The Promise of Morning (19 page)

Matthew sank onto the wooden bench and rested against the wall of the livery. While he waited for Eli, he looked down the muddy main road that ran through town. Various businesses lined the street, among them a tobacconist, a saloon, and a post office. On a hill to the east he saw a cross-topped church steeple. From his vantage point in the shadow of the building, it seemed to him that the glow from the fading sunlight bathed the spire in gold. Weariness cloaked him and he let his mind drift into a state of semi-sleep. Shadows crept across the road and up the hillside, as though a curtain were being drawn over the town.

Roused by the sound of horse’s hooves, Matthew looked up to see Eli rounding the stable driving a low-slung black buggy.

“There’s a doc north of town. How about I take you there first?”

Matthew shook his head. He was primed to meet with Elder Meecham. Seeing a doctor would only delay matters. “I’m bruised pretty bad is all. Nothing a doctor can fix.”

He staggered to his feet and stumbled through the slurry of mud and horse droppings to mount the buggy step. Using his left hand he hauled himself onto the seat beside the stable owner. His injured side screamed a protest of pain.

“I put your gear in back.” Eli pointed over his shoulder at Matthew’s saddlebags lying on the floor. “Figured you’d need it.”

“Thank you.” Matthew squeezed the words out using as little air as possible. The buggy turned at the corner and started up the hill. After crossing two intersections, they stopped in front of a rambling one-story dwelling that looked like it had been cobbled on to at a whim rather than by any clear plan. It stood near the church Matthew had noted from the road below.

Eli jumped down and picked up the saddlebags. “I’ll tote these for you. Don’t look like you’re in any shape to carry them.”

“Thanks.”

“Want me to wait?”

Matthew glimpsed a lighted window in one of the added-on sections of the house. “No need. Looks like he’s here.” He fumbled in his pocket for a coin, but the burly man held out a palm to stop him.

“We’ll settle up when you come for your horse.” Eli flashed a white smile out of his bushy whiskers and climbed back into his buggy.

Matthew watched for a moment as he drove away. Now that he stood at Elder Meecham’s door the determination that brought him to Quincy fled. He’d pastored in Beldon Grove for so long. He lifted his hand to rap on the doorframe, then hesitated. Did he really want to leave his church? He shook his head. He didn’t see any way he could stay.

A tall, cadaverous-looking man opened the door at Matthew’s knock. Thick curly hair grew low on his forehead, beneath which a pair of dark brown eyes looked him up and down. “Do I know you, sir?”

“My name is Matthew Craig,” he said, conscious of his mudencrusted boots and bedraggled clothing. “I’m pastor of the church in Beldon Grove. I’ve come to talk to you.”

Barton Meecham’s eyes widened. “Craig! You look like you’ve been drug behind a horse. No wonder I didn’t recognize you.” He turned his head and called over his shoulder, “Ma, come here.” Returning his attention to Matthew, he held out his right hand. “We’re not doing any talking until we take care of you. Is that blood on your shirt?”

Blood? Matthew didn’t remember bleeding. Meecham slipped a hand under Matthew’s left arm and guided him to a chair in the warm room. A low fire burned in the hearth. In the shadows he saw that one wall was entirely given over to bookshelves.

Footsteps sounded from the back of the house, and an older woman hurried in carrying a lamp, placing it on a table next to Matthew. Her hair was covered with a white cap, which framed the lines and wrinkles in her face. From her slat-thin build to her dark-lashed eyes, she was undoubtedly Barton Meecham’s mother.

“This is Reverend Craig, from Beldon Grove,” Meecham told her. “Appears he’s going to need a little tending-to, and a hot meal.”

Mrs. Meecham bent over the chair where Matthew sat. “Think you could manage a little beef soup? There’s plenty left from supper.”

Matthew could hardly think beyond the persistent pain in his side, but he mustered a polite smile. “Sounds mighty tasty, ma’am. I haven’t had beef in a very long time.”

After Matthew had eaten what he could, Meecham and his mother insisted that he let his injuries be cleaned and dressed, then he must get a good night’s rest before getting down to the business that had brought him across the prairie. The two of them cleared a space on the cluttered kitchen table for a basin of hot water and then helped him remove his shirt and undergarment.

To his surprise, he learned that the blood on his shirt had come from a sizable gash in his scalp, which had bled down the back of his neck. As gently as she could, Mrs. Meecham sponged his wound with hot water, then smeared it with thick, smelly black creosote. Matthew flinched when the ointment contacted the open wound.

“There, there.” Mrs. Meecham made soothing noises. “It’s bleeding a little. We’ve got to get it to quit. I’ll be done soon and you can get some sleep.”

Blue and purple bruising covered the right side of Matthew’s torso. When he focused on his shoulder, he realized that it hurt too much to simply be bruised. He sucked enough air into his lungs to allow him to speak. “Feels like my shoulder’s broken.”

Mrs. Meecham looked at her son. “You’d best see to it. I can wash him, but I don’t know about setting bones.”

The tall man bent over Matthew, peering at his shoulder in the yellow lamplight. His callused fingertips probed the joint, each touch a jolt of pain.

Then Meecham stepped back, dropped his hands to his belt, and unfastened the buckle. He pulled the leather strap from around his waist, handing it to Matthew. “Put this between your teeth and bite down. This is going to hurt considerable.”

Matthew clutched the still-warm leather in his left hand, wishing he’d accepted Eli’s offer to take him to the doctor before conveying him to Meecham’s. He glanced around the low-ceilinged room, noting food spots crusted on the surface of the cookstove and the stack of unwashed crockery piled on a side table.

He dropped his gaze to the belt coiled in his hand. “Uh, think maybe we should fetch a doctor?”

Meecham leaned against the table, his face a picture of wounded pride. “I set many a woodsy’s bone in the old days when there wasn’t a doc for a hundred miles. You don’t think I’d lay a hand on you if I didn’t believe I could help, do you?”

Two choices lay before Matthew. Leave the house and find a doctor, which seemed an impossibility given his physical state, or submit to Elder Meecham’s ministrations and hope for the best.

He picked up the belt and bit down on it. “Go ahead,” he mumbled around the leather.

Meecham lifted Matthew’s right arm, gripping it above the wrist.

Sucking in his breath against the pain, Matthew waited. The room was so quiet he could hear water bubbling in the kettle on the stove.

Meecham raised the arm the way a blacksmith would open a bellows, then jerked it straight out from the shoulder.

Matthew screamed, the belt dropping from his mouth. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

“Don’t hear no crackling. I think it’s just dislocated,” Meecham said, retrieving the leather strap. “Bite down again. We’re going to put ’er back in place.” He manipulated the arm until the shoulder joint popped together.

Matthew’s eyes swam with tears. He let the belt fall from his mouth and rested his head against the back of the chair. Although his shoulder did feel easier, the throbbing in his ribs intensified and the wound on his scalp burned. “Are you done? I don’t think I can take much more.”

Meecham examined his bruised torso. “You could have some broken ribs.” He glanced at his mother. “Would you fetch a roll of bandages, please, Ma?”

Once they had Matthew’s chest wrapped and his right arm secured to his side, the Meechams led him to a small room that opened off the kitchen, and helped him settle onto a narrow quiltpiled cot.

Mrs. Meecham propped the sagging door with a stick of firewood. “I’ll leave this open so’s heat from the fire can get at you. Don’t want you taking a chill.”

The pain in Matthew’s shoulder and ribs alternated between agonizing and unbearable. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift homeward, knowing how worried Ellie would be when he didn’t return by Friday.

15

Ellie sat on the shaded back porch, her mind on the conversation she’d had with Mr. Beldon earlier in the week. She picked up a pencil and stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table next to her. “List everything you can think of,” he’d said. “You never know what might be important.”

Humidity coiled around her like ground fog. Ellie dropped the pencil and wiped sweating hands on her apron. Through the open kitchen window she heard the oven door creak and Maria dragging pans of bread out to cool. A thump told her they’d been set on the worktable. From the cornfield, voices of her sons carried up to the house.

She retrieved the pencil and leaned over to write.

Name—George Long

Born Cape Girardeau County, Missouri. Don’t
    
know the date.

Had fair hair and blue eyes.

Father—Andrew Long. Possibly living
    
somewhere in Missouri?

Went to Texas 1821 as part of Stephen Austin’s
 
company.

Would have married there sometime after 1821.
    
Children probably 18 to 22 years old.

Died in Brazoria County, Texas, December
    
1845.

Her hand stuck to the paper and she peeled it free. Eight lines on a page. Loss washed over her. Ellie bowed her head. Her children could fill eight pages about herself and Matthew. She sucked in a breath, glad she’d asked Mr. Beldon for help. When he found her family, they would answer all her questions.

Ellie wiped her tears on her apron, folded the paper, and tucked it into her pocket. Guilt niggled at a corner of her brain. She knew Matthew would be furious if he learned she’d taken her request to Mr. Beldon, of all people. She dismissed the thought by reassuring herself that if Molly could consult him about James, there was no reason he couldn’t help her too. Matthew would never need to know
.

That night Ellie lay awake, thoughts of Matthew and Mr. Beldon warring in her mind. Matthew had told her not to pursue the notion of her father having other offspring. Now, in the worry hours before dawn, she wondered if he might have been right. The little bit of information she possessed surely wasn’t enough for anyone to use to locate records of her father’s life. Any children born of a later union would now be adults themselves. Why would they want to travel the long distance from southern Texas to Illinois? It would be better if she were just to forget the whole thing. And yet . . .

The feather tick crackled. In spite of the open window, the air felt sticky. She missed the comfort of Matthew’s steady breathing. The chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl filled the night.

“Please, God, don’t let anything happen to him,” she whispered. “If you bring him home, I’ll—”
No, I can’t promise that.
She amended her prayer. “Please bring him safely home.”

Ellie scooted upright and leaned against the headboard. All her life she’d leaned on others to carry her through difficult times, and now every support was gone. Her mind skittered away from the possibility that Matthew wouldn’t return.

She swung her feet to the floor and padded to the window, as though at this moment she might see him riding into the yard. A half moon soaked their acres in dim gray light. Shadowed shapes lurked at the edges of the cornfield, but no matter how closely she watched they didn’t take the form of a horse and rider.

The following morning, Ellie hurried the children toward the door as soon as Mr. Wolcott’s Dearborn wagon rolled into the yard. “Don’t keep him waiting. We’re already late.” She took Maria’s hand and followed the boys down the back steps.

Charity beamed at them as they approached. “Don’t you two look lovely in those pink dresses. Maria, you’re going to be as pretty as your mama some day.”

Maria dipped her head and blushed. Harrison shot her a scornful look. “She ain’t pretty. She’s just a fool girl.”

Clamping a hand on her son’s shoulder, Ellie gave him a gentle push toward the wagon. “That’s enough. Get in.” She turned to Mr. Wolcott. “Will coming to pick us up make you late for preaching today?”

“The trip out here makes no difference.” He sounded upset. “I went in early to open the church and found Marcus Beldon already there. Seems he’s intending to take care of preaching from now on.”

Charity touched his arm. “Now, Ben, he didn’t say that. He told you he’d be pleased to fill in whilst Reverend Craig was away.”

Away.
So far Ellie hadn’t told anyone but Molly and Karl about her husband’s intention to resign the pastorate. She placed her hopes on the presiding elder refusing to let him go, or possibly suggesting he set aside some time to rest.

“Who does Beldon think he is, I’d like to know,” Mr. Wolcott said under his breath.

Ellie remembered the day she’d first met Mr. Beldon and his wife at the church. “He did tell us he’d been educated for the ministry.”