Like a River Glorious
Page 66
She turns to face me.
“May I take the extra biscuits today? My escort will enjoy them.”
It’s the only thing I can think of to bribe Wilhelm with. There is no reaction in her lovely features that I can see, but she takes a basket from the shelf in front of her and plops it onto the table before me.
I peel back the linen to find a whole mess of warm biscuits. More importantly, my gold sense sharpens, becomes a harsh prickle in my throat.
Following the sense, I reach inside, tunneling through the biscuits. Something cool, flat, and round jumps into my hand.
I pull it out. It’s a gold eagle coin, worth five dollars. It should be enough to tempt Wilhelm away from some of his laudanum. This is better than anything I would have come up with. Once again, I feel like I’m running behind and trying to catch up.
“Thank you for the biscuits,” I say. Mary gives me nothing but silence in response and returns to her chores.
I have money and biscuits to buy laudanum. Now I need to figure out a way to smuggle gunpowder out of the mine.
This dress Hiram insists I wear has no pockets. Maybe Mary has an apron or pinafore I could borrow. Then again, it would seem very suspicious if I suddenly started wearing a pinafore. Also, I have a feeling that covering up this dress in any way would anger my uncle beyond reason.
My new, dainty boots are too tiny and tight to slip anything inside. The dress’s high collar prevents me from sneaking anything down my bodice.
Perhaps these sleeves . . . I consider them a moment. The lace might disguise any bulges, especially in the murk of the mine. Daylight, however, would be another thing entirely. And it would have to be a very small package of gunpowder to fit under a sleeve.
I sigh. I don’t even know exactly what I’ll be smuggling out of there.
The air in the cabin is colder than usual, so I open the box stove and toss in some fresh wood. It hisses and pops a little—the wood wasn’t quite cured—as I close the door to the stove and begin to pace.
Frost edges the glass of the front window. Winter will be here soon. The Indians in the stockade will be in even worse trouble then. Our thanksgiving plan, whatever it is, has to work. So I need to do my part.
If I had a needle and thread, I could cut a piece of fabric from the old blue dress and create a pocket for the new one. I’m not a proficient seamstress, but Mama taught me the basics, and I’m sure I could wrangle something.
Maybe I can get sewing supplies from the Chinese headman, though my belly churns to imagine talking to a stranger who offered my uncle a bride price for me. Would it bother my uncle if I acquired a needle? He won’t even let a butter knife into the house.
I continue pacing, to my bedroom and back, over the small braid rug, past the writing desk. Something above the writing desk catches my eye.
It’s a small pelt, stretched along the wall for decoration. It was taken from a snowshoe rabbit with winter-white fur.
Annabelle Smith back home always wore a rabbit-fur muff in winter. It was one of her prize possessions.
Could my solution possibly be so easy?
I step onto my uncle’s writing chair and reach for the pelt. It’s nailed to the wall, but with patience and care, I’m able to work it off the nails without tearing larger holes.
I’m taking a big risk, grabbing the pelt without asking permission first. Surely my uncle won’t deny me a warm muff for my hands? A lovely rabbit-fur muff is fashionable. A white one, even more so. I will simply tell him that my hands were cold, and I thought the bright fur would be beautiful against my blue calico dress.
Better yet, I’ll tell him that Mama used to wear a white rabbit-fur muff.
Guilt twinges in my chest. I’ve become a no-good liar, and I’m using my parents’ good names to do it. It doesn’t set right.
But what other choice do I have?
I can’t make a proper muff of it without needle, thread, and batting. I’d need a nail or awl too, to punch the leather, and I can’t imagine my uncle granting me these things. For now, I’ll have to be content with simply letting it drape over my hands. It will be more than enough to conceal a bit of gunpowder.
Before donning the makeshift muff, I step outside the door with the basket of biscuits in one hand, my golden half eagle in the other. Wilhelm stands there as always, his breath frosting in the air.
“Good morning, Wilhelm,” I say, offering a biscuit.
He grabs it with a quick nod of thanks. Do they never feed this huge man? Maybe he just really loves biscuits.
“I’m sorry you have to stand out here in the cold,” I tell him. “I’d invite you inside, but Mr. Westfall would probably whip me if I did.”
Wilhelm gives me a tiny, sheepish shrug.
I’m putting off the inevitable, and there’s no easy way to ask what I must. I just have to do it. Before I can think about it a moment more, I blurt, “Do you have any laudanum to spare?”
His lips part in surprise.
“I’m having a terrible time sleeping,” I add quickly. “It’s all the noise of camp. That and my uncle always stays up so late. When he finally goes to sleep, he snores like a rumbling locomotive, and now I’m exhausted every morning. I could pay you. I have five dollars. It’s all the money I have, but it’s yours. Also, biscuits. I’ll bring you biscuits every morning.”
His eyes narrow, and he studies my face. I wish I had even the tiniest clue what he’s thinking.
“Biscuits with honey?” I add.
Of course he says nothing, just stares steadily, breathing in and out through his nose.
“Please, Wilhelm. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
He looks away, as if the answer to my problem lies in the distant, snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada. His scarred lips twist in thought.
Five dollars is enough to buy several bottles of laudanum. At least it would have been back east. I know from visiting Mormon Island that everything is more expensive out here, but it still should be enough to buy at least two.
I reach out with the half eagle. It flashes in the morning light. “I only need . . .” I almost say one bottle, but I don’t know what Jefferson and the others have planned. “Two bottles. You can keep the rest of the money for yourself.”
Finally his gaze returns to me, and he snatches the coin from my hand. There’s something strange in his eyes. I’d mark it for gold fever, had we been discussing gold.
“Thank you,” I say, more than a little relieved. I hand him the basket of biscuits. “Take as many as you like. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“May I take the extra biscuits today? My escort will enjoy them.”
It’s the only thing I can think of to bribe Wilhelm with. There is no reaction in her lovely features that I can see, but she takes a basket from the shelf in front of her and plops it onto the table before me.
I peel back the linen to find a whole mess of warm biscuits. More importantly, my gold sense sharpens, becomes a harsh prickle in my throat.
Following the sense, I reach inside, tunneling through the biscuits. Something cool, flat, and round jumps into my hand.
I pull it out. It’s a gold eagle coin, worth five dollars. It should be enough to tempt Wilhelm away from some of his laudanum. This is better than anything I would have come up with. Once again, I feel like I’m running behind and trying to catch up.
“Thank you for the biscuits,” I say. Mary gives me nothing but silence in response and returns to her chores.
I have money and biscuits to buy laudanum. Now I need to figure out a way to smuggle gunpowder out of the mine.
This dress Hiram insists I wear has no pockets. Maybe Mary has an apron or pinafore I could borrow. Then again, it would seem very suspicious if I suddenly started wearing a pinafore. Also, I have a feeling that covering up this dress in any way would anger my uncle beyond reason.
My new, dainty boots are too tiny and tight to slip anything inside. The dress’s high collar prevents me from sneaking anything down my bodice.
Perhaps these sleeves . . . I consider them a moment. The lace might disguise any bulges, especially in the murk of the mine. Daylight, however, would be another thing entirely. And it would have to be a very small package of gunpowder to fit under a sleeve.
I sigh. I don’t even know exactly what I’ll be smuggling out of there.
The air in the cabin is colder than usual, so I open the box stove and toss in some fresh wood. It hisses and pops a little—the wood wasn’t quite cured—as I close the door to the stove and begin to pace.
Frost edges the glass of the front window. Winter will be here soon. The Indians in the stockade will be in even worse trouble then. Our thanksgiving plan, whatever it is, has to work. So I need to do my part.
If I had a needle and thread, I could cut a piece of fabric from the old blue dress and create a pocket for the new one. I’m not a proficient seamstress, but Mama taught me the basics, and I’m sure I could wrangle something.
Maybe I can get sewing supplies from the Chinese headman, though my belly churns to imagine talking to a stranger who offered my uncle a bride price for me. Would it bother my uncle if I acquired a needle? He won’t even let a butter knife into the house.
I continue pacing, to my bedroom and back, over the small braid rug, past the writing desk. Something above the writing desk catches my eye.
It’s a small pelt, stretched along the wall for decoration. It was taken from a snowshoe rabbit with winter-white fur.
Annabelle Smith back home always wore a rabbit-fur muff in winter. It was one of her prize possessions.
Could my solution possibly be so easy?
I step onto my uncle’s writing chair and reach for the pelt. It’s nailed to the wall, but with patience and care, I’m able to work it off the nails without tearing larger holes.
I’m taking a big risk, grabbing the pelt without asking permission first. Surely my uncle won’t deny me a warm muff for my hands? A lovely rabbit-fur muff is fashionable. A white one, even more so. I will simply tell him that my hands were cold, and I thought the bright fur would be beautiful against my blue calico dress.
Better yet, I’ll tell him that Mama used to wear a white rabbit-fur muff.
Guilt twinges in my chest. I’ve become a no-good liar, and I’m using my parents’ good names to do it. It doesn’t set right.
But what other choice do I have?
I can’t make a proper muff of it without needle, thread, and batting. I’d need a nail or awl too, to punch the leather, and I can’t imagine my uncle granting me these things. For now, I’ll have to be content with simply letting it drape over my hands. It will be more than enough to conceal a bit of gunpowder.
Before donning the makeshift muff, I step outside the door with the basket of biscuits in one hand, my golden half eagle in the other. Wilhelm stands there as always, his breath frosting in the air.
“Good morning, Wilhelm,” I say, offering a biscuit.
He grabs it with a quick nod of thanks. Do they never feed this huge man? Maybe he just really loves biscuits.
“I’m sorry you have to stand out here in the cold,” I tell him. “I’d invite you inside, but Mr. Westfall would probably whip me if I did.”
Wilhelm gives me a tiny, sheepish shrug.
I’m putting off the inevitable, and there’s no easy way to ask what I must. I just have to do it. Before I can think about it a moment more, I blurt, “Do you have any laudanum to spare?”
His lips part in surprise.
“I’m having a terrible time sleeping,” I add quickly. “It’s all the noise of camp. That and my uncle always stays up so late. When he finally goes to sleep, he snores like a rumbling locomotive, and now I’m exhausted every morning. I could pay you. I have five dollars. It’s all the money I have, but it’s yours. Also, biscuits. I’ll bring you biscuits every morning.”
His eyes narrow, and he studies my face. I wish I had even the tiniest clue what he’s thinking.
“Biscuits with honey?” I add.
Of course he says nothing, just stares steadily, breathing in and out through his nose.
“Please, Wilhelm. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
He looks away, as if the answer to my problem lies in the distant, snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada. His scarred lips twist in thought.
Five dollars is enough to buy several bottles of laudanum. At least it would have been back east. I know from visiting Mormon Island that everything is more expensive out here, but it still should be enough to buy at least two.
I reach out with the half eagle. It flashes in the morning light. “I only need . . .” I almost say one bottle, but I don’t know what Jefferson and the others have planned. “Two bottles. You can keep the rest of the money for yourself.”
Finally his gaze returns to me, and he snatches the coin from my hand. There’s something strange in his eyes. I’d mark it for gold fever, had we been discussing gold.
“Thank you,” I say, more than a little relieved. I hand him the basket of biscuits. “Take as many as you like. I’ll be back in a moment.”
