A Light in the Wilderness (8 page)

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?

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 judge 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.

“David Carson? Come forward, please.”

He took a deep breath. He faced the judge. His big moment.

“Are you David Carson of Scotland?” The judge motioned him forward.

“No sir. Of Ireland, North Carolina, and Missouri.”

“Hmmm.” Conversation with the bailiff. Then, “There seems to be some irregularity.”

Davey traced his fingers around his hat brim. “Lookee, your honor. Myself applied four years ago, nearly five.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “What’s irregular?”

“We have no record of your application.”

“Then how’d you come to have me be here, sir?”

The judge said something to his bailiff that Davey couldn’t hear, turned back. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. There’s another
David Carson who made the request and whose papers are ready for signature. In error we’ve notified you.”

“But me application, surely it’s there and processed.” He knew he sounded whiney, desperate even.

“Are you certain you submitted the proper papers?”

He couldn’t lose his temper. “On me mother’s grave, I swear.”

“Well, you’re not the correct David Carson.”

“But I applied. You have to have a record.”

The judge raised a warning eyebrow. “All I know to do is to have you start over. I’ll have the clerk provide you with an application and perhaps we can expedite your final papers.”

“And when then would me papers be ready?”

The judge leaned into this clerk who whispered.

“I’d say in a year or so. Maybe two.”

“Sir. But—”

“Patience is a virtue, Mr. Carson. We have dozens of people awaiting papers in this county alone.”

“I’m hoping to head for Oregon next spring.”

“You’re fortunate that the court has the applications here. As I said, we’ll move as quickly as we can. Next case?”

Outside Davey found himself tearing up.
Two years
. He’d either be long gone or they’d have to wait to leave. He needed to be a citizen in order to apply for that land. What right did the courts have to tell him to wait when he’d done everything right. He bent to scratch Rothwell’s sharp-pointed ears, mounted Fergus. The horse grunted with Davey’s weight.
Courts and papers. They’re as unreliable as the weather
.

No snow covered the ground but the cold bit Letitia’s face as they rode Davey’s horse, Fergus, to the Hawkinses’ to celebrate Christmas Day. Letitia wore a coat of beaver skins, one Davey had made for her from prime hides he’d trapped and kept. It was his Christmas gift to her. She’d given him a watch paid for with her
butter and milk money. They’d exchanged their gifts on Christmas Eve, the memory of the evening in front of the hearth warming her still. Davey read the Scripture from what he called his Family Book, though it seemed to her sometimes he told the story more than read the words. Then they spoke of hopefulness in Oregon, of the trials and joys of making a new way in a new land. That’s what Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus had done.

“You’re a citizen now,” Letitia said, allowing pride to enter her voice. “Did you write that in the Family Book?” He shook his head. “I keep your papers safe with mine.”

“Oh, no need for that. I could lose mine and the courthouse would have a copy. No, nothing to be concerned about.” He picked at mud on his boot.

“Maybe you could write out our agreement? Mark that in the book.”

“I’ll get to that agreement before long, but you have my word.”

“Yes, suh,” she said. “I have your word, but it won’t be no good if you is dead and I’s still livin’.”

“Me mother used to say ‘The Lord takes care of the sparrow, he’ll surely take care of you.’ That’s what we got to remember, not worry so much about papers.”

He could be so loving, but he also dismissed her worries if they didn’t settle in with his own.

“You like a river,” Letitia said. “Ain’t no good to push.”

He’d patted her hand. “That’s exactly so.”

She couldn’t push him, but she didn’t have to like riding along on his raft waiting for him to shoot them through the rapids.

Once they arrived at the Hawkinses’ log home, that quiet world of Christmas Eve and a cold ride swirled into Christmas Day and a frenzy of offspring, food, and festivities. Children laughed and scampered, showing their Christmas gifts, pulling from their Christmas stockings one precious orange each. Letitia wondered where Nancy Hawkins had gotten such fruit. Young Edward gripped a wooden toy in his small hand, showing it to Letitia and saying
“Mine!” as Letitia removed her coat. Maryanne stirred up biscuits while four-year-old Laura watched baby Nancy Jane as she slept on the nearby bed, Laura matching the cadence of her breath.

While Nancy and Letitia cooked beef roasts the Carsons brought and Nancy stewed four chickens and started the puddings, the men—including eleven-year-old Samuel—spoke of nothing but Oregon: who else was going, what weapons they’d take, who might be named captains or lieutenants, and all other issues of “heading west.”

“I’ve heard that citizenship applications are backed up.” Doc Hawkins tapped new tobacco into his clay pipe.

“Mr. Carson a citizen now.” Letitia surprised herself by speaking up.

“Good for him. We’ll all be seeking land.”

“Is there an alternative for getting land? For those not so fortunate?” Davey said.

“Perhaps they could show they’d applied. Maybe have witnesses to how long they’d been in the states before coming to Oregon.” Doc Hawkins lit a pipe, the scent unsettling Letitia’s breakfast. “Not sure how strict they’ll be. Canadians have a say, I hear. Two Canadians voted for the provisional government last year and it only won by two votes!”

They spoke then of the arrangements planned, how the groups would be set up as military units with captains and lieutenants and what-not, discussions that Letitia let fly over her without taking hold.

“The way I see it, once the captains and lieutenants get named, the real work of managing begins.” Davey lifted an arm for a small Hawkins child to scoot under as the children raced around the table until their mother shooed them away. Letitia gave the children popped corn to string as the scent of roasted meat filled the small cabin. Logs cracked in the fireplace.

“The whining,” Davey continued, “—and there will be whining—may be silenced by a captain’s command, but like a summer stream,
the whining goes underground. Shows up weeks later somewhere else but with a full head of steam.”

“We need to get organized early, so we can head out before other groups,” Doc Hawkins said.

“But not before the grass grows on the prairies for the oxen and mules,” Nancy called over her shoulder as she cut up the two berry pies Letitia had brought.

“Who are you women talking to?” Doc Hawkins winked at Davey, and Letitia could tell he was pleased his wife was a partner in this western venture.

“Letitia hears all the chatter when she delivers butter,” Nancy said. “Seems like the whole journey will be like balancing three children on your knees. Leave later so you can cross after the rivers have gone down but then wander in the dust of the earlier groups and no forage for your animals. And all along musing at length if the Indians will harass. Isn’t that right, Letitia?”

Letitia smiled, pleased that what she shared was considered of value. “Gettin’ along make the difference. How people settle their squabbles, make their peace, that what matter. ’Cause they is always problems.”

Davey looked up at her from his hickory rocker and said, “In Oregon, we’ll settle issues with fewer courts.” Doc Hawkins’s pipe smoke drifted up to punctuate his words. “Men ought to be skilled at negotiating with their neighbors with goodwill. After all, comes a time when every neighbor needs help without the residue of some old issue a judge ruled on smearing the need or the fixing of it.”

Letitia took the now cut-up pies and put them on the windowsill, then helped Nancy lug a large crockery full of sauerkraut from the lean-to in the back before Doc saw their efforts and, with Samuel, helped bring the pot to the stove. The men left to look at the wagon Doc had purchased from the colonists at Bethel. At the barn they fed the Hawkinses’s dog, Rufus. Rothwell hadn’t been permitted to come.