Now, the waves slapping against their beach sounded desolate and carried a menace. The three of them could survive for several days without food. That was not a problem. With plenty of fresh lake water to drink, they would be fine, including Ayasha, who would thrive on his mother’s milk alone. But if there was any sort of a storm, they would be washed out into the lake or battered to pieces against the face of these cliffs.
In spite of his brave words to try to calm Moon Song, he knew they did not have the luxury of simply waiting for the passing of another ship. Maybe there would be one in time. Maybe not. They might not starve for several more days, but unless the weather remained fair and calm, or a ship passed soon, or God chose to bring about a miracle, they were doomed.
There had never been a situation in his life in which he could do absolutely nothing. Even when he was drummed out of the Richmond pulpit, he fought back by helping desperate people escape. When he saw a tree was crashing near a spot where Robert’s little girl had wandered, he knew he was fast enough to save her, even if it meant giving up his own life in order to do so. Now . . . nothing.
The strength had gone out of him. He was cold and wet. The skin on his back hurt. He had no earthly idea of what to do except wait.
Moon Song seemed to have given up. She simply sat with Ayasha on her lap as she leaned against the cliff face. Isabella appeared to have gone far away from all of this in her mind. She sat staring into space, her eyes apparently seeing nothing. There was nothing he could do for any of them. He didn’t even have the ability to start a fire to get them warm.
Many times, he’d heard people use a phrase that had always bothered him. “The only thing left to do is pray,” they would say. Like prayer was a last resort. A sort of mystical, lost hope kind of faith. He knew the Bible well enough to know that it didn’t teach that prayer was a last resort. It taught that prayer was the first and continuing thing a man should do . . . not the last.
Funny how he seldom remembered that fact until his back was against the wall—like now.
Unfortunately, it was easier to pray with faith and courage when one’s teeth were not chattering with cold and one’s shoulder was not throbbing. The only thing he could think about was wishing he had one of Mrs. Wilcox’s warm comforters to pull about his shoulders. Instead, all they had was each other.
Moon Song must have been having the same thought. She came over and sat down as close to him as possible. He drew her close to him. It helped. He saw Isabella sitting in a heap by herself, shivering.
“You’d better come over here,” he said. “It will help a little if we sit close together.”
It took her a few seconds to respond, but then she came and sat down beside him on the other side.
“That’s a little bit better,” Isabella said. “But I’m still so cold. What do we do now?”
“I don’t know about you,” Skypilot said, “but I’m going to pray.”
He rested his head back against the stone, closed his eyes, and began to silently plead. Father, please. I don’t mind dying so much, but these women? This baby? Please spare them. Keep the weather calm. Send a ship to rescue us. Help Isabella stay calm in spite of her great loss. And I wouldn’t mind if you made this burn on my shoulders stop hurting a bit.
He was praying with such fervor, such faith, he allowed himself to crack open one of his eyes, half convinced that he would see a boat on the horizon. But except for the bits of debris floating on top, the lake was as empty as a desert. At least they had been spared one horror. By the grace of God, there had been no bodies washed ashore with them. For the women’s sake alone, he hoped Moon Song was right, that Lake Superior never gave up her dead.
Suddenly, Moon Song nudged him and handed him Ayasha.
“I am warmer now. I go.”
She headed toward the water.
“No, Moon Song.” He scrambled to his feet. “Stop.”
She ignored him and waded waist deep out into the cold water.
“What are you doing?” he shouted.
If anything happened to that girl, he would never forgive himself.
“Why you so worry?” Her head disappeared beneath the water, then reappeared as she faced him, several yards out into the lake, treading water. She looked at him impishly, a small smile on her face as she teased, “You afraid?”
Then she dove and was soon out of sight.
After nearly a half hour, he heard from a distance a sound that could only have been described as an Indian war whoop.
The cliff face that she swam beside was even more vertical than the one where she had left the others. The water was shallower in some places than others, but it was always next to a bare cliff. Some of the cliffs were even higher and more impossible to climb. Glancing back over her shoulder as she’d left the place where they had washed ashore, she saw that their cliff was on a slight, very slight incline—but an incline that someone might be able to climb with the help of a good, strong rope. Unfortunately, they did not have a rope.
In spite of all the praying she knew Skypilot had been doing, there was no rope miraculously bobbing around in that lake. The only things that had survived the explosion were just pieces of this and pieces of that. Everything metal had sunk, of course. There had been a couple of body parts she had to work her way around, but that was not information she would share with Skypilot and Isabella. Skypilot might think it their responsibility to have some sort of burial, and Isabella might start screaming again. Who knew what white people might do?
Then she saw something wedged between two boulders up ahead. She swam over to investigate and saw that it was a barrel. Slightly waterlogged but still intact. There were two words stenciled on top. She was pretty sure that one word said “sheets,” but she could not read the second one. She did not know if this carried some form of sheets of food, or the kind to put upon a bed.
While walking about the ship, she had noticed many barrels and boxes sitting on the deck. When she asked Skypilot why they were there, he said his best guess was that they had run out of storage down below. The mission of the Belle Fortune was not just to take on passengers but also to resupply Fort Wilkins after the long winter when no ships had been able to get through the ice. He said it looked as though the government was being generous.
She had laboriously sounded out the labels of contents as he helped her with prompts each time she got stuck on a word. Soda crackers. Mess beef. Mess pork. Soap. Condensed milk. Essence of coffee. Steamed oysters. Yeast. Pepper. Salt. Flour. Sugar. Ammunition. She had learned enough from him over the winter that she could recognize some of the letters and put them together. It had given them some entertainment to read the labels.
If the barrel contained food, it would be a good thing. If it were bedsheets, they could use them to help keep warm. Either way, she would somehow get this barrel back to them once she had finished her explorations, but more important than anything else—more important than food or warmth—was to find a way out of here. This wall of cliffs could not go on forever. Nor could they cling to that spit of land much longer.
She swam for less than a quarter of a mile before fissures began to appear in the face of the cliffs. At long last, she saw a crack big enough for a slender person to work their way through, and it led all the way to the top.
She dragged herself out of the water and sat for a few minutes, getting her strength back, thanking the Creator for her swimming skill, her youth, the extra layer of nourishing fat she had stored beneath her skin from eating so well at Katie’s table all winter, and most of all for the fact that she was not a person who was easily afraid.
It took quite awhile to make her way to the top of the cliff as she picked her way over the sharp rocks and boulders, but make it to the top she did, growing warmer and warmer with each step. When finally she was able to look out over the cliff’s edge and see the moon glinting off the black waves far below, she knew that she would survive and could help the others survive. Her feeling of exaltation was so
great she gave voice to it in one high undulating war whoop, savoring the sound of her own strong voice echoing out over the lake.
He could tell that Moon Song was exhausted when she crawled up out of the lake.
“Here.” He handed Isabella the baby and hurried to help the girl.
Moon Song collapsed still half in the water, evidently unable to crawl another inch. He waded in, lifted her in his arms, carried her back over to the rock cliff, and sat down, cradling her in his arms.
The cliff wall still retained a modicum of heat from the sun, and he was grateful for the small bit of warmth it gave. She was so cold and was shivering so badly that her body was absorbing every bit of body heat he possessed. It was a shock to him how small she felt as he cradled her in his arms. The strength of her will had always made her seem larger than she was. It shamed him that she had to do the job that he should have been able to do. Instead, he had sat here helplessly, praying that she would return. Praying that he would not have to watch her baby starve because its mother had bravely tried to save them.
“You almost didn’t make it back, did you?” he said.
She could barely hold her head up. She just nodded, and he clutched her tighter.
“Did you find anything?” He held his breath, hoping that war whoop had meant something.
She looked at him for a long moment, and then she nodded.
“You found a way to get to the top?”
She found her voice. “Yes.”
“How far away?” It felt like she had been gone forever.
“Not far, but so cold!”
He could hardly imagine swimming that far even once, let alone twice. How could this slightly built body he held in his arms be that strong? Or was it her great heart alone that had brought her back to them, just as it had once brought her stumbling into their lumber camp?
At that moment, sensing that his mother was near, Ayasha began to whimper. Skypilot watched Moon Song visibly will the strength into her limbs to rise and lift her baby from Isabella’s arms.
It hurt to see her, wet and cold, hunched over that hungry baby, comforting him by nursing him.
They were all silent. Moon Song was too exhausted to answer the dozens of questions he wanted to ask about what she had found. When Ayasha had finished his meal, she curled her body around the baby and laid down on the ground like she was preparing to sleep.
“Come here.” Isabella roused and patted her skirt. “Use me as a pillow. It is one thing I can do to help.”
Moon Song did not argue. She scooted over a few feet, then curled up beside Isabella with her head on her lap, both Skypilot and Isabella shielding her and her baby with the warmth of their bodies. She soon fell sound asleep.
“It would be nice to have a fire,” Isabella said to him. “We have a little wood washing ashore.”
“Neither Moon Song nor I have the skill to make wet wood burn with nothing but our bare hands.”
Isabella touched Moon Song’s hand. “She feels so cold.” She turned in such a way that it freed up some of her bountiful skirt, with which she was able to cover the girl’s shoulders. They were all wet, and he knew Isabella’s skirt was not very warming, but it was a little better than nothing. He appreciated her gesture of kindness.
He watched as Isabella gently stroked Moon Song’s black hair. “She nearly killed herself trying to help us, didn’t she?”
“Yes.” It was exactly what he had been thinking, but he was not prepared for her next comment.
“My husband was a fool. Were you aware of that?”
That had been his conclusion as well, but it was surprising to hear it come out of Isabella’s mouth.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Isabella continued to stroke Moon Song’s hair. “But I know you’re probably thinking that I did not know about the native wife and children he abandoned. I heard him boasting to you on deck when I was pretending to be absorbed in my drawing, but I knew before then. I found a letter from one of the officers of Fort Wilkins, telling him of her plight. I checked his accounts when he was not around. I was appalled when I discovered that James did not find it necessary to send her any money. That bothered me even more than the discovery of her existence. And so I sent her some and continued to do so. Had I known what kind of man he was before we married, I would not have married him.”
“Why did you marry him?” He’d pondered it from the moment he had first spent time with Colonel Hatchette. “It wasn’t just because he admired your paintings, was it?”
“It’s hard to say. I desperately wanted a home and children. I was older than most when I married. I had begun to fear that I would never be able to attract a man’s affections.”
Moon Song stirred, and a portion of Isabella’s skirt dropped from her shoulders. He watched as Isabella gently covered her again.
“Why not?”
“All well-bred ladies draw, you know. We learn how in finishing school, along with embroidery, singing, playing a pianoforte, and how to set a lovely table. Unfortunately, I was considered quite odd by my friends.”
“How so?”
“I learned all those things. I was even adept at them, but I made the mistake of taking the drawing and watercolors entirely too seriously. Suddenly, it was no longer a hobby; it was all I could think about day and night. It became an obsession. The fact that I was good at it only increased my oddity. Ladies are supposed to strive to be competent, never to excel.”
There was evidently more to Isabella than he would have guessed. “So what did you do?”
“I begged my father to send me to Paris for one year. To study. He agreed to do so. Not because he understood my passion, but because he had begun to see me as an embarrassment. In his set, one’s daughter was not supposed to draw pictures that, had they been drawn by a man, would have hung in galleries.”
“You were that good?” A rock was digging into his hip. He extracted it and flung it into the lake.
“When I came back from Paris, I made a friend, a male friend whom my parents did not know. He, too, was an artist, although not a very good one. He took my drawings and exhibited them under his name. People paid him. He was supposed to give me the money after he took out a small commission.”
He was a little surprised. She must have truly been as good as Hatchette had boasted. “And did he?”
She laughed. “Of course not.”
In spite of the cold, in spite of the danger, he found himself fascinated with this conversation. He’d never known a true artist before. “What happened?”
“He took every dime and left town and there was not one thing I could do about it. It was a great lesson.”
“But why marry James?”
“Like I said, I was getting older. Spending one’s time drawing and painting all day long is not the best way to meet men. I suppose I married him simply because he came to my father’s house on business and complimented me on a drawing I had hung in the parlor. At the time, he seemed perfectly adequate. I wanted to have children, and since men were not exactly knocking down my door, I said yes to the first one who asked.”
“Certainly you could have met someone who would have suited you better.”
“You have to understand. There really weren’t all that many men to choose from by then. The war took so many.” Suddenly, to his consternation, she began to weep again. “And I wanted children.”
Her grief was so raw, and there was nothing he could do to help her. Not one thing. There were no words that would comfort a woman who had lost a child. He had learned that years before when he had ministered to a large congregation.
Her comment about the war taking so many men reminded him of Penelope’s letter again. Was she like Isabella? Did she see him as her last chance at marriage? All those years without a word from her made that assessment quite likely.
He reached into his breast pocket for the lilac envelope and brought out a fistful of wet, crumpled paper, which he flung as far as he could into the lake.
/> That soggy paper reminded him that in his back pocket was a small leather Bible. He drew it out now, wondering how badly it had been damaged.
“What’s that?” Isabella said.
“My father’s Bible. I’ve carried it with me for so many years and gotten so used to the feel of it, I almost forgot it was there.”
He untied the leather string with which he kept it bound and opened it to see if it, too, had dissolved into a mass of wet paper.
To his surprise, it had been tied so tightly, the leather had protected the inner pages from the water, and only the outer edges were soaked. With care, it might be salvageable.
“Is it ruined?”
“No. It’s wet, but I think it will be all right once it dries out.”
“Under the circumstances, I think a wet Bible might be the least of our problems.”
“I agree, but I’m still grateful.” He reverently tied the leather string around the Bible and slipped it back into his pocket. In the middle of such tragedy, his heart leaped up at the discovery of this small miracle.
9
It did not take long for Moon Song’s strength to return. Long before dawn, she felt recuperated enough to dive back into the frigid waters. The barrel was exactly where she’d left it earlier, wedged between the two boulders. Now that she had rested, she had enough strength to bring it back with her. Even though it was waterlogged, it still had just enough air in it that she was able to half push/half float it back to the slice of land upon which Skypilot and Isabella sat.
Isabella jumped to her feet. “Is it food?”
Skypilot inspected the top of the barrel where the words were written. “No. It says Sheeting Fabric.”
“Oh.” Isabella sat down again, disappointed. Moon Song didn’t blame her. They were all hungry.
“I need help to open,” she said.
“I’ll try to be careful,” Skypilot said. “Maybe I could use it to float out of here on.”
Under a Blackberry Moon Page 7