The Frontiersman’s Daughter

  Still, Colonel Barr did not move. A bit gruffly, Ian said over his shoulder, “Have you no’ had the pox, mon? Your scars tell me you have.”

  “Well, I—as a lad—many years ago.”

  “Then you canna take the pox again, Colonel. Once a mon has had it, and lives tae tell the tale, he is safe.”

  Truly? Lael stared at the door and then at Philo Barr. The relief on his face was almost laughable. He came forward then, and the two men lifted the body off the pallet and carried it to the horse and travois waiting outside.

  Ian turned to her and said, “I’ll soon be back. Tend tae the sick as best you can.”

  Near midnight he returned, having buried the body well beyond the fort’s gates. Lael had built up the fire and made some broth and cornbread, and in the small circle of firelight they sat and ate together in silence.

  When they had finished, he took one of her hands in both his own. The gesture startled her so much she looked down at her hand, slender and pale and nearly lost in his. At his touch a delightful warmth spread through her. Had he forgiven her, after all?

  “Lael, I need tae speak tae you plain.”

  She looked up at him, suddenly wary. A sudden groan from Nathaniel Hart took their eyes off each other. But Ian turned back, face firm. “I’ll speak plain—and fast. Tae be here is tae put your very life in jeopardy. There is but one hope. You must take the pox by inoculation.”

  “What?”

  “’Tis a simple procedure, one that I have already done on myself. I pass a needle and thread through an infected pock and then underneath your own skin. Here.” He touched her upper arm. “You will still get the pox, tae be sure, but it will likely be a mild case.”

  “Likely,” she repeated, though she heard the warning in his voice.

  “Likely but not certain. It could kill you,” he confessed.

  He had done this very thing, and because he had, she would also.

  “So be it,” she said, a growing dread in her heart.

  “You are sure?”

  She nodded and he took up a needle and thread and talked quietly to her. The inoculation for pox had begun in Boston. A clergyman had vaccinated himself and his own children during an epidemic there. Though it was still opposed, several Boston doctors had become convinced of the soundness of the practice, including the physician Ian had once worked with.

  She nearly balked when he ran the needle through a pox on Bland Ballinger’s arm. Ballinger looked about to die, so grotesque were his sores. When the incision was made on her own arm, she shut her eyes tight, then opened them when the prick was over.

  For a moment he sat staring at the needle, and she wondered what he was thinking. Or was he praying? She looked past him to the human misery that lay about them in the flickering light, and her heart was so heavy she burst out, “Oh Ian—how do you stand this?”

  He said simply, “I pray and think of Scotlain. And you.”

  64

  That same night Colonel Barr joined them, and Jane McFee was soon to follow. “I saw you come over,” she told Lael. “And I said, ‘What’s good enough for Lael Click is good enough for me.’ Now that my Matthew has passed on, I don’t have nobody to tend but myself.”

  Ian’s smile was warm if weary. “Well, Jane, if you’re as good a nurse as you are a crack shot, we’re in good hands, tae be sure.”

  And so Jane took the pox by inoculation, but Colonel Barr had not fared so well with the others. “I’ve informed everyone of the practice and find all opposed but one.”

  “Ma Horn?” Lael asked hopefully.

  “Nay. Hamish Todd. And there’s word the sickness is spreading beyond our walls. The McClarys’ neighbors—the Simmons, I believe—have two children ill. And the oldest Tucker boy, the one who was helping out at the McClarys’ since Hugh and Hero died, he’s sick as well.”

  Ian looked up from where he sat examining Jemima Tate. “Any word on the rest of the McClarys? They took the inoculation before I left, every one of them.”

  “All sick,” the colonel reported. “But mildly so.”

  “Any word on my brother or the Blisses?” Lael asked.

  “They’re keeping to their cabins, as instructed. I know little else.”

  The four of them decided that the women would go upstairs and rest while the men remained below, then later they would trade places. The medication Ian had used to ease the suffering began to wear thin, and the patients grew fitful, tossing on their pallets and murmuring or crying aloud outright.

  “’Tis the nature of the illness,” he explained. “The fever brings aboot delirium and an aching of the joints. Next a rash develops and gives way tae the pox themselves. There’s little tae be done tae ease their suffering except opium, and I’ve precious little left.”

  “Perhaps I can ride to Lexington on the morrow,” Colonel Barr volunteered.

  Slowly, Lael and Jane climbed the stairs, holding a single candle aloft. They were to share the doctor’s bed, but would sleep ever come? The simple pallet had been made grand by a lovely blue-and-tan coverlet, the likes of which she’d never seen.

  And there on the nightstand, momentarily forgotten by him, perhaps, lay the exquisite pink pearls and her own sunny braid. She sank down onto the bed, the shucks rustling beneath her weight, and blew out the candle. As she lay down, the soft weight of the blankets that enveloped her, warm as a man’s arms, was the essence of Ian himself.

  •• Was there ever, Lael wondered, more tender care? The sick lay unresponsive, beyond all hope or reason, and yet Ian’s thorough administrations never ceased. As she and Jane worked alongside him, she watched him at work, marveling at his composure. The days seemed endless, blending into one everlasting series of chores. There were feverish bodies to wash with cold rags, soiled bedding and clothes to change and boil in lye water, meals to cook, and water to draw and force past parched lips.

  The thought that she herself would soon fall ill was dreadful. But at least he would be there to care for her. And gentle Jane. Jane, who could stand up to a gun hole as well as any man. Lael developed a new fondness for the older woman overnight, impressed by her self-sacrifice and the tireless way she took up any task.

  Lael’s own motives were tainted—she was here out of guilt and duty and a desperate love—but Jane and Ian shared the same spirit of self-sacrifice. Several times she caught Jane’s lips moving in silent prayer as she worked, and Lael found herself praying as well, asking for mercy so that when Jane fell ill it would be only mildly so, and that she would not bear the hideous marks.

  Two children were soon brought to their door, then Colonel Barr returned carrying Sophie Lambert in his arms. Flushed with fever, the young widow still managed to look lovely, and Lael prepared a pallet for her against one wall. She was beginning to see why Ian had moved into the big blockhouse after all, as the smaller cabins could not possibly hold such a number. As it was, they were now hard pressed for room, leaving little space to walk between the pallets.

  All her ill will for Sophie dissolved as she ministered to the widow, holding a pan for her when she was sick and sponging her hot face with a cold cloth. The sight of her once flawless complexion now dotted with the red rash filled her with compassion. But it was the children—Sophie’s own niece and nephew—that made her heart nearly break. So sick and so small they were.

  Lael found Ian gently undressing them. She moved to help him, and the youngest, a boy of about two, began crying for his mother.

  “’Tis always hardest on children,” Ian told her. “The pox weakens them so, and withoot a maither’s care it seems tae break their spirit.”

  He took out a small tin, which she saw was nearly empty. “I’m loath tae use opium, but ’tis the only way tae ease their pain. Only a small amount is needed, ye ken, but you’ll need tae hold their heads up.”

  Afterwards, she took the crying boy, still a baby really, and wrapped him in a blanket and sat rocking him before the fire. The room was cold for Ian had opened the shutt
ers to let in the morning air, but the sun shone in with beguiling light. Lael kept rocking, long after the baby had cried himself to sleep and the opium had done its work.

  Behind her she heard the exasperated if hushed voice of Philo Barr. “For God’s sake, Doctor, when will this misery come to an end?”

  “Only God knows, Colonel.”

  “Don’t you have any idea?”

  “What I can tell you, you dinna want tae hear. The last epidemic in Boston lasted a year and killed half the populace.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Aye. But I dinna take the pox.”

  “A miracle, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I consider it so.”

  “And to what do you contribute your remarkable health?”

  “The Almighty, ye ken.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” The colonel wiped his brow with a rag. “Do you recall today is the day we had planned to go to Lexington?”

  Lexington? Lael slowed her rocking, her arms aching from the weight of the child. As she recollected their planned trip, a great tide of disappointment swept over her. The revival. This was the day they were to travel to the revival to hear Duncan Leith. Was his disappointment as great as hers? When she had a spare moment she said to him, “Ian, I’m sorry about the revival.”

  He paused from mixing a powder. “It doesna truly matter, Lael.”

  Surprised, she stared at him.

  He said simply, “It only matters that you cared tae go.”

  Later, lying on the upstairs bed beside a sleeping Jane, she pondered his words. What had he meant? It only matters that you cared tae go. And what of his other words, ones that left little room for doubt? How can you stand this? she had asked.

  I pray and think of Scotlain. And you.

  She turned on her side and reached for the pearls on the bedside table. Their unusual beauty solaced her as did the memory that he’d meant her to have them. Their color still stole her breath. Pink, like a dogwood, she mused, somewhat solaced by the thought of spring. But where, she wondered, were the other pearls, the pale ivory ones . . . and the miniature of Olivia?

  65

  By the tenth day, Sophie Lambert and Flowner Beel had been buried, and four more lay dying. Lael leaned over the little boy, no longer crying now for lack of strength, the long-lashed eyes closed, the tiny body a mass of pocks.

  “Just rock him, Lael,” Ian told her. “Just rock him oot of this world and in tae the next.”

  Gently, she lifted the child and her tears fell on the little face that had once been soft and white. Not far from them, on a shared pallet, lay both the boy’s parents in the grip of fever, oblivious to their wee son. And so Lael rocked and rocked. For hours she rocked, until her arms and legs grew numb and Ian knelt beside her chair, making her stop.

  “It’s over, Lael,” he was saying as gently as he could, taking the small, still body from her. When they went to bury him, she put her face in her apron and sobbed. Try as she might, even Jane, now crying as well, couldn’t comfort her. When Ian returned, he picked her up as if she was light as a corn-husk doll and carried her up the steps.

  His voice was stern as he placed her on the bed. “Your strength is gone, Lael. I canna have you downstairs any longer. Jane has made you a cup of tea. Drink it and rest.”

  He walked away from her then, going over to where a handsome medicine chest stood against one wall. She took a sip of tea and found it strong, almost bitter, and wondered if he’d added something to it. He was mixing medicines now, adding water, and rummaging through a drawer in the chest. She marveled at his endurance, and yet she knew his strength was not his own. God’s strength was in him. How many times had she seen him at prayer, lips moving silently as he leaned over first one patient and then another, taxed to his physical and mental limits? There had often been an unmistakable sheen in his eyes, and the sight made her own composure crumble.

  It seemed odd as she lay there and watched him, how he stood so tall one minute but now leaned a bit. She saw his right hand reach out and grasp the top of the chest as if to steady himself. Then he swayed and fell, and the glass vials he had been holding shattered to pieces on the hardwood floor.

  She bolted upright, the hot tea spilling on her as she dropped it in horror. By the time she reached him Colonel Barr was beside her, his own face a mask of fear.

  “Dear God in heaven,” he nearly shouted, “what shall we do now?” And it seemed to Lael more anguished words had never been spoken.

  Together, they dragged him to the bed. Weeping once more, Lael removed Ian’s boots while the colonel removed his linen shirt, stained with the medicines he had been mixing.

  In that short time he’d already passed into unconsciousness. She lay a hand against his flushed cheek. He was burning with fever, and she knew the pox had him. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?

  “I must send for Ma Horn,” Colonel Barr said and then left them alone.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lael took one of Ian’s hands in her own, much as he had done that first night. She looked down at his long, strong fingers, lacing them through her own. “Ian, if you can hear me, know that I will take fine care of you.” But to her own ears the pledge seemed woefully inadequate. Leaning over, she pressed her ear to his chest and listened to his heartbeat, sure and strong. He had a mild case, is all, she reasoned. Soon he would be up and they would all go on as before.

  Ma Horn arrived, and though Lael was heartened to see her, she worried that at her advanced age she wouldn’t last long. In all her years, Ma Horn had never known smallpox, had only heard of it. Having lived most of her life in the wilderness, she’d never been exposed to the disease until now.

  At Lael’s request, Colonel Barr rode out to see how Ransom and the Blisses fared and came back with a good report. They were likely to be fine as long as they stayed put. Lael was thankful, though it seemed a wonder that only a few miles away life went on as peaceful as before, while in this room they seemed trapped at the very gates of hell.

  Just as Ian said, it helped to think of things other than the misery around them. While he’d confessed to praying and thinking of Scotland and her, she thought of him and her own homeplace, now more dear than ever before.

  She was loath to leave his side. Always someone was with him, providing him the same care he’d given others, but she stayed near. Through the first days of fever she waited, for now she knew what to expect. Always the fever first and then the rash, which gave way to the unsightly pocks—with a great deal of suffering in between.

  When she could no longer keep her eyes open, she lay down beside him atop the coverlet. What would have shamed her before now seemed of no consequence. When the fever climbed and he grew restless, she pulled a chair close and read aloud from his Bible. Which passages were his favorites? She wished she’d asked him sooner.

  There were so many things about him she didn’t know. His middle name. His birthday. The story of his conversion. She found that he’d marked Psalm 23 with black ink and scribbled a date in the margin as well, and this she read aloud again and again until he quieted.

  “He sure ain’t restin’ easy,” Ma Horn said, bringing rags and a fresh pail of water with which to cool him.

  “I have some brandy in my cabin. Some rum as well,” the colonel told them. “Perhaps a good dose of that would help.”

  But Lael shook her head. “I think he would oppose it. I once heard him say liquor is good for amputations and little else.”

  “He ain’t got no more of that opium, does he?” Ma Horn asked, wringing out a rag. “That poppy powder is powerful stuff.”

  “I believe he used the last of it on the children,” Lael said. But she rose and went to the medicine chest anyway. Lifting the lid, she read the inscription there. Medicine Chests. Put up or Refitted at Marshall’s Drug and Chemical Store, No. 56, Beacon Street, Boston. An assortment of vials and bottles were arranged within, bearing such bewildering titles as Scot’s Pills, Rochelle Salts, Daffy’s Elix
ir, Goddard’s Drops, and Seignette’s Salts. Plus a number of herbs, both benefits and simples, as they were called, stood alongside the mysterious nostrums. Only a few names were familiar: foxglove, garlic, lavender, rose hips.

  The second drawer contained a collection of lancets and surgical tools, and beneath these were mortars and pestles. At the bottom was more mixing and bandaging equipment and . . . the pearls. She stopped rummaging when she saw them. They lay curled in the corner, and beneath their milky whiteness lay a letter.

  For several moments she stood, transfixed. Why were her pearls on the nightstand while these—Olivia’s pearls, as she’d come to know them—lay hidden in a drawer? She should not . . . dare not . . .

  With one finger she pushed the necklace gently aside and saw the face of the letter.

  In an ornate feminine hand the address read, To Doctor Ian Alexander Justus, Fort Click, Kentucke Territory. The return address bore but three words: Olivia Lowe, Boston.

  At once she shut the drawer.

  “There is nothing—nothing but a supply of medicines unknown to me,” she told them slowly.

  And an exquisite string of pearls and one mysterious, lonely letter.

  66

  Soon Jane lay sick and three more were buried. With Ian so ill, the task of loading the dead onto the waiting travois and digging the graves fell to Lael and Colonel Barr. Riding out in the open air was bracing, even invigorating, but pulling a dead body was another matter. By the time she’d helped dig just one grave, she was spent.

  “I believe,” Colonel Barr told her, “that your father would be rather proud.”

  Would he? She looked at the man she’d never truly liked, the hard-won compliment warming her. Perhaps Pa would, at that. Eyes wet, she leaned against her shovel, letting the late-winter wind lick her cape. One buried. Two more to follow. She no longer looked at the faces of the dead, for at night they’d begun to appear in her dreams.

  Riding back to the blockhouse, the movement of her horse lulled her to sleep. She swayed but the colonel caught her before she fell. Her body felt strangely detached, so weary as to be beyond feeling, and her head throbbed.