Macia’s face registered horror. “Father!”
Jackson glowered at Samuel and then grasped Macia’s elbow.
“Have my daughter home by nine o’clock,” Samuel called after the couple as they left the room.
Harvey sat down beside his father and smirked. “It would appear I’m not the only one in Georgetown who believes your anticipated venture into the wilderness is ill-conceived.”
“The difference between us is that you care what those people think, but I mind not at all. I might add that if you’re going to take sides in this matter, it would be wise if you deferred to me. After all, I’m the one supporting you—a matter you might want to ponder.”
“I’ve already said that I have absolutely no desire to farm. Even more, I don’t wish to make my home amongst the savages. Since there are three of us who prefer living in Georgetown and only one of us wants to leave, I’m wondering why you continue to insist upon this move.”
“Because I want to live somewhere other than Kentucky for the remainder of my life. I have willingly remained in Georgetown until you children completed your basic education—or, in your case, Harvey, the amount of education we could force upon you. There is nothing to hold us here. I can open a medical office and treat patients anywhere.”
“And what if I choose to remain here?”
“Suit yourself—but I meant what I told you earlier. I’ll not send you a stipend, and you’ll not live in this house. I plan to sell it.”
Margaret’s fan snapped open. The tiny curls that framed her face were bouncing in rhythm to the fluttering air currents being produced by her fan. “Why sell the house? I think you should reconsider that decision. What if the West doesn’t prove to our liking?”
Samuel shook his head. “We’ll work more diligently and try harder to adapt to our new surroundings if we’ve sold the house. With all ties severed to Georgetown, we’ll not be easily tempted to give up.”
Margaret placed her coffee cup on the walnut side table. “Should Harvey remain behind or Carlisle return to Georgetown, we would still have ties to Kentucky.”
Samuel turned an apologetic gaze toward Carlisle. Their discussion had gone completely awry, and Samuel had been as much to blame as the rest. Rather than helping to maintain calm and order, he had fanned the fires of discontent. And for that he was sorry.
Carlisle tugged at his shirt collar. “You had best not rely on me, Mother. In fact, I know I will not be returning to Georgetown. That’s one of the reasons I came home—to tell you I have made a decision about my future.”
She began to wring her handkerchief. “Is this news going to make me unhappy?”
Samuel noted the quiver in his wife’s voice and immediately came to Carlisle’s aid. “Now, now, my dear, no need upsetting yourself. Carlisle is a sensible young man. Remember, you have always told the children to pray fervently when they must make a choice and then follow where God leads. Isn’t that so?”
Margaret eyed him suspiciously and gave a token nod. “Yes. Although the last time Carlisle prayed about his future, he left for Maine.”
“I’ve decided to become an Army chaplain,” Carlisle announced.
Margaret stared at her son as though he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Harvey looked surprised, as well.
“That means he’ll join the military and be a preacher for the soldiers,” Samuel explained.
Samuel’s words seemed to shatter Margaret’s trance, and she frowned at her husband. “I understand the duties of an Army chaplain, Samuel.” Before he could reply, his wife directed her full attention toward their older son. “I am completely perplexed, Carlisle. Why would you even consider such a profession? When you left home, you said you wanted to become a preacher. You insisted you could better serve God if you attended theological school and received proper training. Aside from voicing my displeasure, I made no attempt to dissuade you. And now look what has happened. Those Northerners have filled your head with outlandish ideas of becoming a soldier. Soldiers die, Carlisle.”
She whispered the final words as though confiding a secret to which only she was privy.
Carlisle patted his mother’s hand. “Rest assured I shall finish my schooling before entering the Army, Mother.”
“I think it sounds quite exciting,” Samuel said, “and patriotic.”
“Oh, do stop, Samuel! How did you ever decide upon this foolhardy scheme, Carlisle?”
“Several officers from West Point came to the seminary and told of the need for chaplains—especially on the western frontier. I didn’t make this decision lightly. I’ve prayed about it for months now, and I continue to believe this is what I’m supposed to do.”
Samuel nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me, son. I realize there’s danger involved in the military, but I admire your willingness to follow God’s leading.”
Margaret glared at her husband before dabbing the tears from her eyes. “So you agree to go traipsing off to be mortally wounded? It was only last summer when General Custer and all of his soldiers died at the hands of those ruthless Indians. Is the fact that you’re going to finish your education supposed to ease my mind?”
“I believe you’re overstating the danger, my dear. After all, much will depend upon Carlisle’s assignment,” Samuel offered.
His wife’s tears stopped, and her eyes filled with anger. “Quit taking his side in this, Samuel! Where is your concern for your son’s well-being? Have all the men in this household taken leave of their senses?”
Harvey moved to his mother’s side and squeezed her hand. “I certainly haven’t. I couldn’t agree with you more, Mother.”
“Oh, pshaw! You’re not concerned about Carlisle’s welfare. You’re merely taking my side because you’re afraid you may have to change your ways.”
Harvey drew his arm away as though she’d slapped it. “Nothing I say is correct. If I agree, I’m incorrect, and if I disagree, I’m incorrect,” he whined.
“You’ll evoke no sympathy from me,” Samuel stated.
With that, Harvey marched from the room with his shoulders rigid and head held high. “I’m going to visit my friends,” he mumbled.
“I fear I’ve caused you much more distress than I imagined,” Carlisle ventured after the front door slammed.
Margaret tucked her handkerchief into her pocket. “I’m concerned, Carlisle. I won’t deny that. But you’re no longer a child. I’ve stated my opinion. The ultimate decision is yours.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
She shrugged her shoulders with an air of resignation. “It appears as if we will all begin life anew—you in the Army and the rest of us out west. Let us hope that at least you and your father will be happy and fulfilled.”
“There’s one good thing to be said for your move west,” Carlisle said. “It will get Macia away from Jackson Kincaid.”
Samuel covertly watched his wife. He wanted to believe she would eventually come around about his plans for a new life in the west. As her features began to soften, he felt a tiny glimmer of hope.
CHAPTER
9
Nicodemus, Kansas • September 1877
Acool, gentle wind breathed across the prairie during the month of September and imbued the struggling settlers with newfound energy. There was little doubt winter’s hardships would soon besiege them, so they staunchly set aside their fears and labored with a renewed zeal.
Ezekiel and Thomas continued their arduous work with the breaking plow, knowing the precious tool must soon be returned to Jeremiah Horton. Before that time arrived, they prayed the weather and the horses would cooperate, for they must cut sod bricks for each of the dugout entrances as well as bricks enough to help insulate and support the roofs. The ongoing labor of the other men and boys had resulted in completion of at least the digging portion of a dugout that would accommodate a small family, though the fireplace and entrance both remained incomplete. Once all the sod bricks were cut and the breaking plow was returned to Mr. Horton, Ezek
iel and Thomas would begin erecting the front of their new homes.
The group of settlers had agreed the first dwelling should be inhabited by the Harris family—due both to Miss Hattie’s age and ailments as well as the anticipated birth of Nellie and Calvin’s baby. An old woman and an infant would, after all, require more protection from the elements than would the rest of them.
The days melted into one other with little to distinguish time, place, or responsibilities—unless the weather was uncooperative. Yet today had dawned cool and bright, and Jarena sighed with satisfaction— her clothes would dry, but it wouldn’t be overly warm as she stood over the fire. She and the twins had filled the caldron with water the night before, and she was pleased to see the fire already burning and the water beginning to bubble. Likely her father or Thomas had started the fire well before sunup. She shaded her eyes and looked around the small camp. She could hear Miss Hattie’s scolding voice in the distance.
“Wilbur Holt, you git yerself over there and git to work!”
Jarena grinned at the sight of the old woman prodding the tall fourteen-year-old with one end of her walking stick while soundly rebuking him. She’d exchanged her parasol for the walking stick, though she vowed the parasol would be called back into use come springtime. “You’s plenty old enough to be helpin’ cut dat sod. Lazy! That’s what ya are, ’cept when it comes to eatin’.”
Wilbur yelped at Miss Hattie’s jab, which brought Caroline Holt on a run. “What’s wrong with you, Wilbur?” his mother hollered.
“Miss Hattie’s a-pokin’ me with her stick,” he wailed.
“Good for her! I tol’ you to get over there and help yo’ pappy a half hour ago. Now get to moving, or I’ll tell Miss Hattie to use dat stick on your backside ’stead of jest pokin’ at ya.”
Shoulders slumped, Wilbur mumbled his displeasure as he shuffled toward the hillside where his father was digging.
“You can move faster’n that! Straighten up dem shoulders, and don’ you be sassin’ yo’ mama, neither,” Miss Hattie reprimanded. The diatribe continued until the boy was well out of earshot.
Jarena watched Wilbur glance over his shoulder at Miss Hattie, his features forming a scowl. She knew that the boy had best do as he’d been told. If he argued, Miss Hattie wouldn’t hesitate to use her walking stick on his backside. None of the children were exempt from Miss Hattie’s correction, and none of the adults questioned the old woman’s authority to wield her justice. Miss Hattie had seen more of life than most, and they believed in her sound judgment.
To Jarena, she was also a mother figure. “Miss Hattie! Come sit and visit with me,” she called.
The old woman waved her stick in recognition of Jarena’s request but patiently waited until Wilbur reached his prescribed destination. Now certain the boy would not escape the vigilance of his father and the other men, she turned and, with a halting gait, walked toward the Harban lean-to. Jarena fetched a chair her father had fashioned from an empty nail keg and scraps of wood and placed it nearby. “I’d sure enjoy a little company while I do the washing,” she requested when Miss Hattie drew near.
Hattie dropped onto the hard wooden seat and nodded toward the caldron. “Your day to use the kettle, I see.”
“Yes. Seems as though my turn never comes often enough. I’m truly thankful it’s not raining today,” she said, remembering the storm that had come upon them the last time she’d attempted to launder clothes. “How many times has it rained since we arrived in this place? Only two! And whose turn was it to use the wash kettle both times? Mine!”
Miss Hattie leaned back and laughed heartily. “You been spendin’ too much time alone, chil’. You’s taken to answerin’ your own questions, even when you got someone to do it for ya.”
Jarena responded with a feeble smile.
“ ’Sides, I thought Mildred let you bring your wash over and throw in wid her.”
“She did.”
“Then what you so riled up about? You got your washin’ done and got to visit with Mildred while you done it. Instead of feeling sorry fer yerself, you should be thankin’ the good Lord that He gave you a reason to spend time visitin’. Ain’t a soul in this place that don’ know you’s unhappy to be here, Jarena. But it’s ’bout time you quit sulkin’ around and start offerin’ thanks for what you got.”
“Which isn’t much, as I see it. Look at this place, Miss Hattie. We’re either living under torn pieces of canvas or burrowed into the sides of these hills like animals. There’s not enough food and no way to prepare for winter. We’ll likely all be dead come spring.”
Miss Hattie thumped her stick into the thick buffalo grass. “God willing, we’ll make do. Dere’s still some rice and cornmeal Thomas bought down in Ellis—and them jackrabbits ain’t half bad.”
Jarena wanted to tell Miss Hattie the remaining supplies, along with most all the jackrabbits, would be gone come winter. Instead, she heeded Miss Hattie’s admonition and mumbled her halfhearted agreement while she stirred the boiling clothes with a long wooden paddle. The water churned and bubbled while the steamy heat drifted upward to dampen Jarena’s face. Thankful for the cooling breeze, she turned toward the south. Could her eyes be playing tricks on her, or had she truly spied a wagon in the waving expanse of prairie grass?
Hurrying around the fire, Jarena shaded her eyes with one hand and focused upon the flowing wall of grass. Had her sighting been a mirage? Nothing more than smoke and sunlight mixed with a strong desire to see old friends from Georgetown?
“Wagons!” she shouted. She reached down and gripped Hattie’s shoulder. “Look, Miss Hattie! It’s wagons, and they’re coming our way!”
“Quit dat hollerin’ and loosen your grip, chil’, else I’m gonna lose both my hearin’ and the use of my arm.”
Jarena loosened her white-knuckled grasp but feared the older woman would be bruised come morning. “I’m sorry, Miss Hattie. I didn’t realize.”
“Go on and see who’s comin’. Think it might be some of the folks from back home?”
The thump of her feet striking the hard earth pounded in Jarena’s ears as she sprinted toward the string of approaching wagons. A brief glimpse of the Francis family caused her to run even faster, and her arms flailed in giant circles as she continued onward.
“Is that Charles Francis?” Truth hollered as she and Grace came running alongside Jarena.
“I think so.” Jarena’s lungs felt as though they would explode, yet she was unable to slow the pace. Knowing the Francis family—particularly Charles—was among the group fueled her onward.
Truth and Grace bolted ahead, their lithe bodies more accustomed to the exertion. “It’s him!” Truth yelled as she waved Jarena forward.
Jarena continued running, but her gait slowed, her breathing becoming more labored. Tired and winded, she bent forward, inhaled deeply, and then straightened her body. It was then that she saw him. He was running toward her with a smile that stretched from ear to ear and waving a worn felt hat above his head.
She waved her arms in return. Before she could catch her breath, he was swooping her high into the air, all thought of propriety lost in the moment. She stared into his dark brown eyes, unable to comprehend that he was finally standing before her.
“Charles!” She could think of nothing more to say.
He touched her left cheek and then looked into the distance. She followed his gaze. “How much farther to the townsite?” he asked.
“This is the town.”
“You always did know how to make me laugh.” He tilted his head back, and Jarena waited until the sound of his laughter drifted off with the wind.
“I’m speaking the truth, Charles. What you see lying before you is Nicodemus—wretched as it is.”
He stared at her, his expression mirroring the same disbelief that had enveloped their small group only two months earlier. She knew what he was thinking—the denial and disbelief. The refusal to admit this place could be their Promised Land—yet the frightening
realization that it was. Like a tiny root inching downward to strengthen itself in the earth, the truth had begun to take hold—the pain and horror shone in his eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered, nodding her head in final confirmation. “This is Nicodemus.”
Charles grasped her hand with a ferocity that caused her fingers to tingle and then grow numb. “I don’t think my folks will soon forgive me for this,” he finally said.
“But it was their choice to come. You didn’t force them.”
“I knew they wouldn’t remain in Kentucky if I came west—not after losing Arthur. None of us would have come had we known it was like this. Why didn’t you write?”
His accusation stung. “This isn’t Georgetown, Charles. We have no post office—we don’t even have a general store. What you see before you is the town. Nothing but eight small campsites with lean-tos our only means of protection against the elements. But I did write one letter. I sent it with some folks heading back east. They promised to mail it for me, but I doubted they would. I had no money for postage, and I suspect they were embarrassed to tell me they hadn’t the funds to spare.”
Jarena nodded toward the approaching line of wagons. “How many folks are in those wagons?”
“About three hundred of us left Kentucky, but we had an outbreak of measles down near Ellis and some of the families were forced to stay there. I reckon we have about eighty families in this wagon train. The others were planning to follow as soon as possible, though I’m guessing most will turn and head for home once they hear the truth about this place.”
“Eighty more families,” Jarena marveled.
The settlers cheered as the wagons pulled into the townsite, and Jarena thrilled at the unfolding scene. There was pure pleasure in seeing the familiar faces. And, she decided, increasing their numbers would be good for Nicodemus and certainly lift the spirits of the current residents. Jarena surveyed the wagons, praying they were stocked with supplies—that unlike their group, these settlers had come well prepared.
First Dawn Page 10