Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 (10 page)

“She’s not in the wagon, Reverend. Where could she have gone?”

John looked instantly alarmed and ran to the wagon in disbelief. “She was here when we made camp,” he said. “We’ve got to find her. She’s not well! Go and ask people if they’ve seen her. I’m going to look by the river. Maybe she went for water.” But even as he said it, they both saw the water bucket hanging from the wagon.

Brenna ran from wagon to wagon asking everyone if they had seen Mrs. Mueller, but no one had. Everyone was busy trying to get chores done and dinner made in the steady drizzle. The evening was getting grayer, and so were Brenna’s hopes. Where could the little woman have gone?

Brenna’s search had taken her away from the camp, and now the voices were barely audible. The drizzle had mostly stopped, but the mist was rolling in from the river, and visibility was poor.

“Mrs. Mueller!” Brenna called over and over as she wandered farther from camp.
Where could she be?
Brenna wondered.
I have to find her!
The sound of a wolf howling a ways off startled her. She stopped, shivering in the cool damp air, remembering the evil wolf from the story of Little Red Cap. Then she shook her head, realizing that the h owl was probably a coyote, not a wolf. Brenna strained her eyes, trying to make out what was ahead of her. A form materialized briefly, insubstantial in the mist. Brenna squinted trying to make it out and softly called, “Mrs. Mueller?” She felt the hair on her arms and on the back of her head rise. Her grandmother had said she was able to see spirits. Was that a spirit she had just seen? Surely Mrs. Mueller would have answered her. Brenna moved forward slowly towards where the vision had been.

“Mrs. Mueller? It’s me, Brenna.” She could barely get out the words. The mist moved over her, engulfing her in its damp clutches. The coyote called again, mournfully. There! A vague form drifted ahead, tendrils of hair swirling about a gray face. The mist cleared momentarily, and Brenna felt a scream in her throat.

“Grandmother!” Yes, she could see spirits! There was her grandmother, just ahead. In the next instant, she realized it wasn’t her grandmother. It was Mrs. Mueller! Brenna ran to the old woman. Mrs. Mueller was chilled to the bone and seemed unaware of Brenna’s presence. She shivered violently, but her skin was hot when Brenna put her arm around her shoulders.

“Come on, Mrs. Mueller. Let’s get you back to the wagon and into some dry clothes.” The mist had lifted enough for Brenna to find their way back, and John Mueller met them when they were almost to the camp.

“Thank God you found her! Mother, where were you going?” he asked. Mrs. Mueller didn’t respond, and Brenna looked anxiously at the reverend.

“She’s feverish,” she said. They hurried to the wagon, and Brenna helped the old woman change into dry clothes while John heated water for hot tea. Brenna kept up a steady stream of conversation, but Mrs. Mueller didn’t respond. She didn’t even seem to recognize Brenna.

News spread through the camp, and many people stopped by to see how Mrs. Mueller was doing. Everyone was nervous about cholera. Brenna’s parents were worried too, but Mrs. Mueller didn’t have the symptoms of cholera. Ruth Benson and James Cardell decided that she had caught a chill and the resulting fever was very debilitating to her weakened condition. A quick consultation determined that she should be given a drop of aconite in a bit of water every hour for six hours—no more, no less. Aconite would be effective in reducing the fever, but if taken in larger doses it could be fatal. As they were discussing who would administer the medicine, Reverend Mueller spoke up.

“I’ll give her the medicine.”

“You can’t stay up all night, John. You’ll be no use in the morning. You need to get your rest,” Thomas Benson said. The wagon train would not stop or slow down for sickness. Captain Wyatt kept everyone on schedule no matter what happened.

Brenna looked around at the concerned faces. “I want to stay with her,” she said quietly.

“Brenna, you’ll have to stay awake all night. You’re already exhausted. We’ll all take turns,” Kate suggested, glancing around at the others for confirmation.

“No! I want to take care of her. I can do it, Ma.” The strong set of her jaw convinced the others that it would be futile to argue. Ruth Benson took the aconite tincture from her medicine bag and showed Brenna how to mix the drug. Then she gave Mrs. Mueller the first dose and watched her swallow the medicine weakly. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her body shuddered with the chills.

“Keep her warm, and in one hour give her the next dose, and then four more doses, one each hour, after that.”

Thomas Benson gave Brenna a pocket watch, and Brenna opened it and watched the second hand slowly tick away the seconds.

“It’s very important not to give her the next dose too early,” Ruth admonished.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Benson. I’ll take care of her.” As the others returned to their wagons and settled in for the night, Brenna got comfortable in the wagon with Mrs. Mueller, but not too comfortable—she didn’t want to risk falling asleep. Reverend Mueller looked at his mother. His face showed worry.

“You’re a godsend for doing this, Brenna. I won’t forget it.”

“My grandmother had a saying. She used to tell me that people live in one another’s shelter. I want to take care of her.” Brenna took Mrs. Mueller’s hand gently. “She’s going to be all right, Reverend Mueller. Go to bed. I’ll be right here.”

A look of relief passed over the reverend’s face. He bowed his head and said a quiet prayer for his mother’s quick recovery. Brenna bowed her head too, and together they said, “Amen.”

“Please call me if there’s any change.” He slipped into the darkness, and Brenna was alone in the quiet with Mrs. Mueller. A single candle illuminated the dark interior of the wagon. Brenna looked at the old woman’s face. It looked pinched and strained, and Brenna dipped a cloth into some cool water and bathed it gently.

“There, now, that should feel a wee bit better.” The truth was that Brenna was very worried. Mrs. Mueller was so small and frail. How would she weather this storm? Brenna’s thoughts went back to Ireland and to her grandmother. Brenna had been a young girl when her grandmother had passed away, but she remembered that night as if it was yesterday. It was a night much like tonight.

The day had been dreary, but it had cleared and the night was chilly. Her grandmother had been suffering from a fever for three days. There had been no medicine except for Godfrey’s Cordial, a children’s medicine, but the laudanum in it, an opium tincture, made her grandmother rest a little easier. Brenna was the only one awake when her grandmother passed. She had gone to bed while her grandmother seemed to be resting, but she couldn’t sleep. After a while, she crept over to where her grandmother lay in her narrow bed. Her eyes were open and she was looking out a small window at the stars. She turned her head when she heard Brenna. Her eyes were unusually bright as she looked at her granddaughter.

“Do you know that I saw a shooting star the night you were born?” Brenna nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “That’s a sure sign, a gra’. You have always been special to me, and I know you will make a difference in the lives of others.” She took Brenna’s hand and squeezed it feebly. Then she closed her eyes. Brenna sat with her grandmother until the small hours of the morning and she was holding her hand when her grandmother took her last breath.

Tears stung her eyes as she remembered her grandmother’s words. She looked down at the small form of Mrs. Mueller. If only she could make a difference here, but the tiny woman was pale and unresponsive.

“Have I ever told you the stories of the Good People?” Brenna asked the old woman. Mrs. Mueller’s chest rose and fell under the blanket. “Well, let me tell you about them. They can be very tricky, and it’s best to always be on your guard.” Mrs. Mueller’s body shivered, but otherwise made no acknowledgment. “And did you know that they are angels? Well, not the best of the angels, but not as guilty as some.” Brenna spent the next half hour telling the tales of the Good People and recounting true stories of people she knew who had had encounters with the wee folk.

“I have it on good authority that I shall meet them some day, and when I do, I can ask them for some of their gold. If I don’t let them out of my sight, they will lead me to it. Then I will be rich for the rest of my days!” She imagined she saw a slight smile on Mrs. Mueller’s face.

Brenna opened the pocket watch and checked the time. She then dutifully administered the next dose of aconite. Mrs. Mueller swallowed it but didn’t open her eyes.

Brenna looked around at the contents of the wagon. Everything was organized and carefully put up. She noticed a leather folder open to a daguerreotype of a handsome young woman with light hair sitting in a stuffed chair. The woman wore a stylish hat and dress.
This must be Greta
, she thought. She saw a well-worn book entitled
Kinder-und Hausmarchen
by the Brothers Grimm and took it from the shelf. She opened it to the table of contents and looked at the list of stories—eighty-six total, but she couldn’t read the German text. She entertained herself for the rest of the hour by looking at the illustrations throughout the book. Soon she saw an illustration of a little girl wearing a cap and talking to a very large wolf.
This must be the Little Red Cap story
, she thought. A noise outside the wagon caught her attention, and she looked up to see her father peering in.

“Da! You startled me!”

“How is she doing?”

“No change, except that she might be resting a little easier.” Brenna opened the pocket watch. “It’s time for her third dose of aconite.” Brenna carefully measured a drop of the liquid into the tin cup containing a small amount of water. She lifted Mrs. Mueller’s head and held the cup to her parched lips. She slowly poured the contents into her mouth, and Mrs. Mueller swallowed. Brenna poured more water into the cup, and Mrs. Mueller drank again. “I think she’s thirsty, Da.”

“Give her as much as she will drink. The fever is drawing the fluids out of her.”

After another drink, Brenna carefully laid Mrs. Mueller back against the pillow and made sure she was comfortable.

“You’re a good nurse.” Her father looked askance at Brenna and frowned slightly. “Brenna, we all know that you’re doing everything you can for her.” He paused, and Brenna knew what he was thinking.

“Why did Grandmother die, Da?” she asked.

Michael Flannigan looked at his daughter, and then he looked at the ground. He sighed deeply. “Everyone who was old or very young died, Brenna. There wasn’t enough food in Ireland to nourish people, so only the strongest survived. Your grandmother had been weak, and the last fever was too much for her.”

“Did she have cholera?”

“No, no she didn’t have cholera, although many people did.”

“Do you know what Father O’Brien told me, Da? He said that when death comes, it will not go away empty.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that before.”

“I saw Grandmother tonight,” Brenna blurted out.

Michael studied his daughter and said gently, “Did you now?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it. I was looking for Mrs. Mueller, and right before I found her, I saw Grandmother. She led me to Mrs. Mueller, Da.” She looked beseechingly at her father. “Do you believe me?”

“Aye, I truly do.”

“Sometimes I feel like Grandmother is so close to me. I miss her so much!”

“I know you do, Brenna.” Michael sighed again. “This trip has been hard on folks. Mrs. Mueller is old, and she may not have the strength to…” Brenna put her finger to her lips.