Maybe Eli would send them all home and continue on without them. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
She would return as a great disappointment to Mother, who’d had such high hopes and grand plans. But at least she’d be home, and at that moment, nothing sounded better.
Another painful spasm clenched her abdomen and twisted it. She bent over and fought off a dizzying wave.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She was doing it again. At the least hardship she was whining and complaining—like the spoiled young lady she was. Would she ever learn to endure discomfort with the bravery and grace that a true missionary should exhibit?
“Sister Ernest?” Mabel’s voice came as from a distance.
“It’s just a bit of indigestion,” she managed. “I’ll be all right.”
It had to be the dried buffalo meat. If only she could have a taste of Mother’s fried potatoes and a slice of ham baked in honey.
She tried to straighten, but a sudden swell of nausea rose, and she swayed.
“You’re looking very ill.” Mabel put out a hand to steady her.
Priscilla took a deep breath and tried to swallow the rising bile. But pain tore through her stomach, and she cried out from the intensity of it.
“Something is ailing Sister Ernest,” Mabel called out.
Priscilla clutched her stomach and moaned with the agony of the tightening cramp. The world swayed, and she felt herself slipping from the sidesaddle.
Mabel screamed and grabbed onto her sleeve. But the young woman was too weak to manage Priscilla’s weight.
The pain in her abdomen was too intense, and the nausea too overwhelming. She couldn’t hang on and found herself falling. She hit the ground with a jolt that took her breath away.
Eli called her name.
But the world spun around her. She heard the sound of retching, tasted the acidity. Another spasm attacked her stomach.
Surely she was going to die.
Chapter
23
Cholera.
Priscilla could hear whispers of the dreaded word around her. Somehow she found herself in the tent. Hour after hour she vomited with painful heaves that left her so weak she was trembling with fatigue.
At one point Henry carried in another person. “John,” said the hushed voices around her.
Priscilla’s heart wrenched, and she tried to pray. Not one of the Indian boys. Please, Lord. But she was too violently sick to pray anything more.
Through a haze of pain, she could only watch helplessly as Eli scrambled back and forth between her and John, making them sip water and cleaning up their vomit. At times she thought she saw Richard hovering over his brother, and at other times Mabel was at her side, spooning water through her cracked lips.
And every time Eli leaned over her, his gentle hands were cool upon her hot skin.
“You’re working too hard, Dr. Ernest,” Mabel said. “Why don’t I take over for a while so you can sleep? You won’t be able to help anyone if you wear yourself out.”
“No.” His whisper was fierce. “I have to keep them both from getting dehydrated. It’s their only chance of surviving.”
“Not their only chance,” Mabel said softly. “We have prayer too.”
“You’re right.” He sighed. “I’ve been praying all night, and the Almighty has spared them so far.”
“That he has, Doctor.”
“Did anyone else drink the contaminated water?” he asked.
“We dumped the rest, and nobody else is complaining of stomach cramps yet.”
Their whispers continued above Priscilla. If she and John did indeed have cholera, their chances of survival were slim. She’d been at the bedside of her younger brother when he’d died of cholera a few years earlier during the epidemic that had swept through New York. In the morning he’d been climbing trees in the backyard. By bedtime he’d been dead.
She groped for Eli’s hand. “Help John.” Her voice was so hoarse she wasn’t sure it truly belonged to her, except that they both turned to her.
“Don’t worry about me,” she gasped. “Save the boy.”
Eli’s blue eyes clouded with worry. “Shh.” He placed a finger against her lips. “Save your energy.”
Her lids drooped.
Blessedly, she lost track of time. She faded in and out of sleep, waking only when Eli prodded her to drink more water. She finally stopped vomiting, but the spasms in her abdomen continued.
A wretched cry finally prodded her to wakefulness. She struggled to sit up but was too weak to do anything but turn her head.
Across from her, Richard had thrown himself across John’s body. Tormented sobs filled the stale air of the tent, and it took a moment for her to realize the cries were coming from Richard, that they were shaking his thin torso.
Eli knelt next to him, his head bowed in defeat. Anguish grooved deep crevices into his face. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, pushing his thumb and forefinger into the sockets as if he were trying to stop the flow of his own tears.
Distress twisted through her, and she cried, “No!”
Eli lifted his head and looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and the sorrow in them reached across the distance and told her the awful truth.
The boy was dead.
She shook her head. Every weary inch of her body cried out in protest. Not John. Not now. Oh, Lord. Why not me instead?
Tears trickled down her cheek, but she was too weak to lift her hand to wipe them away. She was sure of her eternal destiny. She was prepared to give up her life for the natives. If she had ten thousand lives, she would gladly give them all to the Lord. But John—what had become of his soul? Had he been ready for eternity?
Eli buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.
She tried to push herself up again. Now more than ever, she wanted to crawl to Eli, wrap her arms around him, and let him pour out his sorrows in the comfort of her embrace. But she only managed to raise herself to one elbow before she fell back in exhaustion.
The next time Priscilla awoke, John was gone—every trace of him, even his bedroll. Eli was gone too.
Tears burned her eyes and throat.
Mabel’s grave gaze met hers. “They buried the boy.”
Priscilla swallowed a lump that threatened to choke her. “And how’s Richard?”
“He’s been very quiet.”
If only she weren’t so weak, she would have been able to go to the boy and hold him the way his mother would. Her chest ached at the thought of how heartbroken his parents would be when they arrived without John.
Mabel lifted a tin cup to Priscilla’s mouth. “Even though we’re grieving this tragedy, there is good news.”
Priscilla took a sip. The sweet flavor of sugar mingled with the coolness of the water. Had Eli added some of their precious sugar supply to her water?
“While you were ill, Mr. McLeod of the Hudson Bay Company and his party of trappers coming from the Rendezvous came by here. They’re on their way back to Fort Walla Walla, and Dr. Ernest is trying to make arrangements for us to join them.”
Priscilla sucked in a hopeful breath. “Are they agreeable?”
“Dr. Ernest has asked them to wait one more day—to make sure you’re able to travel.”
“And?” Her heart lurched.
“He is still working out the details. But it appears that Mr. McLeod is a reasonable man.”
Relief wafted through her, only for a burst of anxiety to rapidly chase it away. How long had she already delayed them with her cholera? And how could they spare another day? They needed every possible day in their effort to reach the Blue Mountains.
She lay back and groaned as another spasm attacked her abdomen. If she had slowed down the travels before when she’d been healthy, she hated to think of how much she would delay their progress now—and how much she would frustrate Eli.
“Dr. Ernest wants you to try to sit up and eat a little.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I don’t want
to eat.”
“I have a few gooseberries.”
The thought of food made her nauseous.
“You’re blessed,” Mabel said. “Your husband is a very good doctor. I’ve seen other doctors try to treat cholera, but none have been as confident and competent as he’s been.”
Priscilla agreed. Eli had proven himself to be an excellent doctor, not only with his skill but also his compassion. He deserved to make it to the West and start his mission. The natives would be blessed to have a man of his caliber.
“I expected him to bleed you. But he seemed to think that would only make you weaker. Instead, he insisted you keep drinking water until I thought you would drown in it.”
“I don’t think I kept much of it down.”
Mabel stuffed a couple of berries into Priscilla’s mouth. “But the Lord be praised. Look at you. You’re still alive.”
Priscilla leaned back, overwhelmingly tired. She tried to make herself chew but wasn’t so sure she could be glad she was still alive.
Mabel tugged on her blanket and tucked it under her chin. “Dr. Ernest is working tirelessly to save your life.” She peered down at her with sympathy. “I think he cares about you more than you realize.”
Priscilla closed her eyes.
“He may not know it yet, but he needs you.” Mabel’s words were as gentle as her hands caressing Priscilla’s cheek.
She wanted so badly to believe Mabel. But she knew Eli didn’t need anyone, least of all a lady like her.
Priscilla slept fitfully, and whenever she awoke, Eli or Mabel was there to give her more water and urge her to eat.
“We have to leave this morning.” Eli’s brow pinched with worry as he worked to spread more blankets underneath her. “McLeod waited for us yesterday, but he’s anxious to get going.”
“I understand.”
“You’ll have to ride in the wagon.” He rolled a blanket and tucked it next to her.
She didn’t say anything. She was too weak to ride her horse. Her stomach still cramped with unbearable spasms. What choice did she have? Unless they left her behind . . .
Eli knelt beside her. “You need to eat a little before we go.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He slipped his arm behind her and lifted her to a sitting position. She didn’t have the strength to resist him. He tipped the cup to her lips, and she tasted the creamy warmth of the cow’s milk.
His gaze probed her with a liberty that only doctors could have. She might have blushed at his scrutiny in the past, but she was now as listless on the inside as she was on the outside.
“Our cattle are enduring the journey remarkably well.” He helped her finish the last drop. “With the strain of travel and the lack of fertile grass, I’m amazed we’re still getting milk.”
He held out a plate before her. “Roasted antelope. McLeod’s men shot one and shared their meal with us.”
Eli put a piece between her lips. The thick juicy bite was a pleasant change from the dried buffalo meat.
“I’m surprised McLeod is letting us ride with him,” Eli said, continuing the one-sided conversation. She made no effort to join in. She was too weary to care that she was being impolite.
“Considering the fact that they’re from the British Hudson Bay Company, I would’ve guessed they’d feel threatened by us—Americans—moving into Oregon and making a permanent settlement there.”
She’d learned from Eli earlier in their trip that Oregon was occupied jointly by Great Britain and the United States. No one had claimed it as their own—yet.
“But I’m not complaining.” Eli fed her another piece of the meat. “After the mistake I made with Parker’s letter . . .”
She longed to reach for his hand, to trace a pattern through the scars there. But even if she’d had the strength—and even if she didn’t fear him pushing her away—an ache deep in her heart told her she’d be wise to keep her distance.
“Seems that God is trying to teach me a lesson or two these days. . . .”
The discouragement in his voice reflected the despair that had been growing inside her—the nagging question of whether she was truly strong enough to be a missionary, not just physically, but more importantly, spiritually.
“Perhaps God is trying to teach us both something,” she whispered. Was He trying to show her it was time to let go of her plans and dreams so that Eli could reach for his?
The trail through the desert toward the Blue Mountain Range was worse than Eli remembered. And all he could think about was Priscilla in the back of the wagon and whether she would be able to survive the strain of the jolting and jostling.
He wanted to plead with McLeod to slow down the pace, but he knew they’d already lost too much time and they couldn’t waste any more.
There were long stretches without water over dry parched earth, spotted with native sage that grew in stiff bunches as high as a man’s head and often got in the way of the wagon and cattle.
They had to pass through Canyon Hill, a wall of perpendicular rocks several hundred feet high, but even though the canyon was more majestic than anything he’d seen yet, Eli was too worried to appreciate it.
McLeod sent some of his men to hunt in the nearby mountains, and when they returned they were loaded with three elk and two antelope. The supply of fresh meat lasted until they reached the salmon fishery at Snake Falls.
Finally, they spotted the log stockade of Snake Fort in the distance on the northern side of the Snake River, not far from the mouth of the Boise River.
The weary travelers gave a cheerful cry, but Eli stared ahead and forced back the sudden swell of grateful relief that stung his eyes.
With each passing day in the hot wagon, Priscilla had wilted into a drooping flower. She didn’t eat enough and continued to have recurring stomach pain.
To make the situation worse, one of the axles had cracked. Thankfully, for the past day their route had been more level, over sandy plains. But he knew it was just a matter of time before the axle gave way altogether.
He glanced over his shoulder to the wagon bed, where Priscilla was reclining in the shade of the canvas covering.
He’d hoped that once they reached the fort, she would have a few days to recuperate and that he’d be able to fix the wagon. McLeod had been more considerate than Squire had ever been. Eli prayed the man’s goodwill would hold out awhile longer.
He nodded to Richard, riding silently behind the wagon. But the boy glanced into the distance and refused to meet his gaze. Richard hadn’t talked to him since the day they’d dug the hole in the ground and put John into it.
Pain sat with guilt on Eli’s shoulder and whispered into his ear. Why had he let John die? Could he have done more to save the boy’s life? Could he have tried harder?
“Welcome, welcome.” A short, well-dressed man with a British accent called to them.
“Got a spare room for a couple of ladies?” McLeod asked as he swung down from his mount and shook the man’s hand.
“Ladies?” The man’s eyes combed eagerly over the weary travelers. “You have real ladies?”
Eli jumped from the wagon seat and made his way to the back. Priscilla was already attempting to climb out. “Hang on. I’ll get you.” He reached for her, and she batted his hands away.
“I can do this myself.” But he could see she hardly had the strength to stand, let alone climb out of the wagon. He steadied her as her feet touched the ground.
She’d forgotten to pull up her bonnet, and the heat had plastered strands of damp hair to her forehead.
“Looks like the owner of this fort is a fancy English gentleman,” Eli said, tapping her bonnet.
She fumbled for it and situated it over her hair, tucking loose strands out of sight. Then she brushed at the helplessly dusty folds of her skirt. “I’m a mess. Completely and utterly filthy. I’m in no condition to meet someone who’s civilized.”
He usually didn’t care a whole lot about his own appearance, but he had to
admit he was more than ready for a dip in the nearby Big Wood River. “We’re all filthy.”
She gave a huff. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.”
He couldn’t hold back his grin. “I guess I should have said you look like a queen about to enter her castle?”
She wiped her sleeve over her face as if she could somehow free it from the grime. But she only managed to add to the streaks smudged on her cheeks.
“The truth is, no matter how dirty you get, nothing can hide how pretty you are.” He rubbed his thumb against one of the smudges.
At his touch, she sucked in her breath and took a step back. She swayed and reached out to grab the wagon.
He didn’t bother asking for permission to help her. Instead, he scooped her into his arms like a baby.
“Put me down.” Her voice was weak. “You know how much I dislike causing a scene.”
“And you know how much I like making them.”
He was relieved when she didn’t fight him. Instead, she gave a soft, almost contented sigh.
When Mr. Kay introduced himself and fawned over her, she could only manage a weak smile. Eli carried her and followed Mr. Kay upstairs, where he settled her on the bed in one of the cool windowless rooms.
The buildings were made of hewed logs, and the roofs and chimneys were covered with mud bricks. The fort wasn’t anything fancy, but it was a break from the blazing desert heat and the constant motion of the wagon. If he could convince McLeod to let them stay for a few days, Priscilla would have a chance to get stronger before they moved on.
Mr. Kay brought the ladies bread, stewed serviceberries, and tea. “I hope you don’t mind if I watch them enjoy the luxury,” he said, settling himself beside Priscilla’s bed on one of the stools.
Mabel sat on the other stool, and Eli leaned against the wall near the door. The bright sunshine spilling in the doorway provided the room’s only light, enough that he could see the way Mr. Kay was eyeing Priscilla. He wished the man would just go about his business. But flour was a rare commodity and had likely been brought in from Fort Vancouver. How could he refuse Mr. Kay when he was sacrificing of his provisions and providing such important sustenance to the women?
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