Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 (12 page)

“We’ve met, Reverend Mueller. Good evening, Miss Nellie,” Brenna said.

Nellie inclined her head stiffly and sat by the fire next to the reverend’s mother.

“Mother, you’ve met Miss Nellie. She’s come to visit for a while.”

“Good evening, dear, how nice of you to visit an old woman.”

“Guten abend, Frau Mueller.”

Mrs. Mueller’s eyes opened wide. She smiled happily. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes, Mrs. Mueller, I speak German, but please be patient with me. I’m not sure how much I remember.”

They spent the next hour happily conversing in German with only a few lapses into English by Nellie. She was pleased with how the language came back to her. Reverend Mueller sat with them for a while, but he couldn’t join in, so he busied himself with small chores. At some point in the hour, Brenna bade them goodnight. Mrs. Mueller hugged her warmly, but Nellie barely acknowledged her.

Soon Nellie said it was time for her to go, and she promised to return the next evening. Mrs. Mueller thanked her profusely, her merry eyes glistening with tears.

“I’ll walk you back to your wagon, Miss Nellie,” Reverend Mueller said.

As they walked companionably back to the Hintons’ wagon, Reverend Mueller covertly studied Nellie’s profile. She was a small, fine-boned woman with a sharp nose and a pointy chin.
She looks almost fragile
, he thought. Her warm brown eyes softened her features and her smile warmed an otherwise pinched expression.
She’s had sorrow in her life
, he mused.

“I think you’ve made my mother very happy,” he said.

“I enjoyed talking to her. She’s had a lot of experiences, and she tells a good story.”

“Yes, she loves telling stories—both truth and fiction. Sometimes she entertains some of the children with fairy-tales. Even Brenna loves to hear those stories.”

Nellie stiffened slightly with the mention of Brenna’s name. Reverend Mueller noticed, but he made no comment.

“I hope you’ll come back, Miss Nellie. My mother enjoyed your visit so much…and so did I.”

Nellie felt her face warming and was glad it was dark. “I’d like that, Reverend Mueller, and please, just call me Nellie.”

“I will, Nellie, if you will call me John.” They wished each other a good night, and Reverend Mueller returned to his wagon.

He thought about Nellie before sleep came. She was a kind woman. What was it about Brenna that distressed her? Maybe they had quarreled over something. Oh well, he never claimed to understand women.

A Revelation

Chapter Nine

Fort Laramie
June 22, 1852
Mile 650

“My Goodness! I can’t believe how high these prices are,” Ruth Benson complained to her husband Thomas as they perused the goods for sale at the Fort Laramie trading post. The trading post was a small adobe building, like all the buildings at the fort, and it was situated inside the high walls of the palisade. All of the travelers were purchasing vital supplies that had dwindled over the past two months.

Kate Flannigan was holding eight pairs of Indian moccasins. “Our shoes are nearly worn out,” she told Michael, who was balancing sacks of flour, beans, and tea.

Emily Hinton looked dismayed. “Oh, how I wish there was something different in the way of food! I’m so sick of biscuits, beans, and bacon!”

“Why don’t we get these pickles? That’s something different,” Nellie said.

“Pickles!” Emily exclaimed happily.

Resupplying the food stores took most of the afternoon, and that evening people were in high spirits. Captain Wyatt had spoken to everyone and said he was very pleased to be on schedule. Many folks had made good trades with Indians and now had dried fish and buffalo meat. In spite of the rain that had followed them for a week, people were in good spirits.

Nellie had become a regular visitor to the Mueller wagon in the evenings. She and Mrs. Mueller became close friends, and she was becoming very fond of John. He was so attentive to his mother, and to her. The only thing that put a damper on the otherwise enjoyable evenings was the presence of Brenna. She was there every evening, cleaning up the dinner dishes and making the evening tea. It was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone how much Nellie disliked the girl. One evening, Nellie and Mrs. Mueller were visiting by the fire as usual. John had left to see about getting some nails from the Hanssons. Brenna was bringing the tea to the women when she stumbled and nearly fell. The tea spilled onto Nellie’s dress, creating a large stain.

“Oh! Look what you’ve done, you clumsy girl!” Nellie exclaimed.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Nellie. Let me get some water to clean that up,” Brenna said breathlessly.

“No! Don’t come near me again! Next time you’ll scald me! You’ve done enough damage.” Nellie blotted at the wet stain with a rag Mrs. Mueller handed her. She didn’t see Brenna’s face, but Mrs. Mueller did.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mueller. I should go,” Brenna said, and she turned and fled the camp.

Mrs. Mueller gave Nellie some baking soda to mix with water to help reduce the stain. Nellie worked on her dress, all the while grumbling about stupid, clumsy Irish girls. Mrs. Mueller listened silently until Nellie had finished and sat down again.

“You don’t like the girl.” It was not a question.

“She spilled tea all over me,” Nellie said defensively.

“No, there’s something else. I noticed it the first night you came to visit. What is it?” Mrs. Mueller’s face was kind.

Nellie hadn’t realized how obvious her dislike of Brenna had been. She sighed deeply.

“She’s Irish, Mrs. Mueller.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“I hate the Irish!” Nellie said vehemently. “They come to America and take away jobs from decent people because they’ll work for almost nothing. They strut around like they own this country just because they speak English. And what kind of English is it? It’s not proper English when you use that accent no one can understand. They’re all drunkards and brawlers, and if anyone says anything against any of them, they’ll kill you and never bat an eye.”

Nellie was working herself into a state of frenzy. She stood up and paced in front of the small campfire. Her breath came in gasps and her eyes were wide as her tirade continued.

“They came to Columbus, Ohio where my husband and I lived and tried to take over the town. They built their churches and looked down on anyone who wasn’t Catholic. Why, they would barely speak to the Germans, because if you were German, most likely you weren’t Catholic, and if they spoke to a non-Catholic, they would have to confess their sin to their priest!” She spit the words out of her mouth in distaste.

“My husband had a good job until they came and offered to do his work for half the pay. He was let go, and he couldn’t find another job unless he agreed to work for what the Irish were being paid. Who could live on that? We were poor enough as it was!”

Mrs. Mueller listened quietly, letting Nellie vent.

“One night while he was at the bar drowning his misery, a group of Irish men came in. They were already drunk. The bartender told them to get out. He was a good German, and he wouldn’t serve the Irish. Those micks wouldn’t leave. Things got rowdy, and soon there was a brawl. Everywhere the Irish went there was a brawl. My husband joined in, of course.” Her face had a tortured look, and she was in another place and time.

“It was an even fight in numbers, but the Irish never fight fairly. One of them punched my husband repeatedly in the face and stomach. My husband couldn’t defend himself against this man. He tried to get away, but the Irishman kept after him until my husband fell to the floor, hitting his head on the foot rail of the bar. After the fight was over and the Irish had left, they tried to revive my husband, but he was dead! Brain swelling from a skull fracture, they said. The man who killed him was a professional boxer. That’s what they told me, Mrs. Mueller. Those micks were never arrested. They were never charged with the murder of my husband.”

Nellie put her face in her hands and sobbed. “I hate them! I hate all of them!”

Mrs. Mueller waited silently for Nellie to get back her composure. Finally, Nellie sat down and accepted the handkerchief Mrs. Mueller offered.

“I’m very sorry about your husband, Nellie. I’m sure that must have been a hard blow.” She patted Nellie gently on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mueller. I shouldn’t have gone on about it. I don’t like to talk about it. I’ve never told this story to anyone before. Not even to Emily.”

“Your story is here in my heart, Nellie, and it will go nowhere else.”

Nellie’s eyes filled with tears again. “You’re a good friend, Mrs. Mueller.”

After a few minutes, Mrs. Mueller said, “Have I ever told you about my experience with the Irish in New York?”

“No, Mrs. Mueller. What happened?”

“Well, New York City was experiencing the same problems with the jobs. The Irish would work for next to nothing. Well, they had nothing when they came to America, and they came from nothing in Ireland, so any kind of pay was better than what they were used to. The Germans and the Italians didn’t like the Irish—and neither did anyone else.

“I can understand that,” Nellie said.

“We didn’t live in the German community in New York. We lived in a tenement that was largely Irish.”

“Why would you live with them, Mrs. Mueller?”

“My husband’s brother was a Catholic priest, and he thought he could help mend the rift between the Germans and the Irish.”

Nellie’s face was incredulous. “Your husband was a Catholic?” She instantly regretted saying all those things about Catholics. “But your son is a minister!”

“Yes, and a good one. He abides by the rules, but he never compromises his principles, Nellie. We wanted John to choose his own path. He has always had a deep faith, but he explored different religions and he ultimately chose to become a Unitarian minister, thinking that he would be able to reach more people. Even here on the trail, he has people of all faiths come to his Saturday evening services. Do you think that would happen if he was a Catholic priest?”

“No!”

“He has often told me that religion tends to divide people. He’s more interested in the common humanity that binds people together in love and faith.”

This was almost too much for Nellie to take in, but she was listening intently.

“Anyway, my husband Frank, being a Catholic deacon and a German living in the Irish quarters, was not very popular with other Germans, and at first, he wasn’t too popular with the Irish either. But no matter what the Irish think of you, they’re always hospitable. So Frank would knock on doors and people would invite him in. After a short while, everyone knew him and liked him. His brother was pastor at St. Peter’s, a neighboring parish, and some of our neighbors started going to Sunday mass at our church. The Germans didn’t like it too much when the Irish started showing up.”

“I can imagine!” Nellie said.

“It wasn’t too long before the congregation was more Irish than German. Well, one night—it was Good Friday—we were at the church late. It was after the Stations of the Cross, and everyone but my Frank and I had left. Frank wanted to do some last minute things before Easter services. I was in the back offices, and I didn’t hear anyone come in, but I did hear a commotion, and when I went into the sanctuary to investigate, there was a man kneeling over my husband with a knife! All I heard the man say was, ‘Today is your last day, deacon,’ and then he stabbed my husband!”

Nellie gasped in shock.

“I screamed and ran at him. I had a candlestick in my hand that I had been polishing, and I began to beat him with it, but I was no match for him. I guess my screams attracted the attention of someone outside who ran in and overpowered the man. The police came and arrested him, and he hanged for the murder of my husband.”

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mueller. Where was John?”

“John was in seminary school, and when he heard the news he was devastated. He and his father were very close.”

“Was it an Irishman who killed your husband, Mrs. Mueller? Did he want to rob the church?” Nellie asked, sure that she knew what the answer would be.