Virgilia touched her cheeks. It had been months since she’d seen herself in a mirror or a reflection in a still pool. She started to compliment Nellie but then decided she didn’t need to. She could love and do good just by sitting beside her.
“Why that’s generous of you, Child. Thank you.” Virgilia had offered to carry anything her gramo might want. “My memoir. Funny that I’d say that was so important to me. John’s violin, though how you’ll manage that on your horse with whatever else you have is beyond me. But you’ll find a way, no doubt. I’ve watched you, Virgilia, and been so pleased to see you help me and your mama. You look after your sisters good too and take such close care of Nellie, even when she stole your beau.”
“Oh Gramo, he was never really my beau. I wanted it to be so, but that didn’t make it real.” They knelt beside Pherne’s trunk that had been salvaged. It would have to stay behind now. “Food seems to be the most important thing to take with us.”
Tabby wondered if for years to come the youngest boys would stuff bread—whenever they had it—into their waistband pockets so they’d never again be without.
“What about these?” Virgilia held up that pair of wedding gloves in the softest white leather.
Tabby put them on. “I wore them when I married and when we went off on our own, John and I.” A little stone or a button nestled at the tip of her ring finger. She’d have to remove that. “I doubt these are essential.”
“But they’re full of memories. Happy ones.”
“They are that.” She turned her palms over, remembering. “I may as well keep them.”
“Maybe when I marry I can wear them.”
Tabby leaned over and squeezed her cheek.
“But let John carry his own violin. He can tie the case onto his saddle. He needs to start taking care of himself.”
They moved out, on horseback or walking, driving the oxen and cows forward. The end of the scattering train dragged behind them. Before long, small cabins appeared through the timbers, set at the edge of great meadows of green, dusted in the morning with frost. The freshness of the air invigorated. No one was home at the cabins; no provisions had been left either. Fir trees rose three hundred feet into the sky and oaks kept mist from the animals as they dozed beneath branches. Despite how destitute they were, Tabby felt her spirits lift. She found joy with the changing landscape, joy at seeing evidence of civilization. Joy at the way people offered help. Why, several days forward, while crossing a little creek called Soap, they’d passed by a cabin and a black-skinned woman came out to greet them. She offered up a hunk of cheese, the first they’d had since leaving Missouri. A baby sat on the woman’s hip, a quilt wrapped around her. Orus and Virgil spoke to her man—he couldn’t have been her husband, she didn’t suppose, as he was white—and conferred about any kin the Pringles and Browns might have known back in Missouri. The cheese providers were from there too. Orus said slavery wasn’t allowed, though there were laws against free blacks being in the territory. It was a strange blend of people in this Oregon country.
The rain continued, wind and sleet its constant companions. Nellie’s laugh hadn’t been heard for days. Tabby wondered if she might have overheard words about the snow being heavy in the Sierras and feared her parents were there. But they might have joined a train going to the Columbia and stopped at the Whitman Mission for the winter. Many settlers did, Orus said. She’d have a talk with her. No sense brooding over what the girl couldn’t control. She had to keep her focus on what she had now and what she might want for her future.
John, in the cold and wind, had renewed moments of strange thinking. One night they’d made camp and Judson had to go find him because he’d wandered off “looking for his ship.” Tabby remembered getting him water and believing that had helped his scattered ramblings. She insisted he drink more. They really needed to get to permanent shelter, and she guessed he might still need her help. She would assume responsibility for John whatever their relationship. She’d talked him into this whole affair. Judson, too.
Nearing what she thought must be close to Christmas Day, Orus told her they were a day or two away from his forest grove. The creak of his saddle leather as they rode beside each other broke the silence. “Scott will lead you. Keep on this trail and you’ll be fine. I’m going on ahead to alert Lavina and others to your arrival.”
“Isn’t there a settlement closer?” Tabby asked him. “Those trappers we got the horses from mentioned Salem. They said there’s a mission school started by the Methodists, even a sawmill. The Methodists will have a church. Does your place in that grove have a church?”
“Congregational. Quite a few independent missionaries there, in fact.”
“Hmm.” She straightened her bonnet. She was ready to stop. Here. Now. “There’s a ferry for the crossing into Salem.”
“Dr. White served in Salem.” Orus stared ahead before speaking again. “I thought you might want to see Lavina and the children. Wasn’t your coming all about being with me and mine?”
“My coming was about not being left behind.”
Orus stiffened.
Was that true? Sometimes she wondered why she said such things, words that asked for affirmation but that she tossed aside like so much old bread. And after discovering how precious old bread could be too. Maybe now that Orus could see she had the same nine lives as a cat, he wanted her close by. The thought warmed her. But not enough to take the chill off his next words.
“I should have figured you’d head wherever Pherne went. It was always about her.”
“That’s not so. I love you all equally. And I haven’t decided about whether to go to Salem or not. Do you feel that strongly about my coming to your forest place?”
“Not really.” He looked away as though the timbers needed his attention.
She deserved that. “Oh. I thought when you said—”
“I’d have to build you a cabin. Takes a lot of work. There’s no room in mine.” His eyes never met hers.
“Right. And John . . . well, you saw him. His bouts of delirium are unpredictable. I think getting him to shelter must be our most important task.” Deciding whether to stay with Pherne’s family or go with Orus was really about John’s health.
“Pringle suggesting Salem, is he?”
“There might have been some words about it, yes, but you know I make up my own mind.”
“You always have.” He pulled his horse up beside her. “I want you on the Tualatin Plains, in my grove. Just so you know, Marm. But not if you come because you’re pretending affection for me and mine. Just one time I’d like to see the real Tabitha Moffat Brown and not this ‘I always care for everyone the same’ when I know for a fact you don’t.” His horse startled at Orus’s kick and lurched forward, taking her son and any retort out of Tabby’s range.
Had she been so difficult for her sons to be around? Manthano had invited her to stay back in Missouri, hadn’t he? But early on, he’d moved away and seemed more attached to Catherine’s family than the Browns. Why else had he changed his mind about even going to Oregon as a family? Maybe because she was going along?
Since the birth of her children, she’d kept her chicks together. They’d lived like peas in a pod—except for Manthano those later years—and she assumed it was because they liked being together: one big extended family. Pherne had discussed crossing the river to Salem. But Orus wanted them all near him. What did she want surrounding her as she made her new way? To go with Orus or stay close to Pherne? Or be with John? She was so tired of choosing.
“Go or stay.” They halted close to the ferry, and Tabby and Sarelia sat on a blanket under a spreading oak while they waited for the decision about following Orus or heading to Salem. Sun warmed their faces. “Do I set my feet on Salem’s ground or wing my way to the forest grove? That’s my dilemma.”
“What’s a dilem-i-mina, Gramo?”
“It’s a choice, a troubled one. And I’ll wait for a time to write about it. A memoir needs reflection,
a time between the deed and what it might mean. I’m still too close to write about being sent ahead with your uncle John and what that meant to everyone’s survival. Go or stay? That one was a tough one.”
“I didn’t want you to go.”
She patted Sarelia’s arm, the material so thin she could almost see the child’s veins through it. She pulled her closer. “I went because that was what I could still give to my family: one less mouth to feed. One less burden for your parents to carry. It was a sacrifice we could make in our declining years, and truth be known, it might have been the last loving thing that I could do.”
“Gramo, I’m getting cold.”
Tabby pulled the quilt around them tighter as she thought of what they’d been through and what came next.
“We had a good life in St. Charles. And so we will again in Oregon. I feel it in my bones, Sarelia—bones that have not yet faced their greatest challenge.”
Sarelia responded with a snore.
27
Resting Place
An afternoon of balm with shafts of sunlight through a pewter-colored sky greeted them. The world here looked green and the Willamette River ran blue, unlike the brown Platte and Missouri they’d left behind. Every shade of green covered the ground around them: fields, riverbanks, the centers of the trails they rode marked by sturdy grass. Even tree trunks had moss, as did the shingles of the ferryman’s shelter. The landscape promised spring even in December and with a sky as gray as the bottom of a duck.
“Orus is right.” Judson’s voice held firm. “It’ll be easier to find a place for Uncle John and you and Nellie if I’m not with you.” Judson used his penknife, one of his few possessions, to scrape at his fingernails, though the dirt beneath them appeared permanently attached. The activity kept his eyes from meeting Tabby’s. “Besides, Nellie will need to look after Beatrice, won’t she, Mrs. Brown?”
She could look after her own chicken. But she could see the boy needed a bridge to say good-bye to Nellie. “We’ll find ourselves a place, don’t you worry. I lived in a glebe long enough to know that people don’t hesitate to ask the pastor for all levels of assistance, including a roof over their heads and food for their bellies. And with Beatrice, I’m bringing eggs.” She looked at him with reassuring eyes. “You can learn a trade in Salem, Judson. You don’t have to go with Orus.”
“Not that I’m not grateful for all you’ve done for me, Mrs. Brown. I am. But Orus says I can blacksmith with him and learn harness-making too. I think it’s best I go with Mr. Brown.”
“You said ‘I.’ Does that mean you’re not taking me with you?” Nellie’s question came as she, Tabby, and Judson stood by the ferry that would take the Pringles across to Salem. They had discussed this and Tabby thought it was all decided. Nellie and Judson and John would go with her and the Pringles into Salem and Orus on to the plains to his forest grove. Why couldn’t people just stick with what they’d said?
Orus and Pherne and the rest of the Pringle clan stood off to the side, talking with the ferryman with no signs of animosity. Tabby was grateful for that. She didn’t want her children feuding with each other—or with her. They no longer had their rented horses, as Orus would take them to the rendezvous spot where the Frenchmen and their Indian wives would pick them up. John still rode Schooner, the old horse as faithful as a dog. And Tabby rode Virgil’s horse while he walked with his sons loading the oxen and “American cows,” as the ferryman called them, onto the wooden craft. A light breeze picked up her horse’s mane as Tabby listened to Judson and Nellie separate.
Tabby wasn’t certain she’d even heard Orus say those things earlier that spoke to his feelings of rejection or jealousy or just plain not understanding what it was like for a mother to be forced to choose between her children’s wishes. Maybe their emaciated states affected her brain.
Pherne didn’t need her and hadn’t asked her to trail to Salem with them. Neither did Orus require what little Tabby had to offer in her aging and now pecuniary state. He’d always managed without her. Her family looked exhausted except for Orus. Eyes sunken in, shoulders stooped, and each had lost more than twenty pounds. How were they even paying the ferryman? Hadn’t she come west to be her own keeper, not to burden either of her children? But beyond that, what? It probably was best for Judson to leave them here and go with Orus. With her he’d be sailing without a good rudder.
“Mrs. Brown.” Nellie touched her arm.
“My mind’s been taking a trip, I’m afraid.”
She hoped Nellie could see the value in deciding for herself too—after prayer and consultation, of course. She said as much to both Judson and Nellie as Virgilia approached.
“I’ll come for you, I really will,” Judson told Nellie. “But I need to make a place for myself and then you.”
Nellie’s eyes watered. The girl held her hand to her chest, fingers at her throat. She did that when she pondered, worried.
“You can live with us,” Virgilia told her. “Papa’s talked with the ferryman and he knows of some people willing to take us.” That child could be so quick to rescue.
Tabby moved her walking stick to her other hand, then linked Virgilia’s arm through hers. “Let’s let them talk alone. Nellie knows where we’ll be.”
“I’m getting tired of these good-byes, Gramo,” Virgilia said as they walked toward the ferry.
“Good-byes are the bookends to hellos. There’s always a little space between them we hope is filled with wisdom. Let’s think about that as we get ready for whatever awaits us in Salem.”
She’d miss Judson. He was a good companion for John. She hadn’t even conferred with the Captain, but it would be best if he came with her. They’d started out together and would finish that way, though not as husband and wife. Hopefully with regular food and warmth, John would return to his old story-telling self. Judson needed to make his new start, become independent. Why, he could claim free land here on his own when he came of age. Each of the men could. The future held promise so long as one could stay alive for it. Wasn’t that the Oregon draw, getting a new start—and keeping the territory for the grateful government who gave them free land to do it?
They sauntered toward the Pringles, Virgilia’s arm around her. Orus tapped his hat at Tabby and his niece as they approached. “Marm, Virgilia. Looks like you’re set. I wish you all safe travel.”
“More, we’ll need a roof,” Virgil said. “We’re grateful to you, Orus.” The men shook hands.
Tabby stomped her walking stick, then held it up in one hand. “I’ll think of you every step I take, Son.” Orus grunted. “I’m headed to the nearest church. They’ll take us in.”
“And wonder forever why they did.” Orus laughed as he spoke.
Nellie ran toward her then and Tabby opened her arms to the girl, her face wet with tears. She had work to do, Tabby decided. Maybe not far in her future, but right now she knew her Oregon promise would be met in comforting this child.
Tabby had chosen neither the Pringles nor Orus, though she doubted Orus would see it that way. She had chosen those who needed her most, Nellie and John. She would trust the Lord in the details of just how that would all work out.
The ferry lurched forward, animals and people huddled between the rails. They could see where they headed, but the fast-flowing Willamette took them, jolting them downstream. Tabby held her breath until the chain caught, and the oxen on the far side strained to bring the loaded craft back upriver and onto the opposite shore. They didn’t approach shore directly, but the ferryman and his animals worked as a team. Maybe that was like any step forward. A choice, then uncertainty, then a momentary fear of all being lost, and finally, with the aid of others, a place to land safely ashore.
Tabby and John mounted up while Nellie walked with Virgilia ahead. She carried Beatrice in her cage. Buddy, skinny and limping, made his way too. The boys drove the sheep and Durhams as the women rode toward a livery sign. The horse’s hooves sucked mud. At least it wasn’t raining and the air
smelled of leaves and wet earth and carried a freshness with it. Tabby felt that tinge of excitement that comes with a decision made and needing implementation.
Once in the settlement they could see that the streets were deserted. Was it a Sunday? She had forgotten to ask Virgil, who kept the diary with the dates. As they made their way through the muddy street, milled-lumber buildings stood on either side. From the sawmill, or were those old wagon boards put to new and better use?
Maybe no one would take them in, as bedraggled and trail-worn as they looked. Virgil got to the livery before them and went inside. Tabby looked about for a cross on a building.
“Over there, John. Let’s put our heels into our horses and see if we can find the glebe.”
She rode in that direction, calling after Nellie and John to follow. “If nothing else, we’ll thank God for giving us life to arrive here.” Nellie nodded but she still sniffled. Tabby sniffled a bit herself, wiped her nose with the back of her glove. That button stuck in there. She’d have to get it out.
As she started to pull her glove off, John raised his voice. “Visitor, starboard.”
A short gentleman with graying hair and bushy eyebrows black as night approached down the boardwalk. A red vest winked from beneath his suit. His face was shaved, no beard but a mustache, and he wore a bowler-type hat.
“You look lost, if I might say so.”
“We’ve just arrived from Missouri,” Tabby said.
“You’re part of the southern-route party that received relief? My little flock provided some of that food.”
“We are, sir. And we thank you. We’re seeking the glebe.”
He grinned; the mustache ends curled up and widened the smile. “Haven’t heard that term for a pastor’s home in years. You must be from New England?”