'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

“No one’s,” Wakefield argued. “You are assuming that these people want to be prepared, that they are capable of being prepared.”

  “Surely, Wakefield, as an intelligent, learned man, you’re not saying that the Negro is so inferior he can never learn to live productively on his own?” Kemble asked. “What about Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Dred and Harriet Scott … what about our own William Leidesdorff?”

  “Anomalies,” Wakefield insisted. “Most have enough European blood to negate the more base African blood, but it doesn’t mean their essential characters are not still coarse and ruthless for all they’ve altered their outward bearing. Who do you think sells them into slavery in the first place?” He did not wait for an answer. “Their own people! In Africa! Negroes are not opposed to the condition of slavery—in point of fact, they foster it.”

  “How so?” Kemble flicked his cigar butt into the fireplace.

  “You know as well as I do, Edward, that free Negroes don’t hesitate to buy Negro slaves, to put them to work on their own farms, in their own businesses. What does that say about their character?”

  “He’s correct.” This affirmation came from the second young doctor. “I don’t know how many of you gentlemen have ever spent time around Negroes, but I can attest to the very low character that is common among them. They can be good and decent people,” he conceded. “But, given the odd exception, they will never contribute to society what the European has—in fact, given a free hand, they can only bring the rest of us down.”

  “California recognizes your complaint, Mister Kemble,” Meiggs offered. “And, while the good citizens have permitted the Negro his freedom, in their wisdom they have withheld the privilege of homesteading, voting, holding public office, and schooling their children with ours for the very reasons given by Doctor Wakefield. With freedom comes responsibility,” Meiggs concluded. “And the Negro is simply not ready to assume as much.”

  The ignorance of brilliant men often staggered Grace, especially in light of the fact that they governed the lives of so many. She had turned and opened her mouth to speak when her eyes fell upon Doctor Wakefield, and she was instantly reminded of her place. She bit her lip hard, recalling other drawing rooms and other conversations into which she had entered, often to great satisfaction, but this time it could cost a very lucrative living and the well-being of her children. She felt a knot in her stomach at the realization that she’d entered the realm of compromised values; she was now no better than the men with whom she so strongly disagreed.

  “If there’s nothing else, sir?” Her voice was tight with resignation.

  “Thank you, no.” If Wakefield noticed her red face, he did not comment. “Gentlemen, some of you know my new cook, Missus Donnelly. For those who don’t, this remarkable woman is late of Bleeding Kansas, the great cities of Boston and New York, and before that—Ireland. She is the one responsible for my renewed interest in gastronomy and the added girth that has resulted therewith.”

  The men guffawed and raised their glasses good-naturedly.

  “Hear, hear!” Fairfax cheered, tossing her a wink.

  William Shew met her eyes and made a discreet half bow in deference to her clear agitation. Grace forced herself to acknowledge their cheers with a smile, then hurried from the room, turning to pull the doors closed behind her.

  “And not so bad to look at in the bargain, eh, Wakefield?” Meiggs ribbed.

  “None of that,” Grace heard the doctor reply sternly.

  The trays could be collected in the morning, Grace decided; it was late and the day had been endless. Yearning for the comfort of her own bed, Grace passed through the kitchen and entered her own private quarters, closing the door behind her and sighing with relief.

  The fire was low but the room was warm, and soft, rhythmic breathing came from the beds of her children. Grace took off her apron and then the dress beneath—it would have to be laundered, she saw now—removed her boots, her small clothes, and then her stockings, relishing the last bit of heat from the embers on her bare body.

  She longed for a bath and was suddenly reminded of the beautiful soaking tub at Donnelly House, the first and last she’d ever known. Granted, the big tin tub she filled early every Saturday morning in the Ogues’ kitchen behind the saloon was a luxury compared to the not-much-bigger-than-a-bucket tub she’d had in Kansas. There was a tub here for her use, and the children got their baths every Saturday night so as to be clean and sparkling for church come Sunday morning, but it was a sit bath, though she’d not complain—not after river bathing on the trail; at least the water was warm. The doctor bought himself a bath in town every few days, and Abigail was reported to have a lovely tub upstairs in the bathing room, but Grace would never spend so much as a minute soaking there and refused to allow herself to even think about it. The doctor was paying her quite a bit of money, but everything was so expensive in San Francisco; still, she might look into the price of a larger tub, one she could keep down in the cellar and bring up to use on evenings such as this, when her body longed for sleep but her mind was too restless.

  Though the fire was nearly out now, Grace could not quite bring herself to leave it. Thinking of poor Miss Wakefield’s devastated body, she looked down at her own, noting with satisfaction the new pounds put on now that she was not walking ten, fifteen, twenty miles a day and sleeping on the hard ground at night. The extra weight felt good; she had always been strong and sturdy and had not liked how her ribs had begun to show, the way her collarbone had stuck out and her cheeks had sunk beneath their bones—it reminded her too much of Ireland during that last, terrible year, when even the trees had been stripped of their bark, the grass pulled up by the handfuls and stuffed into desperate mouths, dirt eaten, anything to ease the pain of empty bellies. No, Grace thought, she preferred to keep weight on, wanted her children plump, with round arms and legs, soft bellies, chubby cheeks. Both Jack and Mary Kate had gotten too thin during the grueling walk from Kansas to Oregon, and Mary Kate had lost even more weight with her illness, but all that was changing now. The children were every day more robust and healthy; their eyes sparkled; their hair grew out dark and thick; they laughed more now and quarreled, always preferable to the heavy silence of defeat, of exhaustion. With a sigh, the embers breathed their last and Grace shivered in the coolness.

  Her nightdress was warm from where Mary Kate had put it near the fire screen, and gratefully she tugged it on over her head, letting its warm folds spill down over her breasts, her hips, to her ankles. Next she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and settled into the rocking chair, then began pulling the pins out of her hair, shaking it loose. When it had all come undone, she took up her brush and smoothed it, piece by piece, until she could run her fingers through it, lifting it from her scalp in heavy handfuls. She had lost hair during the famine years, and several teeth—though not in the front, thank God; the teeth would never grow back, but the hair was thick again and of good color. It was all vanity, when, of course, she should simply be grateful to have a life at all. She shook her head, pushing away the guilt that always threatened to come with the realization that she had lived while so many others had not. Instead, she let herself feel the weight of her body, its physical presence in the world, the fact that it was here.

  Grace let the brush fall into her lap, trying to remember the last time her body had been held by another. In New York, of course, with Peter. And before that, one night—mere hours—with Morgan. She never dwelled upon her nights with Bram, though she did not regret them, as one had given her Mary Kathleen. She thought of the single, pitiable woman upstairs—Abigail Wakefield had perhaps lain with a lover, the loss of whom had ruined her. Why was it, Grace asked herself, that some were able to carry on despite the blows life dealt them, while others were crushed and lay down, waiting for death? She remembered the weight of her own grief when Morgan died, and then—with shame—her breakdown in New York when she’d thought Jack dead, as well. Had Dugan not wrested the knife from her h
and—Grace allowed herself to touch briefly upon the terrible despair that had overwhelmed her—would she have really taken her own life? Mary Kate would have been orphaned, though she knew Dugan and Tara would have lovingly raised the girl, and Jack would have remained with Julia in Ireland; Grace would never have known Peter as her love, nor come to San Francisco to be his wife. Everything would have been otherwise—not worse, only different. And she was suddenly glad to have survived it, to be here, now, in this warm room with both of her beloved children asleep in their beds. She had survived it because of her faith and because of her friends; did Abigail Wakefield have either of those things? Grace suspected that the answer was no, and so she took the poor woman into her heart at that moment, and later, as she knelt by the side of the bed to give thanks, she named Abigail in her prayers as one who needed comfort.

  In bed at last, Grace listened to the sounds of the men outside her window calling their farewells, departing with a slow clip-clop down the steep road back into the town, back to their own homes, wives, and families, if they had them. She heard Doctor Wakefield close the heavy front doors, knew then he was on his way up to bed. In the morning, Grace would serve his breakfast, then make up a tray for Abigail, carrying on as if the day before had held nothing out of the ordinary. And perhaps, for this household, it had not. But for Grace, everything was out of the ordinary and had been for as long as she could remember. Every morning she awoke as if she’d been holding her breath, and every night she closed her eyes knowing that the day had brought her closer to—what? When Peter is here, I will know what to do, she reassured herself in the dark. She wrapped herself around Mary Kate, pulling the snug little body close to hers. This one is growing up, she thought, and her eyes filled with tears—growing up with no real sense of what was home, what was a father, what was regular family life.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she whispered against the soft, curling hair. “To you and Jack, both.”

  Come home now, Peter, she prayed. ’Tis time.

  Nine

  Captain Reinders lay drenched in sweat, his groans no less nor more than those of the other men in the tent hospital on the shore of Flamingo Island. He was getting better, though—in lucid moments he knew this to be true—and he urged First Mate Cole Mackley to sail north without him, to take Liam and the crew of the Eliza J on the fastest run for home they could make. God forbid that Liam should fall ill as well, and die down here in Panama. Reinders knew that he would survive, that he would see San Francisco Bay once again, and the beautiful harbors of the Pacific Northwest, but he could never face Grace with the news that he’d lost Liam, the boy they’d both taken on as their own.

  Go, he’d ordered Mackley. I’ll come when I can.

  Mackley had promised solemnly, but still the Eliza J sat anchored offshore, losing money every day, losing its passengers to other ships—those damned steamers he hated so much for their noise and smoke—her crew waiting and watchful, having refused to a man to leave their captain in this godforsaken country with its unrelenting heat, torrential rains, screaming monkeys, giant insects, malaria, and dysentery; “Reinders” would not be one of the names recorded in the ever-growing cemetery that already housed a thousand dead, including most of the American Fourth Infantry, who’d fallen ill just months before.

  In the evening, when the heavy heat abated, Reinders was able to stagger to his feet and, with the help of an orderly, make his way painfully to the front of the tent, where he looked out to the place his ship lay anchored, waiting for his return. His ship. Along with his boy. The two things he loved most in the world; two of the three, he corrected himself. Each evening, he stood and watched the sun set on her magnificent masts, the sails tightly furled, sheets coiled and ready, the crew busy with maintenance chores—swabbing, tarring, stitching, repairing, polishing, sanding … anything and everything to keep their hands busy while they waited.

  Reinders had borrowed a telescope, and now he raised it to his eye, focusing the lens, running it slowly aft to fore. He stopped midship; there was Mackley on the bridge, his own telescope glinting in the sun as he trained it on the island and then the tent in front of which his captain stood. Reinders lifted his hand in greeting and, a moment later, Mackley saluted in return, the boy beside him doing the same. Reinders trusted Mackley to look after Liam, but still he longed to see the boy himself. Finally, exhausted by the effort, he lowered the telescope and signaled to the orderly, who helped him back to bed.

  At night, Reinders felt more awake, more alert and focused, than he did during the day; the hours stretched out before him minute by long, cool minute, giving him more time for reflection than he might ever have wanted, time to consider what was now worth living for and what, if anything, was to be gained by the ending of his life on this island. Nothing, was the obvious answer, and the answer to which he clung. Nothing was to be gained by dying here. This was no noble cause; there was nothing heroic in transporting goods and people from Panama City to San Francisco Bay. He wondered why he was even still in this game—certainly those damned steamers were the transport of choice among the moneyed; true, there were still fortunes to be made in importing, and the Eliza J could take far more cargo than could her rivals, but these runs had become dull. There, he’d admitted it at last—running his ship to the south had become routine, and routine was anathema to an adventurer. Even Mackley had made noises about joining another crew, though Reinders had ignored him; he couldn’t imagine running his ship without the man who’d been by his side for so many years.

  But Mackley was a courting man these days; he’d met a woman, the daughter of a cavalryman stationed up at Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River. Those were the runs he wanted to make—north, to Fort Vancouver, and farther, to the land that was about to become Washington Territory. There were settlements up there, in Seattle and at New Whatcom, that had caught Mackley’s fancy. “And mine,” Reinders admitted, then cursed himself for mumbling aloud, as the orderly was looking sideways at him again. He had to get well, had to get well rid of this place before they locked him up as a madman.

  Reinders let his mind wander to the northern territories, to the islands and waterways that had quickened his heart in a way nothing had done since he’d come to the West. His first runs had been up the coast and then inland, where he sailed Captain Puget’s spectacular sound until he reached the bay and the timber mill. This land lay in a pocket between the rugged Cascade Range and the imposing Olympics; on a clear day, it was simply the most beautiful territory Reinders had ever seen in his life. Mount Rainier rose like a god behind smaller mountains carpeted with dense forests that flowed down to the very edge of the water.

  Out of this wilderness, settlements had been carved, and his favorite was New Whatcom—a colony that lay farther north of Seattle, in Bellingham Bay—a bold town of loggers and fishermen, their wives and families; a town that bristled with a bright industry, somehow noble in the face of such a rugged existence. He’d struck up a friendship with the Eldridges, Edward, a former seaman, and his wife, Teresa, who’d come over from Ireland during the famine; the two had met aboard Edward’s ship, much as Peter and Grace had, though the Eldridges were married now and had a little daughter, Isabella. Over dinner in their cabin one night, Reinders had talked about Grace, and Teresa had shared her own experience, reminding him again how strong these Irishwomen were, how brave to build new lives not just once, but two times, three … however many it took to secure a future for their children.

  Through the Eldridges, he’d also met Rolf and Astrid Sigurdsen, a young married couple who’d fled the famines in Norway and come overland to the West. At Edward’s suggestion, Reinders had decided to invest in New Whatcom and had established a general store, which Rolf and Astrid ran as his partners. It was the first time he’d actually done something on his own with his own money, and his business partner, Lars, had been pleased with his choice of investment. It was a good store, and the Sigurdsens ran it well. Reinders was always glad to see them w
hen he came up—glad to see her, he amended, Astrid. He sighed now and rolled over. Rolf had drowned early in the summer while fishing, leaving Astrid to run the store alone. Reinders had fully expected her to pack up and go back to any relatives she might have—she lost the child she’d been carrying shortly after Rolf’s death—but she let him know in no uncertain terms that she planned to stay on and that she hoped he would still honor their partnership, as the store was making money. He’d made arrangements to have a cabin built onto the back of the store to make it easier for her, and he thought of her often. She reminded him of Grace in many ways; though they looked and sounded nothing alike, the two women shared a faith that seemed to see them through all kinds of catastrophe, and both had the gift of humor, which he readily admitted was lacking in himself. Yes, he thought now, she was a good woman, Astrid; he needed to get up there to make sure she had everything she needed to run the store. Winter was coming and supplies were always short.

  There were Indians in New Whatcom, but the Lummis were prized for their knowledge and willing assistance to the settlers and, in return, were treated respectfully by those who now occupied part of their land. He’d seen the number of Indians along the lower Columbia decline with the advent of pioneers and the smallpox and measles they brought; even the sweat lodge—used to cure almost every ill that plagued them—was useless and, in fact, seemed to bring death even more quickly. But north of the Columbia, Indian life was still thriving, and in New Whatcom it was a colorful part of everyday life.

  Reinders closed his eyes now and tried to muster the feeling of those cool, salty breezes, the scent of fir and cedar, tried to hear the lush sound of the wind in the trees, the call of fat gulls, the soaring magnificence of the eagles. Would he see it again? Would he sail those waters alongside orca whales and porpoises, taste the fresh salmon, giant crab, clams, and mussels that were her bounty? “Yes,” he told himself, and this time he knew his voice rang out in the tent, but it didn’t matter. Yes, he would go there again, and he would take Grace with him. He would get back to San Francisco, see Lars, then head up the coast to the Willamette settlement; she would have arrived there by now, barring any setbacks. She was with Lily and Jan, and theirs was a large wagon train that had left Kansas in plenty of time—no Donner Party horror for them, though he shuddered to think of all the other things that could go wrong. No, he told himself. Grace had wracked up all her suffering early in life—nothing else would go wrong. He would sail up the coast and see her; it might be awkward, he knew, but they had written to each other regularly and, of course, they had Liam in common. Liam would be with him, and that would make their reacquaintance easier. When she was ready, he’d take her up north and show her the jewel that was New Whatcom. When Liam had first seen this part of the country, he’d said how much like Ireland it was, especially County Cork, the part that Grace was from. Reinders had not realized how much he wanted her to love it, how important it was to him, but the hours lying awake on this cot had made that clear. People called it God’s country, but he didn’t really know what that meant—either the entire world was God’s country, or nothing was. Though he now acknowledged the existence of God, he still didn’t have much faith in Him; there was too much chaos in the world, too much disaster and cruelty to allow for any kind of omnipotent plan. But if he was ever stirred by the presence of a greater being, it was when he sailed into the bays of the Pacific Northwest—the sight of that land always moved him profoundly.