We rode the mule, the three of us, with a sack of goodies draped over the saddle horn. Andy hung on behind me, his little legs stuck out on either side; Kate rode in front, tied to me with a sash around her middle. A saddle was a luxury Christian had purchased for us. And no, I did not ride sidesaddle, and I didn’t care who knew it.
The path was muddy but the mule surefooted. Little squalls sprayed water on us and of course the branches overhanging the trail wetted us down, but the cedar capes I’d woven worked well to keep us dry. The smells were rich with loam and leaf, and the beginning spring colors stood out against moss and tree bark. A red mushroom shaped like a small tulip caught my eye. Little prince’s-pine moss that worked well for diapers spurted up from old logs, and there were leaves that looked like reindeer horns and bore the same color. I wished I knew the name of every single one. Perhaps I’d make that a school lesson with Karl Ruge. These small treasures of the landscape made the day a gift.
When we reached the river ford, I had to put the children in the little boat we kept there, stake the mule, then row the boat and the babies across the stream. Once I’d have lost my breakfast at the mere thought of being on the river at all, but now it was part of who I was, this calculating where to put the boat in and imagining where I’d take it out on the other side. Sometimes we got spun around in the current, but I knew where I was headed and kept my eye on that certain tree or log to keep me ever forward.
Once on the other side, I left Andy to look after Kate, grateful for the moment that she was occupied and sitting while I rowed back to the other side. I unstaked the mule, tied his rope to the boat, then once again made my way across the swift-flowing stream. I docked the boat, untied the mule, loaded him back up and off we went, knowing we’d be repeating the event the next day.
We’d spend the night with my in-laws. We rode along the trail, clopped through one or two little streams that appeared in the spring. Blackberry vines threatened the trail; moss-thickened branches hung from the big cedars, forcing us to keep watch and for me to duck, but still there was time for musing. My in-laws loved seeing the children, and I know they missed them, but my mother-in-law never failed to say things to the children that I knew were meant for me. “We hardly ever see you, Andrew. What’s your mother doing that she can’t come visit more often, hmm?” Or to Kate, as my daughter sat on her knee, “Why, your little hands feel cold. Didn’t your mother put gloves on you when you traveled? Oma will warm them up.” She’d kiss my daughter’s hands and I’d feel the layers of guilt flatten me out like the batter of a cake.
I countered those negative anticipations by remembering that today I’d see my friend Sarah Woodard when I traveled north, and she was the reason I headed out early. She was the pearl in the bottom of this oyster. Sustaining friendships has a cost attached. This one meant managing two children and a mule and a rowboat on a swollen stream and enduring the disappointments of my children’s grandparents in order to spend a few moments with Sarah and Sam.
On the Keils’ birthday, I rode the mile or so beyond the stockade to invite the Woodards to our event. The foliage was thick enough that my in-laws wouldn’t see me riding by. Sometimes Sam and Sarah attended our extended-family events, though usually not on a Friday. Ach, such a poor time for a celebration!
At Sarah’s, I unloaded the children and Andy scampered toward the Woodards’ dog, who lapped his face in happy recognition. I received Sarah’s surprised hug, watched as she lifted Kate into her arms while I set a tub of goat cheese on her table. The cheese was tart and aged; the way I knew she liked it. In return, she gave me butter and eggs and we spent a few hours catching up, discovering what news she had about the territory.
After Kate fell asleep I asked Sarah if she knew about Christian being named the territorial marshal and being elected to the legislature.
“Oh yes,” she said.
“He never told me,” I said.
She pondered for a bit, then said, “Men are like that sometimes. They don’t let you notice who they are. They think it’s prideful.”
“Ja, prideful,” I said, deciding then that Christian didn’t want to set a bad example for me by enjoying his honor. Or maybe he thought I’d dote on him, tell it to others as though it were my honor. I didn’t think of myself as a woman who always made sure that others knew of her husband’s goodness, but maybe Christian thought I was. “I wouldn’t have gossiped about him,” I said.
“No. You don’t gossip. Your mind is too busy thinking.” She paused. “He maybe didn’t want to worry you. The marshals have to enforce the laws and the legislators make them and, well, with Governor Stevens, it can be unpredictable. That man hates all ‘evil-disposed persons’ as he calls the Indians and anyone who disagrees with him. At least the martial law’s been lifted.”
Christian had been carrying this responsibility on his shoulders, too, and never said a word to me.
“Maybe he thought he had told you,” Sarah said. She smiled. “Sometimes that happens between Sam and me. He thinks because everyone knows that I must know too.”
“These men, so complicated,” I sighed.
“While we women are as easy to see through as glass.”
We both laughed at that, and I was reminded again that journeying to visit Sarah was worth the river crossing and the little irritations I’d find later with my in-laws.
“So, here you are,” my father-in-law announced when I arrived just after the midday meal. The table would be filled again as more people joined us so I didn’t feel badly that they were just finishing up as we arrived. “We celebrate Herr Keil’s birthday.”
“And Louisa’s,” I added as I handed Kate to my mother-in-law and stepped down off the mule. Andy had already slipped off the back of the animal and missed the swish of the mule’s tail as he jumped aside then ran to his favorite uncle, Boshie.
“You almost missed the festivities, Emma,” my mother-in-law said. “Did you have trouble with the mule?”
“Nein. I went over to invite the Woodards. I hadn’t seen Sarah for so long.”
“Ja, you don’t get up much this way. Not even on New Year’s Eve this year. Too bad.” She paused as she cleared a pan of cake from the table. “You missed some time with your husband by coming so late.”
“What? Christian is here?”
“Was here,” Rudy said. “He came very early with the tidewaters but couldn’t stay. Still much work to do he said, and so he headed back.”
“He said to tell you he’d be home before too many days,” Boshie said.
“He missed seeing the children,” my mother-in-law noted. She smiled at Andy. “His housekeeper brought fresh clams that we finished right off. So good.”
What was wrong with Christian? Why wouldn’t he have told me, sent a message at least that he was coming? I suppose he couldn’t have. It was an impulsive visit made because he had some moments free and the river agreed with his plan.
“I guess he knew we’d be celebrating Wilhelm’s birthday,” Martin said.
“And Louisa’s,” I added, again. Who was this housekeeper?
“Ja, hers too,” Henry acknowledged. “So he assumed you’d be here.”
Rudy told me that Christian had almost set out to find us, thinking something might have gone wrong, but the rest of the family assured them I could take care of myself and would be along shortly.
“None of us ever figured you’d pass right by and go visit Sarah first,” my mother-in-law said. “That’s too bad, isn’t it? I know he missed seeing the children.”
She’s already said that.
I felt sick. I missed my husband and regretted having the chance to see him and hold him if only for a moment. Why hadn’t I just stopped by before I went to Sarah’s? Well, I hadn’t wanted to get caught by the family and maybe not had a chance to see Sarah at all. I should have expected Christian might come since it was a festive day, one we always celebrated back in Bethel. But things were different here. My husband was a law enforcer and I
hadn’t been told of that! I swatted at a spider crawling up my skirt and sent the poor thing skittering past a distant stump.
Some of Christian’s brothers got out their instruments and played German marching tunes. They sang later and for a moment I was back in Bethel, swept away with the music. The women sewed awhile, then chattered until it was time to put out bowls of potatoes and deer meat and an array of Strudels using the berries of last summer. They invited me into their chatter, talking about their children’s antics or their latest success with a recipe or two. Christian’s youngest sister, Louisa, played with Kate and I was grateful. The day turned balmy and while clouds scudded across the treetops, it rained in little patches that sent us running for the stockade, our shawls wrapped tight around us. It was a pleasant day.
But I couldn’t let go of how I’d missed seeing Christian. The children too, as my mother-in-law reminded me. Why hadn’t he stayed just a little longer? I wondered if he often made little side trips that far upriver, but not far enough to reach his own home. The most annoying thing of all: that he had remembered Keil’s birthday and took the time to come celebrate it with his family but hadn’t waited around long enough to see his wife and children.
“Papa didn’t want to see us,” Andy said, leaning his head on my lap as I sat.
“Ja, he did.” I ran my fingers through the silkiness of Andy’s hair. “He just had work to do so he had to get back to the sea.”
“I wish he lived with us, Mama. I’d like a daddy around.”
“He lives with us,” I said. “He’ll be back before long. Summer is better. He can be home more often. He’s taking care of us.”
Even my son felt deserted. His father and I had agreed that we could manage the separations. I could kindle the fires alone in the morning; he’d bring home the resources we needed to see us through the winter. But Andy had no say in it. Ach, that was the way with children.
We finished the meal and I heard myself sighing more than once as the evening approached and we put the children to sleep. “Don’t let it upset you,” Mary Giesy told me. She sat down beside me on a stump chair, my oil lamp beside me. A breeze picked up, chilling the hair on my arms. I wouldn’t stay out here for long.
“What makes you think I’m upset?” I asked.
“Your hands tell,” Mary said. She nodded toward my fingers that had apparently been working on their own, my thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other.
“Ja, Andy heard everyone say that Christian was here but didn’t stay. He thinks that’s his fault.”
“I heard him,” Mary said. “But you got to see Sarah. That was a nice treat, wasn’t it?”
“It cost me seeing my husband. I chose something pleasurable, but had to pay the price. That seems to be my way.”
“Maybe not,” she said. She looked away.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She picked at a grass stem. The light of the lantern flickered against her face. We heard a swish above us. An owl settled in a tree. She wouldn’t look at me. She bit the side of her cheek. The night cast strange shadows. Or no …
“I’m just sorry I missed him.”
“I wonder how it was that Christian could have gone downriver without at least seeing your mule tied to the Woodards’ post. Surely he’d have stopped by when he saw the mule.”
“Ja,” I said. “That is a mystery.”
She cleared her throat. “You’re good at puzzles.” She stared at me.
I stared back. “Christian didn’t miss me, did he?” I said. “He never even came. You all just told me that to … tease me.”
“Don’t tell I said.” She leaned into me to whisper. “Rudy saw you riding by and he said we should play a trick on you, for wanting to spend more time with your friends than with us.”
“But that wasn’t it at all,” I said. “I had cheese to deliver and eggs to get and—”
“Emma, it’s me you’re talking to,” Mary said. I dropped my eyes. She did know the truth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell but you looked so miserable. And then I heard Andy leaning his head on your lap …”
“But why let me think about it all day?” I said. “Couldn’t they see too?”
“Not really. You hide your feelings pretty well. I just know you and I knew you’d feel awful about keeping Andy from his dad. So I had to give you a clue. They didn’t mean any harm, Emma, really they didn’t. And when you tell them you know, they’ll laugh and be as happy as anyone that you bested them and figured it out. They might accuse me of telling you, but—”
“But it’s cruel, just as they were laughing over Jack’s antics with that girl in the outhouse. They let Andy think his father didn’t want to see him.”
“They think of it as joking. They’ve been doing it to each other for years. Think of it as a … as a compliment that they involved you in an elaborate plan and each kept the secret. You were the center of it even though you didn’t know. Think of it that way and when you tell them, you’ll be the center again.”
“I won’t tell them. Let them feel miserable that they let their grandchild or nephew think his father didn’t wait for him. I’ll tell Andy but I’ll just let them live with their guilt. I’ll plan something … I’ll stir them up one day and they’ll see how it feels.”
“Oh, Emma, please. Don’t make this a big thing, now. Laugh with us. Don’t stand out in this.”
“It’s not a laughing matter,” I said. I stood up, my chin thrust out. “It was hurtful. If a woman can’t feel safe with her family, then who can she feel safe with?” I woke the children and we began a night ride home.
6
Louisa
“Food is the servant of the heart, Louisa,” Doctor tells me. “Bring them food that their hearts will be warmed.”
I hurry to serve. This is how we win new converts to the colony. I know that only men are permitted true recruitment, heading into other territories or states to invite people into our communal society, but we women contribute through our service and especially our food.
People in Portland pay the doctor in food. Wild turkey, venison, chickens, eggs, milk. The latter we don’t need so much of since we brought our own neat milk cows across the continent, their little neck bells ringing as they ripped at grass. But several died on the journey west and now we are sending a herd north to Willapa, so perhaps we’ll welcome payment in cream.
Chris Giesy made the request. After all, he told my husband in his last letter, the cows had been planned for the Willapa Valley and there is good grazing on the prairies and the Giesys know how to run a dairy. They just need the milk cows that my husband sent to Portland for safekeeping during the winter last. Chris thinks there might be some contracts to be had with the Russians for cheese and butter, sending the produce north by ship. Apparently the British did something like this. They never allowed their people to own cows; they were always working for the British, to be sure they met their contracts. I think Chris added that about the British to make sure we knew this wasn’t some wild scheme of his. Or Emma’s.
Chris has a cross to bear with his Emma.
So Jack and some of the other young men who like adventure will take the cows north. Jonathan Wagner remains at Aurora Mills. He is helping with the accounting of the new buildings going up there, some using milled boards and not just logs. So responsible, that Jonathan, though I imagine his little nephew Andy would like to meet him. Well, maybe on the Fourth of July they will all come this way to celebrate, though I doubt Emma will ever leave that place, not even for a visit. To do so would be to admit the error of her ways in staying there. She’d have to confess to her part in the separating of our colony. She must come to understand that we women have no real say in the colony life. We are like that Dred Scott, who we learn is not a free man after all. The chief justice has ruled and the Missouri Compromise has been repealed. Slaves, like women, have no voice. It is the way of things.
So I serve meals to people the doctor brings home with him. B
y their clothing they look important, maybe investors in our colony efforts. The doctor says they are kind men, just ordinary travelers seeking new adventures. But they speak loudly as they tell of Yakima uprisings in bloody detail. They scare the children with their wide-flung hands, and words, like rifle blasts, boom out. I recognize more of their English words each day. Virginians they are and Americans too, who keep telling their stories of the Indians and their trials on the journey across.
As I watch them eat, standing aside to notice when platters need refilling, I think about our crossing. We had no trouble with the Indians, and I think people knew that, so they asked to travel with us. But like these men, I don’t think they shared our expression of faith. They used our faith as safety within the confines of our trouble-free journey. I wonder if that is the interest of these American men who see our colony as an easy way to live, not having to work too hard because there will always be food and shelter even if they act lazy. They misunderstand. We Germans are never lazy. And if the war comes, I think our boys will go, if asked, though this is something my husband and I have never spoken of. Might these men I serve have sons they wish to harbor in our colony?
We Germans must always be prepared to be hospitable, not question the motives of others, that’s what the doctor says. I pour corn juice into their tins, and they nod, raise the cup as though to toast me as I step back into the shadows.
My husband has a big heart, inviting strangers in. Once, on the journey across, a Sioux brave rode in with his two sons. The doctor invited them to eat at our table too, along with Americans. Because he is so good to communicate even with those of another language, the doctor understood that these Indians were reluctant to eat for fear there would not be enough for all of us. The doctor assured them they were guests and should eat first, that there was plenty for his wife and children. My children did go hungry that night but for a worthy cause.