Prairie Storm (12 page)

“Pray,” she snapped. “Pray, pray, pray.”

“I can trust that the God who created me and loved me enough to give the life of
his
Son for me cares about
my
son.” He stood and walked toward her, the baby unmoving in his arms. “I can't see God's plans, but I believe they're good ones. My mama's death hurt, but God used it to pull me close to my father. It was the book of hymns you've been singing from that helped lead me to salvation. If Mama hadn't died, do you think I'd have counted her hymnal special? Do you think I'd have read it over and over? Do you think I'd ever have found the path to joy?”

“Joy? You can't tell me you feel joyful right now.”

“At this moment, holding this dying baby, I have the greatest joy, the deepest peace, and the purest strength I've ever known.” He slipped his arm around her and drew her against his chest. “Oh, Lily, I wish you knew it too. I wish you had hope.”

“There is no hope.” Desperate and frantic, she laid her hand on the baby's fevered little head. Abigail had been this ill in the hours before her death, and Lily had been unable to hold her daughter back from the precipice. All the love in the world had not kept Abby from slipping over the edge.

“Mercy, that's a sweet sight,” Mother Margaret said, her bright yellow dress aglow in the light of the oil lamp she carried. “The three of you sure do make a pretty picture. Yes, sir. Once we get past this trouble, we're gonna have to fix you up. You belong.”

Lily pressed her cheek against Elijah's shoulder, blotting her tears on the comforting homespun cotton fabric of his shirt. What was the old woman saying? Had everyone gone insane?

“But right now, we better head for a doctor,” Mother Margaret continued. “We all been a-talkin' on the porch—Ben, Eva, Mr. Seth, Mr. Jack, Mr. Rolf, and me. We decided you need to take that baby to Topeka, Brother Elijah. Ben's hitchin' his mule to Mr. Seth's wagon, and Miz Rosie is sendin' some food down from her house. Miz Lily and I will take turns with the baby while you drive. You reckon you're up to goin' all the way to Topeka, Brother?”

As though a fresh wind had blown through the room, Eli lifted his head and gave the old woman a warm smile. “Sure thing, Mother Margaret. You're coming with us?”

“The Lord knows I'm not much use around here. I been hangin' up laundry and takin' it down wet for almost a week, waitin' for the rain to come. Maybe if I leave, Ben will finally have himself some dry shirts.”

“I suspect it'll rain.”

The old woman laughed. “You're probably right. Miz Lily, fetch the baby's box, would you? And let's take along some of them pickles Miz Sheena brought over yesterday. Mercy, I never tasted such fine pickles in all my life.”

In a fog of sorrow and anxiety, Lily watched Mother Margaret bustle around the room gathering supplies for the sudden journey. Elijah tucked the jar of pickles under his free arm, and then he carried Samuel out the door to the wagon that Ben had pulled up to the porch.

As she gathered up her dresses and stuffed them into a bag, Lily reflected on her return to Topeka. Another long journey. Another sick baby. Could she bear to visit the unmarked grave where Abigail lay? She felt sure of only one thing. While in Topeka, she would search for and find Beatrice Waldowski.

The Lord allowed the rain to fall. Eli hunched under a sheet of canvas and, through a veil of pouring water, he watched the lights of Topeka grow closer. All night and all day, he had urged the reluctant mule eastward along the muddy road. They had sloshed through swollen creeks and rattled over rickety bridges. Barely stopping to rest and feed the mule, they had pushed onward.

Somehow, Samuel was still alive. Lily and Mother Margaret had taken turns tending the baby as they huddled beneath a makeshift tent on the wagon bed. Flashes of lightning and the crack of thunder had hardly disturbed Sam's fevered sleep. Now and again, the old woman would lean forward and call out some message: “He took a little milk,” she would say, or “He's a-coughin' now.”

As Eli guided the mule onto the main street of Topeka, he finally realized he could pray no more. He had begged, pleaded, wept, and cried out for mercy from his heavenly Father. He had searched his mind for Scripture of comfort and hope. He had offered the Lord well-reasoned arguments in favor of sparing Sam's life. He had ground his teeth in rage at the thought of the baby's death, and he had offered up every sacrifice he could think of—if only God would save Sam. “I'll go straight to China and preach your Word,” he had told the Lord. “I'll stay in Hope and be a pastor all my days.” “Africa? Do you want me to go to Africa? I'll do that, if you'll just let Sam live.”

Finally he knew he had no choice but to surrender. He could not will the baby back to health. He could not bargain with the Lord. He could only relinquish Sam into the hands of the almighty God who could turn water into wine, make lame men walk, and calm stormy seas. “Thy will be done,” Eli finally prayed as the storm of Sam's terrible illness raged around him. He was helpless against it. “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

Late evening finally brought an end to the downpour that had accompanied the wagon across the prairie. In the city of Topeka, oil lamps glowed in windows, and the aroma of suppers on the stove began to drift from chimneys. Children emerged to splash in puddles. Businessmen picked their way down wooden boardwalks. The humid chill carried the fragrance of fresh rain along with the reek of discarded, rotting food and open drains. Dogs shook themselves in a spray of droplets, while pigs ambled from the shelter of porches to wallow in the mud.

“You reckon we can find a doctor this late in the evenin'?” Mother Margaret said from under the tent. “I'm afraid they's all shut down, and besides that, it's Sunday.”

Eli pushed aside the sopping canvas. He had been scheduled to perform a wedding ceremony this afternoon, but the thought of his obligation had barely crossed his mind. Jack Cornwall and Caitrin Murphy had been among those urging him off to Topeka. He supposed they would understand the delay.

“There's a doctor's place now,” he said, spotting a dripping wooden sign that dangled over the boardwalk. “Doctor Schlissel,” it read. “Cures.” At least the message was straightforward.

As Lily emerged from the tent, Eli reined the mule to a halt and set the wagon's brake. He realized that the silent baby in her arms looked smaller and weaker than ever before. Was Samuel still alive? How could a human life possibly have endured the days of agony that this child had borne? Eli met Lily's somber gaze.

“I think he's still breathing,” she whispered. “Elijah, this doctor had better be sent by your ever-loving God, or I don't know what I'll do.”

Lifting the young woman down from the wagon, he noted how thin and fragile she was. Like a sparrow.
Oh, Lord, your eye is on the sparrow. Watch over Lily. Watch over us all
.

Eli knocked on the door of the doctor's office. Grumbling that she never had liked big cities, Mother Margaret chose to remain in the wagon. Lily stood shivering beside Eli, her kidskin boots soaked to the ankle. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

“What?” A bleary-eyed elderly man sporting a two-day growth of gray whiskers and the stub end of a cigar peered out the doorway. “Whatcha want?”

“We're looking for Dr. Schlissel,” Eli said.

“He's off duty.”

He started to shut the door, but Eli held it open. “Please, sir. We've got to have help for our baby. Would you ask the doctor if he'd just take a look at the boy?”

“Dr. Schlissel, would you like to take a look at the boy?” the man said. He thought for a moment. “No, I wouldn't. I'd like to prop my feet up and drink my tea, thank you very much.”

As the door started to shut again, Eli stuck his foot out to block it. “You're the doctor? Please, sir, we've driven all the way from Hope. My son is dying. You've got to help us.”

The old man took the cigar stub from his mouth and peered down at the tiny bundle in Lily's arms. “You've got him wrapped up like sausage meat in a pig's gut. Is he still alive?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“You sure?”

“I think so, sir.”

“All right, bring him in.” Dr. Schlissel turned around and trundled back into the room. He wore a pair of house slippers that slapped the wooden floor when he walked. A set of bright red suspenders stretched over his ample belly, and a stethoscope dangled from his neck.

“I was having my dinner, if you must know,” he said as he sorted through a collection of tools and instruments. “I don't like to be disturbed after a long day. Who would? We had a diphtheria epidemic here not too long ago, and I never worked so hard in my life. I'll tell you folks what. I need a vacation, that's what. I need to go set myself by a river someplace and catch some trout. If it isn't a boy with a broken arm or a mama with a burned hand, it's a baby with whooping cough or a grandpa with pneumonia. You name it, I've seen it all, and I think I've tended to one of every kind of disease there is today. Now, what's wrong with this baby? Great ghosts, do you think wrapping his stomach this tight is doing him any good? You've been
brauching
him, haven't you?
Brauching
is a bunch of hooey, if you ask me. Well, put him on the table, ma'am. Don't just stand there.”

Eli took Samuel from Lily's arms and laid him on the long wooden table near the window. At one end stood a ceramic bowl filled with the doctor's tools; at the other end sat his dinner of a half-eaten lamb chop, a mound of potatoes, and a loaf of white bread. The man set his cigar down on his dinner plate, adjusted his suspenders, and peered at Samuel.

“Puny thing,” he pronounced. “Looks like he's in bad shape. How many other children do you two have?”

“He's the only one.” Elijah held Lily tightly, as though he could protect her from the pronouncement to come.

“Well, you're young yet.” The doctor looked Lily up and down. “You'll have more.”

Lily started to speak, then fell silent. Eli turned her away from the table and led her across the room to the doctor's horsehair settee. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke, the stench of infection, and the acrid scents of castor oil and ether. Together, the couple sank down onto the settee, and Lily buried her face in Eli's shoulder.

“Father,” he murmured, his cheek pressed against her golden hair, “you gave life to Samuel. I know that each of us has a different length of time allotted, but has Sam lived all his days, Lord? Has he spent his whole life in these few short days? Oh, God, could you … could you see fit to lend him to us a little longer?”

Unable to continue, he wrapped his arms around Lily and gave himself to his grief. Her hands slipped up his back and clasped him tightly. She shook her head.

“No,” she murmured. “This can't happen. God, if you're here, listen to me. If you can hear at all, hear me. If you care about us, reach out to us now. I'm not ready for Samuel to go. I can't bear to lose him.”

She stopped and swallowed hard. “God,” she went on, “don't do it for me. I know you didn't answer when I begged you for protection from my father. You didn't hear when I pleaded for Abby's life. Do this for Samuel. Please, let him live.”

As Eli held the trembling woman, he could feel the agony wracking her. Without thinking, he stroked the side of her face and kissed her cheek. “God's been listening to you, Lily,” he said, his hand cupping her head against his neck. “He was with you when your father hurt you so much. And he's holding your baby daughter in his arms right now. He'll bring good out of this sorrow. I know he will. If you'll give him your pain, he'll take it. And he'll give you joy in return. Not only joy, but peace, hope, and love.”

“Just like a Mexican tamale,” Dr. Schlissel announced. “All wrapped up in fifteen layers and hardly able to breathe. Hot as a tamale, too. You running a fever, little fellow, or are you just trying to stay alive under all those blankets?”

A weak cry from Samuel sent a chill down Eli's spine. He squeezed Lily's shoulders against his chest. The doctor was clanging his tools now, muttering to himself, asking where he'd left his cigar.

“How old is this baby?” he called across the room. “Couple of weeks?”

“I think so,” Eli said, lifting his focus to the physician, who was gnawing his lamb chop as he prodded the tiny figure with his free hand. “I found him on the trail. His folks had been murdered.”

The doctor gave a grunt and set down the chop. He wiped his fingers on his trousers. “Did you give him any kind of tonic?”

Eli looked at Lily. “We tried everything in the mercantile,” she said. “We didn't know what else to do.”

“So you gave him a little poison from every bottle. Figures.
Brauching
, tonics, sweating. What else have you tried?”