Blood of Pioneers Read online

  “Isn’t Maddy coming down?” Justin asked, cramming his mouth with one last bite of toast.

  “She can smell breakfast,” Hannah grouched. “Let her miss it if she chooses.” Hannah was none too happy about sharing her room again.

  “She isn’t feeling well this morning. Let her be,” Mama answered.

  Mama always did have a blind spot for Maddy. Maybe it was because Maddy managed to keep her dresses unsoiled and her bows crisply tied. Or because she could make tiny, even stitches while Hannah’s sampler looked like the cat sewed it. Perhaps it was because Maddy could make the shuttle on the loom fly nearly as fast as Mama.

  Pa said it was because they were two peas in a pod. “Mama can remember acting and feeling just like your sister when she was a little girl. You’re the one she can’t understand, Peanut,” he had said, swinging Hannah high in the air to make her squeal. “She just doesn’t know what to do with a wild Indian child.”

  Whatever the reason, Hannah was content to shadow Pa.

  Mama rose from the table and tied her hair up in an old handkerchief. She looked too fragile to work the fields. As if on signal, Joel pushed his plate back and headed for the barn.

  “Hannah, wash the dishes then strain the milk and start the wash. Several shirts in my basket need mending. Also, there should be enough eggs to bring to town. Please put on a dress before you go. And tell Maddy to have lunch ready at noon.

  “Justin, the girls will need wood split and brought inside. And fetch water for the washtub, too, please.”

  Still issuing orders, Mama went out the door with the boys, and Hannah set to work in the quiet house. First, she lined a sieve with cheesecloth and poured the milk through. Then she transferred it to shallow, scalded pans and brought them down to the cellar to let the cream rise. On her return, two buckets of water waited for her beside the stove. She set them on to boil and went in search of Maddy.

  Her sister still lay in bed, the sheet pulled up to her nose.

  “You’ve gotten lazy living in town.” Hannah yanked at the covers none too gently. “Mama said you need to make lunch.”

  Maddy grabbed the sheet and rolled over. “Leave me alone. That’s not for hours.”

  “Do you always sleep till eight o’clock? You missed breakfast.”

  “Thank goodness. I could hardly stomach the smell. Tell Mama to make corn mush tomorrow.”

  “Tell her yourself.”

  Hannah pulled off her trousers and considered her sister. Ever since she could remember, Maddy had tried to manipulate the rest of them into doing things for her. And not just little things, either. Seth usually told her to stuff it, but once she had Joel cleaning the chicken coop in her place because chickens “gave her a rash.” Justin, being youngest, was often pressed into service as well. But because they were both girls and were always being lumped together, Hannah had to endure more of Maddy than she felt was fair.

  Hannah tugged an old dress over her head and struggled with the row of buttons. Then she saw a glimmer of opportunity. “Mama also said you need to help with the laundry, but if you’re sick you can do the mending. There’s a whole basketful downstairs.” Hannah despised sewing.

  Maddy moaned. “Did Mama make coffee?”

  “You hate coffee.”

  “Is there any on the stove?” she asked, reaching for a wrap.

  “Not anymore. I put wash water on.”

  “You didn’t throw it out, did you?” It was more plea than question. Hannah shook her head.

  Maddy relaxed. “Good. I’ll do the mending. After I get some coffee. Will you bring me a cup?” she wheedled.

  Hannah ignored her. “I’m off to the store.”

  “Wait!” Maddy rummaged in a tiny coin purse and pulled out a nickel. “Get me some soda crackers, will you?”

  Chapter 3

  Scorched, yellow grass scratched at Hannah’s bare feet. Behind her, the sun had already burned off the morning haze, and wisps of hair that had wiggled free of her braids clung to the moisture on her face and neck. She should have finished the laundry first, before the heat became unbearable, but mornings always called to her. So she followed the parched wagon track two miles to town, dangling a basket of eggs from one arm.

  Ahead, she could see a line of timber that marked the Plank Road where she would turn north. It was the finest road in the state, as far as she knew. Loads better than the muddy tracks that led everywhere else. Made of thickly sawn boards laid side by side, it stretched from Grand Rapids in the north to Kalamazoo way off south. Not much lay between the cities except woods and farms, but once the highway passed through, the little settlement of Wayland started growing like a newborn calf.

  When Pa and Mama first settled, there was no town. Just the Lumberton mill three miles away, the old Indian mission away south, and here and there a farmer making a go of it between the stumps. In fact, as she padded up the planks, the first building she passed was Mr. Chambers’ log cabin.

  Nelson Chambers was the very first settler in Wayland. Of course, he had long since built a beautiful frame house next door. The old cabin was used as a school before the red schoolhouse was built, and for many years it housed church meetings when the preacher circled up this way. Now its thick, chinked logs stood as a monument to days gone by.

  Just beyond Mr. Chamber’s new home, where White Street crossed the Plank Road, stood the Wayland House. Mr. Chambers had built the hotel one year after the highway passed through, and now seven stagecoaches stopped there every day. Broad and two-storied, with a veranda stretching clear across the second floor, the hotel had a reputation for good food and hospitality. Travelers were always lounging on its shady porch or stretching their legs along the street in front of it.

  Hannah spent a good deal of time there, too, when she could sneak away, because Wes Carver lived within its walls. His mother cooked for guests and kept the building spotless. Mr. Carver ran the front desk, figured paperwork, and acted as all-around handyman. Since the family had come to town, Hannah had visited often. Too often, her mother thought.

  “Why can’t you spend more time with girls your own age?” she had asked at dinner only a few weeks ago.

  “Oh, Mama, the girls in this town are so dull!”

  “You used to spend a lot of time with Mary Ann Harper.”

  Dear Mary Ann with her shelves of books and her boundless imagination. She had been a bright spot in Hannah’s mundane world of chores. There in Mary Ann’s room they would read and reread her collection of fairy tales. Or they’d act out their own dramas in faraway castles and peasant cottages. Sometimes they took their exploits straight from the pages of Mary Ann’s beautifully illustrated volume of Bible stories, and Hannah would wonder why Sunday school couldn’t be as much fun.

  Mama used to say Mary Ann had a taming effect on Hannah. Playing with her was far different than following Seth on his rambles or climbing trees with Justin. But the adventures they dreamed up always felt real—until Mary Ann’s father sold the farm and sent his family back East to stay with relatives while he accepted a commission in the army.

  Hannah’s father rescued her. “The Carvers are fine people, Amelia. Isaiah shows uncommon good sense, and Grace’s cooking is known all along the stage route. I have no objection to our daughter’s friendship.”

  It was a friendship Hannah had almost missed. The Carvers came to town soon after Mary Ann left it. In school, Wes had been assigned to the seat directly behind Hannah, and that first morning he had pulled her braid half a dozen times. By recess she was spitting fire. At her first opportunity, she socked him in the jaw and sent him sprawling into a mud puddle.

  “Leave me alone, Wesley Carver!” she demanded, glaring down at him.

  “I guess I will,” he grinned, not at all abashed. He spread his hands apart in a helpless gesture. “If I promise not to tug your hair again, will you help me up?”

  But when she grasped his hand, he pulled her down.

  Thrashing in the mud beside him, wi
th classmates looking on in varying degrees of amusement and horror, it suddenly struck her as terribly funny. She knew that, had the tables been turned, she would have done exactly the same thing to him.

  They had both been sent home from school early that day. While they endured a scolding—dripping, disheveled, and nearly bursting with mirth—Hannah knew she’d discovered someone as spirited as herself. Someone amusing. Someone not afraid to have a little fun. They had called a truce before trundling home to their respective punishments and maintained a feisty friendship ever since.

  “I have no argument against the Carvers, Henry,” Hannah’s mother continued. “But is a stage stop a proper place for a young girl to frequent, with all those strangers and their rough language?”

  Hannah’s father had reached across the table and grasped his wife’s hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it, eyes twinkling. “You worry too much, Amelia.” That had been the end of it.

  Now as she plodded into town, Hannah could see Wes waving from the hotel’s open doorway. She waved back and watched as he turned away to answer his mother’s call. She would stop in before trekking home.

  Across the road from the hotel stood a crude little toll booth, so tight to the crossroads it nearly sat on them. It cost a penny to travel every mile of the plank highway, and Mr. Briggs perched inside with a fine view of vehicles approaching in both directions, waiting to collect payment. He knew all the stage drivers by name, and most of the other folk round about, and he was always the first to learn the latest news. That made him a great favorite with the town gossips, who paid him frequent visits on the presumption of collecting their mail.

  Hannah ducked around the booth. To the east on White Street was Doctor Graves’ medical practice and Mr. Burns’ carpentry shop. She turned in the opposite direction, past a row of storefronts: Mr. Van Volkenburg’s mercantile, Mr. Sadler’s shoe store, Mr. Johnson’s leather shop, and the forge operated by Tommy Stockdale’s pa.

  Before she covered half the street, a door opened and Mrs. Clark marched across the dusty road. The old woman took in boarders and operated a millinery out of her home. “Hannah!” she snapped. “Your mother came in to see me this week. Tell her I’ve thought about it but I simply must have hard currency for the bonnet she wishes me to make.”

  Mrs. Clark always reminded Hannah of a turtle. Her overlarge head swiveled on a skinny neck, and she peered out from behind bifocals that magnified her eyes.

  Hannah paused, frowning thoughtfully. “I’m not sure if that will be possible, Mrs. Clark. Coins are hard to come by. But we have plenty of pumpkins, potatoes, eggs…” She held up the basket.

  The old woman snorted. “A pantry full of surplus farm products is exactly what I do not need. I have my own garden, thank you. I want legal tender. Times are tough, and there are plenty of folks who would take advantage of a lonely old woman.”

  Hannah’s mouth tightened as she bit back a reply. Mrs. Clark’s husband had died years ago, on their way to Michigan, and the widow had supported herself by teaching school before opening her shop. Hannah said a silent prayer of thanks for her new schoolteacher, Miss West.

  “I’ll tell her, Mrs. Clark.”

  “See that you do,” the woman barked and closed herself back inside her house.

  Hannah walked on. Through a gap in the storefronts she caught sight of the park square, looking scrubby and forlorn. Maybe someday the square would become be a beautiful common area suitable for a proper town. But apart from the handful of rough buildings lining the crossroads, Wayland was mostly undeveloped lots and sawn-off stumps, and so was the park.

  Hannah turned into the very last store with a sign that read “Lawson’s Dry Goods” in bold, blocky letters. The two-story building hadn’t yet weathered to the dull gray of its companions. Timothy J. Lawson lived in the apartment above it, alone except for the company of a big orange tomcat named Horatio.

  “Good morning, Hannah!” boomed the shopkeeper.

  Mr. Lawson towered over most of the other men in town. He wore a full beard, and his apron looked ridiculously like a washrag stretched around a barrel, but not a soul dared tell him. He had tidy hands and gracious manners, and Hannah fancied he looked something like Goliath from Mary Ann’s Bible story book, only friendlier.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lawson. I’ve got some eggs from Mama.” Horatio rubbed against her ankle, and she reached down to scratch under the cat’s chin.

  “Fine. I’ll take them.” He placed them carefully into a blue and white enamel bowl then opened the till. “I owe you seventeen cents,” he said, counting the coins into her hand.

  She handed a nickel back. “I need some soda crackers, please. For my sister.”

  As he scooped the crackers, he asked, “How’s she doing? Poor kid, brand new husband gone off to war.”

  Hannah scowled. “Same as ever. Irritating as holey stockings.”

  Laughter rolled out of his chest like thunder echoing through a cavern. “I’ve always admired your spunk, Hannah.” He dropped in several gumdrops before handing her the package.

  She brightened. “Thank you, Mr. Lawson!”

  He called out as she left, “Tell your ma the town council has called for a meeting in the schoolhouse on Thursday evening to discuss how the community might help families facing foreclosure.”

  “I will!”

  Darting around a pair of horses hitched to the rail outside, she made a beeline for the Wayland House, but Mr. Briggs hailed her from the toll booth. “Hannah, come here!”

  She changed course immediately.

  Mr. Briggs was tall and spare. When he sat on his high stool watching for the stage, his legs tucked under his chin, he looked just like the daddy longlegs spiders that climbed the timbers of the barn. And he was never without his pocket watch, an heirloom from his grandfather. She often thought the fine gold chain dangling down his shirtfront would better befit a gentleman with a wider stomach to stretch across.

  “Got a letter here from your pa.”

  Forgetting her manners, she snatched it away, tore open the envelope, and stared down hungrily at her father’s cramped handwriting.

  “Good news, I hope?” The postmaster looked on expectantly.

  Hannah tucked the precious letter back into the envelope with reluctance. “Sorry, Mr. Briggs. I think it would be better to read this around the dinner table with my family.”

  “Of course you should,” the man agreed, concealing his disappointment with a friendly pat on Hannah’s shoulder. He was distracted by a wagon approaching the toll gate. He pulled out his watch and glanced at its face. “Eight forty-five. Mr. Lark’s late getting to town this morning.”

  “Norton,” the farmer called to Mr. Briggs, “you tell your boss this toothpick road is getting rickety as an old hen house. ’Bout broke an axle back near Watkins’ swamp.”

  Hannah didn’t wait to hear Mr. Briggs’ response. She tucked the letter safely in her egg basket and crossed to the hotel.

  She entered a spacious lobby with a stairway leading straight up to the guest rooms and a hallway that divided the building in half. Tucked in one corner, underneath the mounted skin of a huge bear Mr. Chambers had shot his first winter in Wayland, a Franklin stove stood ready to heat the room in cold weather. Mr. Carver sat behind an oversized desk on the left side of the room, engrossed in his ledgers and books.

  “Good morning,” Hannah called cheerily. The man answered with a distracted wave.

  A cozy parlor extended off the lobby, opposite the desk. Here travelers often lounged about, easily identified by their newspapers and carpetbags. The front windows gave them an excellent view of incoming stages.

  Hannah entered the dining room situated in the hotel’s left wing. On most evenings, the room filled with local farmers who propped muddy boots around the fieldstone fireplace and nursed pints of ale, but this morning only four guests sat eating breakfast.

  Mrs. Carver emerged from the kitchen with a coffeepot in one hand and a plate
of flapjacks in the other. “Hannah!” she exclaimed, pouring a refill. “You’re in town bright and early. Are you running errands, or have you come to see Wesley?”

  “Both.” Hannah smiled. “Is Wes free?”

  “He’s hauling some firewood, but he’ll be finished soon. Sit down and visit with me a moment.”

  Mrs. Carver was apple-faced, motherly, and as chatty as a squirrel—perfect for putting travelers at their ease. “Tell me, dear, how are things going with your men folk gone? I hear Mrs. Parker down Bradley way lost her farm. Her husband died at Fort Donelson, and she just couldn’t make a go of it without him.”

  “We’re doing fine, thank you, ma’am.” Hannah sat on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs. “Joel says the harvest looks promising.”

  “Then let’s pray the weather holds. But goodness! The dust does pour in thick through the windows this time of year!” She brushed at a gritty seat with a corner of her apron.

  Paperwork set aside, Mr. Carver strolled into the room. He was short and round, with a balding head and a heavy mustache. He poured a cup of coffee and rested a booted foot on the chair opposite Hannah. “Have you heard from your father?”

  “I have a letter right here.” She indicated her basket. “I’m saving it.”

  “Good girl.” Setting his cup down, he swiped once at his forehead with the rag he used to clean tables. “Dang foolish war. You be sure and let me know if your family needs anything.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carver. I will.”

  At that moment a lean, bandy-legged man sat down at the next table. Hannah couldn’t have ventured a guess at his age, but his skin looked like leather pulled from the vats at the tannery north of town. A scraggily beard, mostly gray, brushed the top of his chest, and Hannah thought he looked exactly like a California forty-niner right out of the pages of her history book.

  “Good morning, Mr. Covington.” Mr. Carver nodded agreeably. “How was your first night in our fine little village?”