better than his lonely cabin. It wasn’t easy living a saintly life but if that’s what it took to be a proper godfather, then that’s what it took.

  So no more gambling, no more whiskey, except for medicinal purposes. He would continue to attend church on Sundays as long as he was in town, and he would keep plowing through the Bible the preacher gave him, even though he didn’t understand everything he read.

  His thoughts turned to Macao. The man grew more listless with each passing day. Logan had purposely avoided stopping at Libby’s house earlier that evening. He hadn’t wanted to tell her that her friend had stopped eating altogether, and that his already slender frame had been reduced to mere bones.

  “You gonna sit there like a bump on the log?” Sharkey called. He baited Logan with a deck of cards. They were the thin Spanish cards that Logan preferred. The Golden Hind was the only place in town that used these particular cards

  “No, thank you,” Logan said.

  Beaker made a face. “You’re no fun, anymore.” He shuffled the cards.

  Benjamin Jacobs walked up to the table.

  “Mind dealing me in?’

  The look on Beaker’s face told Logan he wasn’t alone in disliking the man

  “Aren’t you on guard duty tonight?” Beaker asked.

  Benjamin lifted a corner of his mouth as if he r
elished the thought. “From midnight till dawn.”

  “How many chinks you gonna git tonight?” a man called from one of the other tables and laughed.

  Benjamin yanked out a chair and sat down. “Many as I kin,” he replied.

  Logan curled his hands into fists. Why the—

  A buzz of excitement rose behind him.

  Sharkey’s voice cut through the murmur. “Why, look who’s come to visit us.”

  Big Sam turned from the rowdy group at the bar and shouted, “Why, if it’s not Miz Libby.”

  Logan swung around in his chair to see for himself. “What in tarnation—”

  Seemingly oblivious to the attention she was drawing, Libby whispered something in McGuire’s ear. Thornton stood by her side holding Noel straight out in front of him like he was holding a butter churn dasher.

  Big Sam cursed and stormed across the room, waving his arms about his body like a broken windmill. “What did I tell you ‘bout holding a baby? Where’s the center of gravity?”

  He reached for Noel and demonstrated, cupping the baby’s head in his powerful black hand as he pointed to the baby’s middle. He glared at Thornton. “The center, you jackass!”

  Meanwhile, McGuire walked to the middle of the empty dance floor. “Gentlemen,” he said grandly, hooking his thumbs into his bright red suspenders. “The lady requests ya undivided attention.”

  “The lady always has me undivided attention,” one of the miners yelled. This was followed by loud hoots and hollers.

  Libby walked to the center of the dance floor. “Thank you.” She waited for the crowd to settle down before she continued in a clear voice. “The reason I’m here is because I’m taking up a collection for a very worthy cause. One of my friends, a gentlemen by the name of Macao, wants to go back to his homeland.”

  Logan groaned. Fool woman! Didn’t she know the danger she was putting herself in? The miners pretty near worshiped Libby and her son. But whether the men’s affection for Libby outweighed their hatred for foreigners was anybody’s guess.

  Logan leaned forward, ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.