A Light in the Wilderness

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “Then we agree. Together we plan for Oregon. You and me.”

  He moved closer to her, ran his thumbs over the medallion of braid in the center of her forehead while his wide hand held her chin steady. “I like the way you braided this little piece. It’s like a tributary finding its own way out of the river of your hair.” His hand was on the back of her head now, his palm warm. She could smell the coconut-honey mixture smoothing her hair. “’Spect the larder cot isn’t needed anymore, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Carson? That is, if you’d care to share my bed.”

  “I would.” She liked being asked. And when he tugged at her ribbons and led her toward his chest, his mouth bending to cover hers . . . she let him lead her forward.

  She lay awake with the August moon shimmering as on a lake but through thin curtains. Davey snored beside her, contented, as was she. Who would have thought she might find joy in this cleaving together. She would discover more about this man she knew, but for now she could rest on his words of promise, like the vows they’d spoken. She had even said she’d obey him, but he had later assured her that he did not think of her as a slave needing obedience but as a wife wishing to please her husband just as he hoped to please her. This promise was respectful, new.

  She tried not to wake him. She would gather new straw for this bed as they had both rolled into the impression his body had made through the years, sinking like a hammock in the middle. Straw stems broke down over time. She’d find the bed key and tighten the ropes as well. Now there were two of them and this bed needed adjustin’. She smiled. Like every other part of her life, she supposed, now that she had a husband.

  He had surprised her with his tender loving. They whispered of where they’d come from, sent fleeting words of memories they cherished and dreams that might help them soar. Davey talked to her, told how he hated the patrolling and found discomfort with the men who didn’t. She shared her greatest losses, her sons, and he assured her between soft kisses and his thumb stroking her cheeks that this would never happen under his watch. And with those intimacies of the heart shared, their bodies had folded together like the wings of a great bird wrapping itself around its young.

  In the days that followed, she cooked outside during the hot month, and over meals they ate on the plank table carried out onto the porch, giving them an evening breeze. Davey told more tales of his trapping and trading times, mixed with some brief memories of his father and a sweet mother and his brother named Smith he rarely saw. Letitia talked of her midwifing, how grateful she was when she heard the cry of life. She gave him efforts of her cheese-making, asking his opinion. She didn’t tell him of the longing that she might still like a child of her own, born to a free woman.

  Summer turned itself into the colors of fall, and Letitia dried vegetables and fruits, saving seeds, planning now for the trip they’d make next spring. Davey looked over his stock, choosing the seven steers he’d train to the yoke. He had thirteen loose head they’d drive west. In the cold months he planned to butcher beef and the hogs, which they’d smoke to preserve. He’d cure tobacco for trade. Davey tapped a pipe now and then but didn’t chew, and Letitia told him she was glad for that. “I disliked cleanin’ the spittoons at the hotel.” She shivered in disgust.

  Letitia sewed, making pantaloons for Davey and buying calico for shirts with her earnings. At night, she knit stockings and socks. For herself she bought wool and flax, planning on two dresses which Davey assured her was all she’d need for the trip. She’d use her tow dresses until then, and wear layers of petticoats she could tear into rags for bandages and for her monthlies along the way. She wasn’t much of a seamstress. She knew that. But on Saturdays she carried the wool Davey got for her from a neighboring farm to the pastor’s house, and with his wife they’d spin and weave and stitch. The subject of her relationship with Davey was never raised, the silence expected. It was safer that way. Letitia did wonder if she’d find someone to stitch with once they reached the territory and if she’d ever be able to share the musings of wives with another. Perhaps she would be alone always, even with a husband she couldn’t claim in public. But his actions toward her carried love like a gentle breeze and he could keep her safe. That was what mattered.

  Letitia found the box not much wider than her palm behind the boardinghouse stable. Should she ask if she could take it? It was in the junk heap with old wheels, frayed rope, a broken crock pot, and other miscellaneous discards. Already someone decided it was worthless. She could take it and not be in trouble, couldn’t she? Moisture settled on her upper lip. Sometimes gifts arrived, her mother had told her, and one must learn to receive. Her dismissal at the hotel had been a gift in the end, giving her more time to prepare for the journey. This little box was a gift too. She would go to the blacksmith who repaired wagons and reworked wheels. He’d have a small piece of lumber already smoothed. She’d use that for the false bottom and her papers would be safe. When Davey wrote out his promise to care for her and leave any property to her, she’d put that paper there with her free papers. Now she was set to head West.

  In late September, someone pounded on their door. Letitia slipped out of their cot into the larder and dressed while Davey answered the knock in his underdrawers. She heard a boy’s nervous voice. “Samuel Hawkins. My mother’s giving birth and something’s not right. She sent me to find my father. He’s a doctor. He’s out on a call west of here. Can you try to find him? I got to get back to Mother.”

  “I’ll take meself to look. But my . . . Tish, here, she can help. She does midwifing.”

  The boy didn’t hesitate. “Thank the Lord. Come along.”

  Letitia grabbed a bag with needles and thread, one of her candlesticks and a candle, clean rags and lantern, and followed him into the night, rushing behind as the boy mounted and began riding out, then stopped. “Quick now,” he said motioning for her to hurry and take his hand up onto the horse. “We’ll be faster by two.”

  The pungent scent from the smokehouse punched the air. Letitia rode behind him straddling the tall horse with an easy gait. She kept her bag between the boy’s back and her belly. The Hawkinses weren’t far from Davey’s cabin, but the moon failed to assist in their travel. Letitia guessed a half hour had passed before he reined the horse into a lane leading to the Hawkinses’ cabin and doctor’s clinic with a large rimmed wagon parked beside a small barn. Letitia stepped up onto the porch. The door opened and several sets of eyes belonging to steps of children lined the door as she entered.

  “Ma’s done this afore, as you can tell,” the boy said.

  He spoke gently to his brothers and sisters, a lilt to his words that reminded Letitia of those betters she’d left behind in Kentucky.

  “You from Kentucky.” Letitia said it as she moved through the room.

  “Pa is, by way of Iowa.” He directed her toward the bed off to the side of the loft ladder.

  She stooped to meet Mrs. Hawkins. She felt more than saw the children form a half circle around her at the foot of the rope bed. A colorful quilt with pieced circles was stark contrast to the woman’s pale face. She lifted the woman’s hand and squeezed. Mrs. Hawkins gave a weak tug and a smile formed on her sweat-stained face.

  “Let’s light this lavender candle.” Letitia handed the nubby stick from her bag to the tallest girl who looked to be around nine. “Put it in that holder I brought. The scent can soothe and help your mama relax. She be workin’ hard.”

  The girl curtsied and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’s Letitia. ” She patted Mrs. Hawkins’s hand. “I helps a few arrive jus’ fine. From the looks of your good family here, you know more than I does but maybe together we bring this baby to your arms.”

  Mrs. Hawkins nodded, then gasped. “Pains are pretty fast and sharp. They last. Very . . . different. You couldn’t find your father?”

  The boy shook his head. “Her man is out looking for Pa. I thought it best to bring her back to help. I’ll go looking now myself.”

  The child set the
candle with the sweet scent and Letitia placed it beside the bed on a chair pulled up there.

  “That’s Maryanne what brought the light,” a narrow-faced child told her. She wore the same pale hair as all the girls. “I’m Martha. I’m seven already. That there is Laura. She used to be the baby and she’s still puny as one. And this’n here is Edward.” She bounced the boy on her small hip. “He’s two.”

  “Grateful for all your good tellin’, Martha.” Letitia turned to the woman on the bed. “Now, Missus Hawkins, let’s see if we can get this baby born.”

  “Nancy. Please. Call me Nancy.” She reached out for Letitia’s hand and bent forward in pain, crushing Letitia’s fingers. But Letitia knew that having a hand to squeeze would help.

  “I’ve got to do this,” Nancy panted. “For goodness’ sake, your father can’t go to Oregon without me.”

  It was dawn before the sound of a baby’s cry rang through the log cabin. Letitia had been able to turn the infant. Her small but strong hands proved an asset as a midwife and the salve she brought eased the child’s arrival. Such a pleasure to see the baby squirm with its pinched face and wearing a cap of pale dandelion fuzz. Nancy Hawkins lay awake but exhausted, the baby swaddled in the crook of her arm as the sun came through the ripples of the glass window. “This is my last. Such a trial you gave us, Miss Nancy Jane!” She looked up at Letitia. “Thank you, Miss . . . I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Letitia. I’m Letitia . . . Carson.”

  The infant, tiny as a rabbit, arched its back, discomfited.

  “She don’t like the blanket.” The puny child, Laura, spoke. “Me neither. Makes me itch.” The girl wiggled like a snake slithered down her back.

  “You be right. You have a cotton cloth?”

  “Here.” Laura held up a doll quilt with a satin border sucked of its color. “It’s my smell.”

  “Thank you, Laura. Your name be Laura?”

  The child gazed at the quilt as though it was sugar. She’d been awake most of the night while the other children had wearied and climbed the loft to sleep and were now bustling down the ladder. She had a purple bruise as though she’d dropped something heavy on her forearm.

  “Let’s see if Nancy Jane like it better.”

  The baby did soothe with the change of cloth. “She may be one who has special keepins. Seen those. Feet hot when others’ are cold. Sun harshes on their eyes. They have finicky bellies too.”

  Nancy laughed. “That all sounds like me! Poor child. I hope she doesn’t get my persnickety ways.”

  Men filled the room then. A man Letitia recognized as Doc Hawkins and Samuel, the messenger, arrived with Davey close behind.

  “Ah, Nancy.” Dr. Hawkins sighed. “I’m so sorry. Mrs. Johnson had a hard delivery. And you . . . you weren’t even in labor when I left.”

  “I know it. She just arrived. A bit sooner than expected but she’s here. Thanks to Miss Carson here. Letitia.”

  The doctor had whisked off his hat and sat at his wife’s side. He held the baby, showed her to the children so each one could touch the tiny cheek, fondle the infant’s fingers. He turned to his wife. Love like a soaring bird flew from the doctor’s eyes to his wife’s and Letitia was grateful to witness such caring. Davey smiled at her, his hat still in his hand.

  “I fix eggs for the chillun.”

  The doctor rose and said he’d help. Even Davey lent a hand bringing in eggs along with Martha while Samuel showed his little brother how to pound imaginary nails into the floor. Everyone helped each other. Letitia liked the patterns the Hawkinses were cutting out for their sons and daughters. She had never seen William Bowman, Sarah’s husband, wash a child’s face of morning stickiness as Mr. Hawkins did now off Edward’s little cheeks. She wondered if Davey would.

  Prayers were spoken over the meal and everyone but the new mother ate at the table, Letitia included, while Nancy and her newest slept a satisfied sleep. The “frail” child, Laura, fell asleep at the table, her father picking her up and laying her beside her mother and newest little sister.

  “Good peoples,” Letitia said as she and Davey rode home.

  “’Spect so. They’re going to Oregon next spring too.”

  “Saw that wagon next to the barn. And Missus Hawkins say they was makin’ plans.” Nancy might need an extra hand with her brood that Letitia could offer. She had already been made to promise to come back the next day. She’d cook up some streaked meat and bread. “Doc Hawkins offer to pay me for my midwife work.”

  “Did he now? And you accepted?”

  Letitia shook her head. “I said we could trade.”

  “What is it you’d be needing in trade?”

  “I didn’t tell him what it be but what I needs is . . . doctorin’ of my own . . . next summer.”

  She let the words sink in, glad she couldn’t see his face as she rode pillion behind him. It took a moment for him to pull up Fergus, the horse, and twist in the saddle to look at her.

  “You’re carrying?”

  She nodded.

  “When?”

  “June.”

  “We’ll be well on our way.”

  She couldn’t tell if the wary tone of his words spoke of worry over her or perhaps the reactions others making the journey might have to their union or the arrival of a black child entering their midst.

  He patted her thigh then. “That’s good. Real good.”

  She accepted his words and lifted a prayer that this baby would be born healthy. That this child would be raised by a mother and a father who loved each other ’til death parted them.

  She placed her hand against the warmth of his back. “You good with a chil’, then?”

  He nodded.

  What better way to begin to mend the world than with a baby formed from love?

  8

  Seasonal Surprises

  Papers. Letitia talked about her papers and pushed him for the script agreeing to take care of her. He’d write one up, in time. It was a sign of her lack of trust that she mentioned it while skimming cream or stitching his britches. Davey rode to the Platte County courthouse on an October morning, cooling mists rising from the creek. He had papers of his own to finalize. ’Course, Letitia’s free papers held a mighty weight with her. Missouri was fixing to pass a law this session that would charge a $10 fine in addition to the forced departure of any colored person not holding free papers. The departure law had been on the books since 1825. Now they planned to add lashes to it and jail time too. He hoped the law wouldn’t pass or wouldn’t be enforced, but pro-slavers were aplenty in Missouri and a person could lose documents, even have them taken from them by an unscrupulous patroller. There was no need for her to worry though. Oregon would be different.

  Rothwell did his duty, then like all river hounds, he covered his scat by pushing dirt on it with his nose instead of kicking dust over with his back feet. Odd ways that dog has.

  Today Davey would collect his citizenship papers. He’d applied in March of 1844 and had answered the questions, few as they were. What made him squirm was having to say that he would “renounce forever all allegiances to every foreign power, Prince, State and Sovereignty, whatsoever, and particularly to Victoria Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, of whom he is a subject.” Not that he held much regard for the Queen, being as how Ireland had her trials with the Monarch, but Ireland was what he knew first and there is something amputating to think that he’d be cutting all ties to his homeland, taken from him by his own signature. But it was necessary. With them heading to Oregon he had to be certain he could stand beside the Hawkinses and the Knightons and Staats and others who had stated their intentions to head out in the spring as citizens of Oregon country. Maybe by the time they arrived, Oregon would be a territory or even a state. He hoped so. He planned to claim land, but he needed to be a citizen to do so. Legally. He listened to the other cases being heard this session. Petty arguments most of them. In the mountains, men solved their problems on their own, didn’t need any jud
ge to do it for them.

  As a citizen maybe he could put down the barbs about his Irish heritage that claimed his “laziness” or “ignorance.” His reddish hair and accent gave him away, he guessed. In some ways, he and Letitia shared the spoken and unspoken arrows of disrespect people shot their way, just for being. As a citizen he could better take care of Letitia and now a wee one as well. He’d hang on to that citizenship paper like Tish clung to her freedom words. Still, he could lose his papers and there’d be evidence left in the courthouse. For Tish, only her single set of words existed to satisfy any who might claim otherwise about her status. That was probably why she kept them on her person mostly. Or in that small box she thought she hid under the bed. Of late she’d moved it to a tin he’d seen in the rafters. A shard of guilt pinched his throat for not yet having put in writing their labor agreement. But he was healthy and strong and didn’t need to write down how he’d care for her after he died. Besides, he couldn’t write all that well and he didn’t want to pay a lawyer to write the words, or have her figure out he couldn’t do it himself. He didn’t want others knowing what he’d agreed to, either. He said he’d take care of her. That should be enough.

  Greenberry Smith had a case being heard before his. The man nodded to him as he took his place before the judge. He’d known Greenberry Smith back in North Carolina and hadn’t found much to praise the man for. If you disagreed with how he saw the world, well, then you were donkey dung to him. Once or twice Davey’d tried to intervene with his assaults on patrol, but it riled Smith further.

  Davey’s ear perked up as Smith testified about a man who’d bought one of his slaves for $1,000 and then failed to pay. He thought of that minx Eliza he’d dealt with. Slavery. Nothing but trouble. Smith scoffed when the judge continued the case, and when he turned, his ferret eyes caught Davey’s. Smith tipped his hat, not quite masking a sneer. Arrogant, Smith was, but then most men of property and education were, it seemed to him.