Several days into the rescue, Tabby crawled into her bed at the Clarks’, shared now with a parentless child. She tucked the child in, then lay awake awhile. She was destitute again, as poor as she’d been when Orus had rescued them, having given everything she’d earned away. Those troubled times she’d wanted to lie down and sleep: when her foot was damaged, when they had barely a widow’s mite to care for their family, when Clark breathed his last, when her sons went missing at sea, when Orus threatened to leave her behind, when her wagon tumbled down the canyon shadowed by rock walls rising 1,300 feet above. And when she shivered alone with John, her stomach empty as a pudding dish, not certain her family had sent her away for her own good or for theirs, when she had nothing. Then a six-and-one-quarter-cent piece. During all those trials God had seen to it that she kept breathing. But he had also kept her with an amount of money to face each day. Manna, was she supposed to trust in the manna again?
She had taught her children and grandchildren that God orchestrated both the composition and the single notes to make the music of a life, but had she failed to hear the notes herself?
She sat up in bed. She knew what must be done.
“Mr. Clark,” Tabby ventured to her host the next morning, “I’d like a word with you. As a confidant and man of the cloth.”
“Oh, sounds serious.” He had the kindest eyes, reminding her so much of her husband Clark. “Where shall we go? No privacy, I fear.”
“I thought we might walk beneath the umbrella. It’s chilly, but the sun breaks are lasting longer.”
“The barn. It’s dry and the crunch of horses chewing will be a comfort.” Tabby loved the way he said certain words like “crunch” that came out “cranch,” so reminiscent of Vermont. She’d lost her accent to Missouri. “Now, what’s on your mind?” Harvey Clark closed the heavy door behind them, the action settling them into semi-darkness, window light flickering against the threads of dust rising floor to rafter. Birds chattered in the loft and Tabby wiped a floating cobweb from her face.
“I wonder what I can do for these hurting children? I have no resources anymore. I gave them all away.” Where is the manna for them? “I wonder why Providence has left me both longing to care for them and yet destitute to do so?”
Harvey Clark shook the umbrella free of its moisture. “And if you had means, what would you do?”
“I would establish myself in a comfortable house and receive all the poor children, and be a mother to them.” She wasn’t sure where those words had come from, but hearing them rang the bell of truth. “They need a mother’s love now more than ever.”
Clark narrowed his eyes at her.
“You needn’t look at me as though I’ve lost my senses.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Yes, I am.” She had never been more certain of anything than she was right then; and she’d had a great many certain moments in her long life.
He raised his eyes, stood silent for a time.
Is he praying?
“Then I will tell you of something we have tossed about long before you came. And that was to establish a school here on the plains and an orphanage if needed. Many of my colleagues came to the Territory in order to reach the Indian children, but they were few, disease taking them back in the ’30s. There are still a few, but clearly, this influx of families from the States and now our missionary friends bring us many children in need of safe harbor and education.”
“I’ve taught. But these children need security, food, consistency, and love before they can begin to learn again.”
“Yes, I see the trauma on their weary faces.”
“Necessities first.”
“If you are indeed serious, Mrs. Brown, I’ll speak with Alvin Smith and some of the others.” He rubbed the nose of a horse that had put its head over the half door of the stall, the action soothing the animal but also giving Harvey Clark time to think. “We could move you into the meetinghouse and receive all the children there, rich and poor. Those parents able to pay a dollar a week for their board, tuition to a school, washing and all, we’ll charge. The others will be free.” He turned to her. “What would you need for your labor?”
“Nothing, for a year. If you and the others can provide provisions for us all, I will live there and give all they need, the money going to supplies and sustenance for their keep. Most of all, I’ll give them love from a never-ending supply.”
32
The Varieties of Manna
Tabby stepped into the log meetinghouse where all awaited her to “cluck up her chickens,” as she thought of them. A hodge-podge of dishes, broken knives and forks, feather ticks (needing airing), and fireplace utensils furnished the log cabin Harvey Clark and others had commissioned. It had been the Congregational meetinghouse that would now be used all week long and not just on Sunday, at least until they could build a larger structure. For now, this was Tabby’s orphanage and a school. Thirty children, ages four to twenty-one, lived between the logs. Many were true orphans, but others had no mother but a father off fighting Indians or working far away or heading to the streams of California where it was rumored gold had been found. She had day students as well, not only boarders.
Judson was one of those.
All Tabby needed now was a teacher and Mr. Clark had promised her they’d take care of that. Tabby’s job was to devote herself to her charges, to give them what they’d missed: tender, loving care. The day students would be taught too, but only Tabby’s cluck of chickens would live there, have a home again.
“It’s a dandy,” she told the assembly. “You’ve done well.”
“With so many educated missionary wives clustered here on Dairy Creek, we didn’t have a problem finding our children a strong instructor either,” Harvey assured her. “You’ll meet her later in the morning. For now, I’ll give the tour.”
Tabby chuckled. “Not a lot to tour—not that I’m complaining.”
“We have a few surprises,” Emeline Clark told her.
Orus and Harvey had made benches for the students to sit on in the school and brought in long planks for the table where the children would eat, in a separate room. They’d sleep in that room as well, in rope beds attached to the logs. A dozen of them and a real rope bed with headboard for Tabby.
“My bed’s not much bigger than the children’s.” Tabby laughed, as did the others.
“And see these. From your first group.” Judson had cut two barrels into chairs and Nellie made pillows stuffed with bedstraw plants to soften the seats. The cloth had come from a neighbor on the plains. Each child also had a pillow to call their own, thanks to Nellie’s hand.
“We’ve ordered slates but they’ll be arriving by ship,” one of the organizers assured her. Boards, slanted outward, had been nailed to the wall to serve as writing surfaces. “Peach pits began your orchard, Mrs. Brown.” She looked out through one of the 8x10 windows. “Apple and pear trees too. Someone donated a Durham milk cow.”
“Orus,” Tabby said under her breath.
“We’ll have a little farm going here for you, Grandma Brown.”
“And my little chicks will help make it run. They’ll see what good they can do in helping each other.” The log cabin was more than what she could have hoped for and it was hers to use. Along with two dozen children, of course.
Not long after, while Tabby busied herself with making a pot of beef stew, Harvey Clark introduced Tabby to the new teacher. “Eliza Spalding, meet the indomitable Mrs. Brown. Eliza’s the mother of one of the captive children.”
“You are the indomitable one.”
Mrs. Spalding lowered her head to the compliment. “I’ve heard about your journey keeping your brother-in-law alive on the Applegate cutoff. We’ve both had our trials.”
“So we have. Perhaps we’ll talk sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
Tabby knew she’d find encouragement listening to other stories of resilience, love, and doing good.
Tabby was st
ill without personal financial resources, but her heart felt full. If only she could hang on to that contentment, that absolute abandonment to worry, trusting that even without coins, God would provide all that was needed, including purpose in a later life.
“Grandma Brown, may I have that last cookie?”
Tabby nodded her consent to little Jessica, a parentless child from an 1846 overland trail. A stranger had brought her from the Portland village where he’d found her sleeping in an overturned barrel on the dock. Next to her stood a small boy, a survivor of the Southern Route. His family had been in a wagon behind theirs by several weeks. She watched him pack bread in his pockets, even though she’d put plenty on the table. It would take time for him to trust again. She’d be there until he did.
Judson helped her plant the garden of cabbage, potatoes, and carrots. Wild greens supplemented their harvests. Judson still worked days at the mercantile and with one arm pulled sides of beef from the wagons the settlers brought to feed Tabby’s growing family. He hefted the beef onto his shoulder and later helped Tabby slice and boil or make jerky. The youngest children collected wild strawberries in teacups they had for dessert. Tabby began to instruct Judson at night.
“I was remiss in not teaching you on the trail,” she told him.
“Aw, who had time then, Mrs. B? But I heard you give words to the girls and remembered them. I didn’t know about spelling and whatnot. I can recognize certain words at the store but can’t figure out the new ones.”
“We’ll start with the alphabet.” The boarders had been fed and were asleep, the older children helping the younger ones. Tabby did all the cooking but not laundry. She was grateful for the older boys who heated the water and the older girls like Catherine Sager who swirled the sheets and underdrawers in the lye soap water.
For her class with Judson, she used the half-barrel chairs. “I see you were able to make these.” She gestured for him to sit. “And with but one arm.” He’d still never said how the accident had happened, but thank goodness he must have been near a doctor who could make the amputation with skill. Through the open door, she watched robins bring in spring, perched on budding branches. Beyond, the forest floor gave up pink blooms of rhododendrons.
“My stump does some good. And a vise holds things for me.”
“They’re very nice chairs. And Nellie made the pillows?”
“Yes, ma’am, she did.”
“So you two are still talking?”
“Oh, we always kept our friendship, Mrs. B. But I wouldn’t hold her back from having a good life. Mine’s meant to be alone. I see that now.”
“Judson, dear boy, we may find we’re by ourselves at times, but I’m convinced that we are never really alone.”
“I’ve got to make it by myself, like you did leaving Missouri without Orus thinking it a good idea for you.”
“I may have pushed a bit more than I should have. But I wasn’t alone. I had you driving my oxen and I had the Captain to look after too. But I know about being a burden on others. Still, you have to respect Nellie’s choices too. She wants to be with you. You have to consider that.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s getting into with the likes of me.” He raised his stump.
“We all have stumps of some kind, Judson. Things that stumble us, get in our way, make us need another now and then. We’re all broken a little bit. Yours is visible.” She touched his shoulder. “Does it hurt?” He shook his head no. “But for the rest of us,” Tabby continued, “we try to keep our ‘stumps’ hidden. They trip us anyway.” She thought of her sharp tongue and her pushy ways that sometimes got her what she wanted . . . and sometimes left her standing in an empty place, her children slipped away. “No, we can’t let our stumps stumble us.”
Tabby heard the horses whinny. What now? She had this bread to finish, a stew steaming on the fireplace irons, and butter to churn. The children did their part, but they needed their studies. She didn’t mean to be a disgruntled hostess, but visitors stopped often and took her from her toil.
When she stepped outside, her annoyance changed to surprise. She recognized that horse. Schooner, but the Captain wasn’t on it. She watched her grandson Clark dismount and saunter back to assist his mother and his sister from the buckboard. She’d been longing to see them, trying to figure out when she might make a trip back to Salem but coming up with no options that didn’t mean abandoning her charges. She would not do that, even for a few weeks. She had older helpers, Catherine Sager, for one. But her orphans depended on Tabby’s presence, and she vowed that while she breathed, she would not disappoint them by leaving them in another’s care, not even for a fortnight.
Tabby stepped outside, her hands dusting flour onto her apron. “What are you doing here? Oh, what a terrible greeting. It doesn’t matter why you’re here. Welcome.” She opened her arms. “What a joy!”
“You wouldn’t come to us, so we came to you.” Virgil stepped off the far side of the wagon and walked around behind to help Emma and Sarelia, who ran to their gramo and hugged her, the pressure of them warm against her belly.
She heard a cluck-clucking like a chicken celebrating the laying of an egg. Beatrice! The bird ran to her when Clark released her from her cage. Tabby lifted her up and buried her face in the chicken’s feathers. “My friend, my friend. How I’ve missed you.” The bird cooed her contentment.
“We are together at last, Mother. All your little chickens here in Orus’s little grove of trees.”
Tabby stroked the bird. “Except for John. Where is he?”
They turned toward Pherne. “He passed on, Mother. From this life to more life. Last February. He sailed on a ship to the Sandwich Islands one last trip, then came back. Ending his life here.”
The news hit her like a brass bell thumped against her breast. He was gone. She tugged Beatrice a bit tighter.
“No suffering?”
“He didn’t, Mother. He said this journey to Oregon was one he wouldn’t have missed for the world. And then he did this most surprising thing. He took his cane apart and he gave the coins inside to his grandnieces and nephews. And he left a few for Judson and Nellie Louise too.”
“A good thing.”
“He helped us plant fruit trees,” Virgilia added. “I’ll miss him. He had money for you too, Gramo.”
“Did he? I know just what use I’ll make of it. Come on in. No wait, it’s balmy. We can sit outside. The privy is there.” She pointed. “I’m fixing to make bread. Do you know that I’ve kneaded more than two thousand pounds of flour this summer? I can’t imagine how many loaves I’ll make come next year.”
“So many, Gramo?” Sarelia said.
“Yes.” She patted the child’s back, set Beatrice to peck, then brushed flour from her hair and moved both girls to her sides. “I have almost thirty children I’m looking after and they do like their bread.”
“Are you still writing your mem-o-are?”
“I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve been a little busy living.”
Virgil surveyed the cluster of buildings Tabby had badgered the missionaries into adding to the single log house. Two smaller structures were linked with roofs over the walkways between them.
“Looks like you’ve got a pretty good setup here, Mrs. Brown.”
“I do. But it’s too small. I’ve got to get another structure put up before winter for the next phase of my plan.”
“You and your plans.” Virgil smiled as Clark lifted his grandmother in a bear hug.
“Now you put me down.” Tabby laughed. She turned as Catherine came outside. “Catherine, this is my family from Salem. Would you bring out some sassafras tea? It’s lovely out here. Autumn in this country is beyond compare.” Catherine nodded to Tabby and then limped back inside to get the tea.
“I’ll help you,” Clark said, following her.
Tabby had noticed the glance Catherine gave to her grandson, one he returned. “A young man’s fancy turns to tea.” Tabby then opened her arms to her daughter.
“He’s considering becoming a minister,” Pherne told her. “A Methodist.”
“His grandfather would be so proud. And you, Virgilia. You are—”
“Married, and yes, with child.”
“Now that I can see.”
“Oh, Gramo. Fabritus and I wed last September. We thought you’d come back but you didn’t.”
“I got myself occupied. I should have written. Where is young Smith then?”
“He’s . . . away. The war.”
Tabby nodded.
“I hope he arrives home in time for his child,” Pherne added.
“I’ll be all right. I’m an independent woman, like Gramo.”
“Of course you’ll be fine, but it’s always good to have that man beside you, if you can.” Tabby clucked at them as though they were chickens needing the comfort of the night shed. She hobbled without her walking stick for such a short trip. Fir trees and oaks shaded splotches of grass greening back up from their summer dryness with scattered fall rains. Pherne spread quilts Virgil brought from the wagon.
Pherne helped Virgilia sit. She leaned her back against the trunk of a tree, her eyes searching. “Is Nellie with you?”
“With Orus. She helps Lavina for her board. She’s become quite a seamstress and I suspect that before long she’ll be able to make her own way.”
“With Judson.”
“That remains to be seen. She’ll be pleased to see you, Virgilia. All of you. Now fill me in. Have you seen Orus and Lavina yet? Oh, of course not or you’d know where Nellie was. I’m chattering.”
She sat back, her hands folded in her lap. “Now, I’ll listen.” And she did, astounding her children, she suspected, as she waited patiently to hear each one, not interrupting as she was prone to do. Her thoughts turned to John. He would have loved this gathering. Had she missed out by not seeing him as a suitor instead of a friend? No, he had gone on to do those things that filled his life and she had tended to hers. She’d mended fences with Orus and she’d found a new path. Like John, she wouldn’t have missed this Oregon adventure for the world either. Savoring, that was what her life was like here; savoring the unexpected, the many varieties of manna.
This Road We Traveled Page 27