Together Apart (16 page)

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November 23, 1888

My Dearest Hannah,

I'll start this by saying that there hasn't been a day, an hour, or a minute since I left that I haven't thought of you. I was ready to turn around, hightail it back to you at least a hundred times, and I would have if it weren't for my ma. Ma hasn't been this happy since before Pa died. She says I should tell you that her face hurts from smiling so much.

The other thing you need to know right off is that this isn't the first letter I wrote. The first one is probably being read by a school of fish in the Gulf of Mexico about now. Had a little problem near St. Louis. Also had a little problem near Baton Rouge. Campfire got out of control, but I don't want to waste paper writing about all that.

And please, Hannah, don't let the sun set without writing me back. I'm going mad from needing to know that you are okay. Did Mr. Richards come around? If he made any threats against you or Eliza, then you've got to tell it to me straight, and I'll be on the next train headed north. What about the sheriff? Did he arrest Eliza for hiding me? Dru's ma, did she make good on her threat to close down the resting room? Dru, what's happened to her? And your pa, Hannah. Are things still going in the right direction with him? The working girls? Harmony School? That red-headed clod, Rusty Farley? I've got to know everything. Otherwise I'll imagine the worst like I've been doing ever since I left.

Here's the good news. I found work yesterday, as a boat builder's apprentice. Mr. Gluck, the owner of the boat works, took one look at
Hannah's Fair Wind,
patched hull and all, and hired me on the spot. I'll be making good pay, Hannah. When you're ready to tell your pa about me, make sure you tell him that, too.

Have also found a nice place for me and Ma to live—two furnished rooms above a bakery shop. Smells almost as good as when Mrs. Tinka was baking her bread in Eliza's kitchen. And there are big, sunny windows that aren't covered over with paper!

The weather is fine here. It's as warm today as Nebraska in May, and folks I've talked to say it hardly ever snows. Imagine that, Hannah. No more blizzards!

Everything's lush here. Moss-covered trees everywhere. Water everywhere, though a fellow told me to steer clear of the swamps—because of the alligators! Sure wouldn't mind getting a peek at one of those chompers. I've been to the Gulf of Mexico, Hannah, waded in waist-deep, just like you told me I should. You'd like the ocean, Hannah. It reminds me of the prairie, the way it goes on and on. Like the prairie, but without the plows.

Some of the folks here speak French and some speak English and some speak what sounds like a mixing of the two. And oh the music, Hannah. Jazz. Started hearing it when me and Ma was still coming down the river, drifting out of hallows along the banks and in the wake of grandly lit riverboats that were churning upstream. Its music that reaches right inside you and touches your soul.

I miss you so much it hurts. Ma says that I need to be patient, that being apart will make our hearts grow even fonder. If my heart loved you any more than it already does, it would explode.

Forever yours,
Isaac

November 8, 1888

My Dearest Isaac,

Your wonderful letter arrived a short while ago, and I have wasted only the minutes it took to read through it a dozen times before beginning this letter back to you.

New Orleans—the sights and sounds! I've always dreamed of such a place and now you are living there. I'm so glad for you and so relieved to know that you and your mother are safely settled. The telegrams you sent are worn thin and crumpled now, from carrying them in my pockets day after day. Without them I would surely have worried my apron hem to shreds. There is some fraying, I must admit, from imagining the trials of your journey.

I am missing you, terribly, but otherwise I am fine, truly I am. I fill my days with work. Nighttime is another story. Sometimes I'll forget, rush into the print shop expecting to find you there, or I'll hear a muffled sound in the night and think it is you stirring in your sleep. These are the most difficult moments. Nights are also my most cherished times because I now sleep with your pillow tucked under my head, and this had made for some lovely dreams.

Eliza has just come into the print shop (that is where I am writing this letter), and she has told me to tell you that she sends her best.

Being the clever fellow that you are, you have guessed from this that Eliza is not in jail. Sheriff Tulley did come looking for you, not two hours after you left. Not finding you on the property, and having no evidence, other than hearsay, that Eliza had harbored a thief, the sheriff, winking, told Eliza that he supposed he wouldn't need to march her off to the jail. Mrs. Callahan's threat to close down the resting room was not successful, either. She tried, but the city attorney found no law forbidding a private property owner from inviting guests into her home. Eliza was required to obtain a permit for the market because money is exchanged for goods. This, too, went smoothly. The city attorney's wife is one of our best customers! A few members of the Betterment Society did stay away from the market in the first weeks, though most have since returned. There has been some whining, though, due to the absence of Mrs. Tinka's breads.

There was one threat Mrs. Callahan did manage to carry out. Dru is in Boston. I've received several letters from her. As always, she is making the best of her situation. She has befriended the young man who is the groundskeeper at the school and volunteers her free time teaching English to immigrant women at a settlement house. She plans to return to Prairie Hill for the Christmas holidays and has promised to stop by for a visit, "no matter what it takes." Any disappointment I might have felt the night of the play has long since faded, and I am so looking forward to seeing her again. Losing my best friend and my best (and only) beau at the same time was doubly heartbreaking.

My family is well. Harmony School has been rebuilt, a new teacher has been hired, so the younger children are back at their studies. Mama comes to town with the Zellers as often as she can, and we've had some wonderful visits.

Which brings me to my papa. The Sunday after you left, just as he was finishing his meal, I asked if I might have a private word with him. He nodded, then left the table and headed for the barn. I followed. Once there, I steadied myself, then told Papa all about you, Isaac. I told him about how you spent the summer at Eliza's and that you chose to hide rather than leave without your mother. I told him that you are not a thief, that the tools had belonged to your real father and not Mr. Richards. I told him that you are not at all like Mr. Richards and his boys, that you possess a fine character and a loving heart. I told him what a hard worker you are and about how you taught yourself boat-building by reading a book. I told him again that you had not shamed me the night of the blizzard, only kept me warm and alive. I told Papa that I was sorry I had deceived him with half-truths, sorry that I had disappointed him, and that I would try my best to again earn his trust. I finished by saying words I'd never said out loud to Papa before. I told Papa that I loved him. Papa listened, though he said nothing back, only turned and walked away. I expected just that. But I know he listened and that is a start.

I've told Mama all this and one thing I stopped short of telling Papa. I told her that, one day, you and I plan to meet again, and never to part. Mama cried. Sad tears, at first, then a small smile formed on her face and she said, "I'll be expecting you to bring my grandbabies for regular visits." I blushed.

And I am not the only Barnett girl blushing these days. Back in September, Rusty Farley asked Papa if he might call on Hester. Papa gave Rusty his blessing, and they do make a handsome couple.

Now, before I close, I must tell you of my morning. When I awoke, the first snow of the season was falling past my window. Wet, heavy flakes, much like the snow that fell on the morning of the blizzard. I closed my eyes, hoping it was only a dreadful dream, but when I opened them again, the snow was still coming down. I've planned for this day, Isaac, mentally practiced it as if a part in a play. I couldn't be sure if practice alone could turn my fear around. There was but one way to know for sure.

My footprints mapped a path as I moved away from the shelter of the buildings and into the open space of the lawn. I stopped and looked back. My path had not been erased. I walked on—until I had come to the place where town and prairie meet. I closed my eyes, lifted and turned my face to the north sky and then waited for Wild Wind's rasp and roar. I felt only the brush and heard only the whisper of Fair Wind's breeze. I imagined your hand in mine and together we crossed from lawn to prairie. On we walked, glancing back now and again and stopping only when the house had disappeared to white. You played Hannah music then, and I began to dance, round and round, tracing spirals in the snow. Round and round, until dizzy with the joy of it. We stayed there on the prairie for nearly an hour, and I could have stayed longer, would have, if not for you, Isaac. You whispered that there was a surprise waiting for me back at the house. And what a wonderful surprise your letter has been!

You need not worry, Isaac. I am still mindful of the dangers and promise to be careful. I know that Wild Wind is out there, somewhere. When she does blow in, I will not cower, nor will I be ladylike. I will dig in my heels, work the saliva around in my mouth—and spit in her face. Once for Jon and once for Jacob. I will turn every one of Eliza's gaslights to full wick and set a lighted candle at every window, then sit before the fire and muster every last ounce of my imagination to grow the light into a powerful beacon, send it shining and sailing out across the prairie. And beyond—send it all the way to New Orleans to light the eyes of the man I love—today, tomorrow, and forever!

Write often and at length, and I will do the same—until we are together again.

With all my love,
Hannah

THE END

Though Hannah, Isaac, and all the characters in this novel are fictional, the blizzard that so profoundly affected their lives was a real event in history. On January 12, 1888, a fierce winter storm swept out of Canada and engulfed the states of the central plains—from the Rocky Mountains east to the Mississippi River; from the Canadian border south to Texas. Newspaper accounts from that time estimated the loss of life from five hundred to a thousand. Tragically, many of those who perished were school children, prompting some to name the storm "The School Children's Blizzard."

Today, if we want to know the weather forecast, we simply turn on the radio or television or visit a weather Web site on the Internet. Such was not the case in 1888. The look and color of the sky, the mercury rising or falling from the bulb of a thermometer, a sudden shift in speed or direction of the wind were the only forecasting tools available to individuals living on the plains.

Snow had fallen during the night of January 11-12, and it continued to fall, heavily at times, throughout the morning. Temperatures were unseasonably warm, ranging from the upper twenties to lower thirties across the region. The wind was southerly and light. With no hint of what was to come, farm children set off for school, some on horseback though most on foot, their lunch pails swinging at their sides. The distance to school varied from a few hundred feet to several miles. The majority of rural schoolhouses were one-room frame structures and were heated by wood- or coal-burning stoves. At best, these stoves provided only modest heat in these often drafty buildings.

The storm moved from northwest to southeast at a rate of fifty miles per hour. Depending on the geographic location of a particular school, the storm struck at different times of day—morning in the central portions of the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas; afternoon in the eastern sections of these same states.

Descriptions of the storms arrival, however, were strikingly similar. A wall of heavy black clouds appeared on the northwest horizon. The wind shifted abruptly to the north and slammed into the schoolhouses with near-hurricane force. Walls shook and windows rattled as if struck by the open palm of a giants hand. Many likened the wind's roar to that of a fast-moving freight train. Snow that earlier had lain harmlessly on the ground lifted and filled the air, reducing visibility to little more than an arm's length. Temperatures plummeted by as much as thirty degrees within minutes of the storm's arrival and continued to fall throughout the day and following night, reaching -30 in many regions by the morning of Friday, January 13.

Those caught out of doors when the blizzard struck later gave chilling descriptions of their ordeal. The wind-driven snow so choked the air that the simple act of breathing was difficult. Eyelids froze shut. The hems of girls' long skirts crusted with snow and tangled about their ankles, pulling them down. Deep drifts created hidden, sinking traps. Feet and hands grew numb from the cold.

Survival, in large part, depended on the decisions individual teachers made that day. Keeping the children inside the schoolhouse until help arrived was the choice made by many. This was especially true for those schools that had an adequate supply of fuel on hand to keep the stove burning through the night. In many instances, fathers set out to fetch their children home by horse and sleigh. Some fought their way to the school, though others were forced to turn back when their horses refused to face into the ferocious wind or because the fathers themselves became lost.

There were teachers who, for various reasons, led their students into the storm. Minnie May Freeman, teaching at a school near Ord, Nebraska, was left with no choice when the wind ripped away a portion of the school's roof. Miss Freeman, still in her teens, led her sixteen pupils to a home a half-mile away. Many of the children suffered frostbite, but they were otherwise unharmed. Another story had a very different ending. Lois May Royce was teaching at a school near Plainview, Nebraska. When the storm hit, there were only three children at the school: Peter Poggensee, nine; Otto Rosberg, nine; and Hattie Rosberg, six. Having run out of wood for the stove, Miss Royce decided to lead the children to a farm that was only two hundred yards (two football fields) to the north. Blinded by the swirling snow, they wandered off course and became hopelessly lost, finally sinking into the snow near a haystack. By morning all three children had died. Miss Royce survived, but her feet were so badly frozen they required amputation.