Treasured Grace

by Tracie Peterson

  “Come on, I need you to fetch water while I get the fire going.” She heard her sisters mutter as they collected the buckets, but they offered no further protest, to her relief.

  Grace had begun to put together fuel for the fire when the voice of a woman sounded behind her. “I want to thank you, Mrs. Martindale, for all you did for my Jimmy. He’s feelin’ a lot better. Even ate tonight.”

  Grace straightened and smiled. “I’m so glad, Mrs. Piedmont. Just keep doing what I told you, and he should be fine.”

  The middle-aged woman nodded. “I’m worried about my Anna-Beth. She’s feelin’ a mite poorly, and I wondered if you could take a look at her?”

  The wagon train was without a doctor, and Grace had been kept busy stitching up wounds, tending rashes, and overseeing the epidemics of cholera, dysentery, and the ague. It was good to be of use to people, and Grace knew that healing was her true calling in life.

  “Of course,” she told Mrs. Piedmont. “Let me get my fire going and the water on, and I’ll be right over.”

  Hope grinned at the young man who’d just stolen a kiss. “Robbie Taylor, you are the most forward boy I’ve ever made the acquaintance of.”

  The sandy-headed boy gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m not a boy, Miss Hope. I’m a man full grown. Why else would I be sparkin’ you?”

  “Why, indeed,” she murmured, batting her eyelashes.

  Her coyness only served to encourage him to risk another kiss. This time, however, Hope pushed him away.

  “I’m not easily had, Mr. Taylor. If you mean to court me properly, then you’ll have to speak to my sister. However, you should know that at least five other fellas have gone ahead of you to ask for my hand.”

  Robbie’s smile faded. “But, Miss Hope, you know I love you. I’m gonna get one of those big tracts of land and farm it. We’ll put up a house, and you can plant a garden.”

  Hope wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like planting and harvesting gardens. It makes my hands get all dirty and rough. This horrible journey has already been so hard on my hands, and I wear my gloves almost all the time.” She sighed and raised her hands as if to offer proof.

  Robbie took hold of her hands and drew them to his lips. “It don’t matter what your hands look like. You’re still the prettiest girl west of the Mississippi.”

  “Just west of the Mississippi?” She pulled her hands away and shook her head. “Honestly, Robbie Taylor, I don’t know why I put up with your sweet talk. Now leave me be. I need to fetch water. I can’t have Mercy doing it all by herself.”

  “Well, at least let me do that for you,” he said, giving her such a lovesick expression that Hope couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Very well. The bucket is over yonder.” She pointed, and without offering further comment, Robbie crossed to the wagon and took up the bucket. He headed for the river, leaving Hope to smile to herself.

  It was always easy once they were stopped for the day to get one of the boys to do her bidding. She liked the way they all clamored for her attention. God had given her a pretty face and a fine figure to attract a good husband. It was surely up to her to use them to her advantage.

  Grace made her way to the Piedmonts’ wagon, passing several of the other families along the way. Most were gathered around their own shared fires and offered her condolences as she passed.

  If they knew how little I’m grieving, they’d think me heartless. Of course, if they knew that my marriage was only arranged so that the Right Reverend T.S. Martindale could be placed on the mission field and that our marriage was never consummated, they might better understand.

  She had been only too willing to refrain from sharing a marriage bed with the Right Reverend. He had declared that in answering God’s call he needed neither wife nor children. However, the mission board had insisted that it was not good for man to be alone and they required their ministers to be married. Only then did the Right Reverend agree to be wed, and when Grace was able to present herself—and the money from the sale of her mother’s farm—he thought her the perfect woman. However, he had no intention of becoming a true husband or father. He made that clear to Grace on their first night alone, much to her gladness. To be a widowed virgin might make others raise a brow in confusion, but to Grace it was a blessing for which she thanked God.

  “She’s over here, Mrs. Martindale,” Mrs. Piedmont called from the back of the family’s wagon. “She’s been coughing and sniffling for quite a while, but I was so busy with Jimmy that I didn’t give it much thought. I figured it was just a cold, but now she’s chilling and her face is flushed. She says she hurts all over.”

  Grace made her way to where the seven-year-old lay curled in a ball, shivering. “Mrs. Piedmont, we’ll need a lantern. Would you please bring one so that I can examine her better?”

  “Of course.” The woman scurried away and quickly returned with the needed light.

  “Hold it close so I can give her a good examination,” Grace instructed while carefully moving the child’s head from side to side. “I heard you aren’t feeling very good, Anna-Beth.”

  Grace could feel that the girl’s fever was high. Her face was flushed, and from the sound of her cough her lungs were very congested. Closer inspection of the child’s face gave Grace a start. Without bothering to check her throat or eyes, Grace unbuttoned the child’s nightgown. The rash she found on the girl’s chest made her diagnosis certain. Another epidemic was sure to follow.

  “It’s measles,” Grace said, turning to the girl’s mother.

  Mrs. Piedmont’s expression changed from worry to horror. “No. Not measles.”

  Grace buttoned the child’s nightgown, then patted her on the head. “You rest a minute, Anna-Beth. I need to make you some medicine and talk to your mama about how to make you feel better.” She led Mrs. Piedmont from the wagon.

  “I never thought it might be measles. What are we gonna do?”

  “Well, first off, we need to quarantine your wagon and your other children. They’ve both been exposed, but it’s possible they won’t take the measles.” Grace knew, however, that the chances were slim to none. Once measles made its way into the camp, it would be hard to force its exit until everyone who’d never had the disease managed to catch it.

  Mrs. Piedmont drew her fist to her mouth as if to prevent herself from crying out. She was near to tears.

  “I’ve dealt with measles a hundred times before this,” Grace said. “Try not to worry. My remedies are good to help. Now, I presume you and Mr. Piedmont have had the measles.” The woman nodded. Grace smiled. “Good. Then you won’t be at risk in tending Anna-Beth. What about the other children?”

  Mrs. Piedmont lowered her hand. “Jimmy’s had it.”

  “He probably won’t take it again. The baby most likely won’t take it because you’re nursing her.” Grace paused a moment to think. “You’re good friends with the Culverts, aren’t you?”

  Mrs. Piedmont nodded. “Came west together. We’ve been friends since we were children.”

  “Good. I’ll check with Mrs. Culvert, but I believe her children have all had the measles. If so, Jimmy and the baby can stay with them while you care for Anna-Beth.”

  After instructing Mrs. Piedmont to get some water boiling, Grace went about her duties, checking first with the Culverts and then retrieving some herbs and vinegar from her stores. Once she had completed instructing Mrs. Piedmont, Grace knew she’d have to inform Mr. Holt. Thankfully, the Piedmonts were already positioned at the back of the train with the other sick folks. It was most likely too late to hope that the disease wouldn’t spread, but they would do whatever they could to try to hold it at bay.

  Only one thought continued to trouble Grace. Mercy had watched over Anna-Beth and the Piedmonts’ baby during Jimmy’s sickest hours in order to free up Mrs. Piedmont to care for him.

  “And she’s never had the measles,” Grace murmured to herself.

  Alexander Armistead scratched his chin and focused on the cards in his
hands. He had nothing better than a pair of sevens, and given the confidence with which his old friend was raising the stakes, Alex felt it was best to fold.

  “I give up. You’re just too good for me tonight.” He threw the cards down.

  Gabriel Larquette laughed and lowered his cards to reveal he had nothing better than a pair of threes. “You give up too easy, my friend.” He collected the cards and the pot.

  “Well, I’ll be. You always do have all the luck.” Alex leaned closer to their small fire and checked the roasting rabbit. “This is ready. Where’d Sam get off to?”

  “Went to see about those last three traps. He’ll be here soon enough.” Gabriel put the cards in his leather knapsack.

  “Gabe, do you ever regret your life out here in the wilderness?” Alex asked, giving the rabbit another turn.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You said you’ve been doing this for nearly forty years, and I just wondered if you ever wish you’d done something else.”

  The older man shrugged. “Can’t say I would have wanted to do anything else. You remember how I lived in Montreal?”

  Alex nodded. “You said you hated the city.”

  “I did and I do.” Gabe shook his head. “Can’t breathe in the city. My pa felt the same way, but my mother was a proper French woman who enjoyed her pretty dishes and silk clothes. She died when I was twelve, and after that I left school to trap full-time with my father. I’ve never regretted anything at all, except her death . . . and others’.”

  “Death has a way of making you regret a great deal.” Alex felt the old melancholy settling on him.

  “Seems to me we’ve had this conversation before,” Gabe said with a shrug. “I’ve told you over and over how you can be rid of your regrets and sorrows.”

  Alex had heard it a million times. “By trusting in God? Seems my folks told me the same, but they’re still dead . . . and it’s all my fault.”

  Chapter

  2

  The Whitman Mission was a welcomed sight after their long months on the trail. At a distance in the east were the Blue Mountains, which had taken the travelers’ last bits of strength to traverse. To the west were rolling hills and the immense Columbia River, although the latter couldn’t be seen from the mission.

  The layout of the Whitmans’ mission was simple but effective. The Whitmans lived in a T-shaped mission house. This two-story building also housed the school, storage rooms, and several bedrooms. Beyond the house there was a blacksmith’s shop, and beyond that another large house.

  With the weather mild, some of the newly arrived chose to pitch their tents as they had on the road west. Others who weren’t ill were content to rug up under their wagons. Dr. Whitman had instructed them where to park their wagons beyond the main mission grounds. They set up camp there just as they had on the trail, but instead of a large number of wagons, they were now down to just ten. Only eight families still recovering from cholera and dysentery had taken the mission route and separated from the main wagon train, including Nigel Grierson. Nigel had come along to act as leader to the small band and to be close to Grace. Or so she figured. And then there were the Piedmonts, who were dealing with measles. Nevertheless, the Whitmans welcomed the travelers and offered a hot meal and the doctor’s skills.

  The visitors were given instructions on the mission rules and events. Dr. Whitman explained in detail about the many Indians in evidence.

  “The Cayuse village is just beyond the mill pond, as I’m certain you saw,” he told those who’d gathered on the mission grounds. “Nez Perce and Walla Wallas also frequent our area. They are quite peaceful, but do not under any circumstances go to the Cayuse village. It is just a small gathering compared to one some eight miles to the east, but the Cayuse are especially hostile lately, and I advise you to avoid them.”

  Grace and her sisters stood nearby, listening to Dr. Whitman as he continued to offer his insight and rules. Despite her exhaustion from their last two days of what seemed to be endless travel, Grace found a sense of peace just in knowing she would remain here for a time. Isaac Browning had already spoken on their behalf with the Whitmans and received approval for Grace and her sisters to stay for the winter.

  Once Whitman concluded his instructions and the people were dismissed to return to their wagons, Grace found Mr. Browning eager to introduce her. With Hope and Mercy at her side, Grace followed Browning and allowed him to make the introductions. Mrs. Whitman seemed a very proper lady with her hair neatly pinned and her dress crisply pressed. She offered a welcoming smile and a look of compassion. Grace thought her pretty and very well spoken. Dr. Whitman, on the other hand, appeared stern and fatherly with his beard, hooked nose, and piercing eyes.

  “We are glad to lend you aid in your time of need, Mrs. Martindale,” the doctor said. “And we are heartily sorry for your loss. I wish I could have been along on the trip to lend aid to the sick. You and your sisters will be welcome to take refuge with the others in the emigrant house.” He pointed across the field toward the house that lay beyond the blacksmith. “I’ll have one of my boys show you where to put your sheep and oxen.”

  “We are always happy to have extra hands to bear the burden of work,” Narcissa Whitman added. “And of course your youngest sister will attend school with the other children.”

  “Thank you.” Grace sensed it was best to say little.

  After a bit more instruction on meals and the like, Grace found herself and her sisters dismissed to the care of Harriet Kimball, who lived with her husband and children in the house across the field.

  “I’ll show you around,” Mrs. Kimball said, looking directly at Grace. “It’s always nice to talk to someone new. I heard the doctor refer to you as Mrs. Martindale.”

  Grace nodded as they made their way across the mission grounds. The air was cool but not overly cold. “I’m widowed. My husband died a few days ago.”

  Mrs. Kimball stopped and patted Grace’s arm. “I am so sorry. Do you have children?”

  “No. We were just married before coming west. I’m here with my sisters.”

  “I have five children. We had seven.” She dropped her gaze to the ground. “I lost two on the long road here. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

  Grace nodded and cast a glance at Hope and Mercy, who seemed enthralled with their new surroundings—especially the Indians camped at a distance across the pond.

  “There were a great many deaths on our journey here.” Grace quickly added, “We didn’t have a doctor amongst the travelers, so I did what I could.”

  “Are you a midwife?”

  “Among other things. I am a healer. I was taught by my mother just as she was taught by her mother. The tradition goes back for generations. Frankly, I find those skills surpass most school-trained physicians.”

  “Well, it’s probably best you don’t tell Dr. Whitman your thoughts. He doesn’t appreciate his ways being called into question.”

  Grace nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. I apologize if I’ve offended.”

  Harriet shook her head. “Not at all. Here in the wilderness it doesn’t bode well to take offense—at least not for long. We need one another out here.” They stopped in front of the house, and Harriet Kimball opened the door. “This is the emigrant house. The Sager children call it ‘the Mansion’ when they visit from the mission house.”

  “Who are the Sager children?” Grace asked.

  “Orphans adopted by the Whitmans. Their folks died on the trail here some years ago.” Harriet motioned for Grace to follow as she stepped inside the house.

  “There are six rooms here on the first floor and then an upper floor with beds. The Saunders family has two rooms here on the first level, and our family and the Halls have one room each. Mrs. Hays and her son stay with the Halls. Upstairs the people vary depending on travelers, but usually we have about thirty people sleeping in the house altogether.”

  “Thirty?” Hope declared in disbelief. “How in the
world can you quarter thirty people in this small house?”

  Mrs. Kimball seemed surprised by her outburst. She shrugged. “It is a tight fit, but we mostly use it just for sleeping. During the day the children attend school, and the men work with Dr. Whitman at the gristmill or blacksmith shop. There’s always plenty to do.”

  “And the women?” Grace asked. “What sort of duties might we have?”

  Mrs. Kimball shrugged. “Why, the same sort of work women do everywhere. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, preserving the food. We make our own candles and soap. We have no one to depend on but ourselves. The nearest fort—that of the Hudson’s Bay Company—is Fort Nez Perce. It’s over thirty miles away, however, and supplies are expensive.”

  “Hope and I will do what we can to help. Won’t we, Hope?” Grace cast a look at her sister, who appeared bored with the entire conversation. Grace nudged her.

  Hope rolled her eyes heavenward. “Of course.”

  Mercy giggled but covered it with a cough.

  Mrs. Kimball returned her gaze to the room. “You and your sisters can sleep in here on the floor. I’m sorry there aren’t enough beds, but it’s warm and out of the weather.”

  “We’re used to sleeping on the ground, so it really isn’t a problem.” Grace glanced around the simple room. “I’m just grateful that we’ve been allowed to stay.”

  Once they were alone, Hope edged closer to Grace. “Do we have to stay here? Why can’t we move on with the others when they’re well?”

  “Because we have nothing waiting for us in Oregon City.” Grace fixed both of her siblings with a stern look. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but we have no choice. What money we have left won’t be enough to see us through the winter. The Whitmans will allow us to stay here and earn our keep. That way we can save what funds we have.”

  “You were really smart to hide our money from the Right Reverend,” Hope said in a hushed tone. “I didn’t like him at all, but when he took all of our things and sold most of them, I hated him.”