Gid responded with a sigh.
The logs retained their bark as they went up horizontally, one upon another, expertly notched (this was Daniel, after all) to ensure tight corners and a close adjacency. Daniel, longer than Gid by half a foot, thought it’d be best to make the structure tall enough to allow a big man to walk around the interior without having to stoop.
Over and over again, I hefted up a log’s end, held it in place, and put up with Gid’s repeated “for heaven’s sake, Freddy, don’t move, or I’ll drop this thing on my foot.” The activity, though taxing to my muscles, left my mind free to wander. I thought about how strong I’d grown in the last two months. Trekking across states, clearing poor roads, chopping, yanking, and hauling had trimmed my body down to something wiry. No wonder folks didn’t suspect me of being a girl. I was looking more and more like a whip of a boy.
After a while of contemplatively flexing my muscles, I became conscious of a strange gurgling—coming from me. I frowned at my stomach.
“Be still,” Gid groaned, as he stood on tiptoe and pushed his log end into place. To Daniel standing inside the structure, he called, “Good on this side.”
My belly rumbled again, followed this time by an uneasy flutter.
Darkness collected in the woods, and by the time we called it a night, the moon had long since risen. The rest of the house would have to wait for the morrow. Besides the final thud of two great lengths of wood meeting each other and the last thwack of the ax, the only sounds came from crickets, wood frogs—and my stomach. Its rumbles joined the hums and croaks.
Gid and Daniel said they were too tired to bother with supper, and I was too queasy to touch the rest of the rabbit stew, so I hauled the lidded pot to the wagon to save it for the next day, then joined the leftovers under the canvas cover, liking how the pot’s round cast iron sides warmed me and happy to let my arms and legs relax on the feather mat we kept in the wagon.
Through the sliver of an opening between the canvas and the wagon side, I gazed at the stars. They sparkled and winked, caught like fireflies in a great web of branches. I thought about calling out a good-night and sweet dreams to Daniel but supposed Gid would laugh at me.
And Daniel would blush.
So I went to sleep.
*
When I awoke, for just a second I was beset by the strange notion that I had kicked over the soup kettle. Not that I was drenched. Merely that I felt slow, a body floating in liquid.
The stirrings outside the wagon sounded painfully loud. Wind played the canvas covering like a drum, birds belted songs to one another, and Gid blared, “Why isn’t she up yet? We’ve got a cabin to build, and I’m starving.” Then even louder, “Lazybones! Wake up.”
“Leave her be,” Daniel said. “She worked hard yesterday.”
“So did I.”
“We’ve got johnnycakes in the basket. I’ll grab the kettle. We can heat up the stew ourselves.”
The wagon lurched with a sudden weight. I whimpered, excruciatingly sensitive to the jostling, and winced when the kettle disappeared from the crook of my legs. In its place, coldness sprang and clawed its way to my bones. I shivered violently.
Sick, I thought, and opened my mouth to say it. The utterance couldn’t form. Instead I slipped into unconsciousness.
I came to in time to hear Gid announce, “Delicious. Think we’ll finish by tonight, then? Even the roof?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“By Jove, I could eat the rest of this.”
“Ought to save some for Harriet.”
“Hmm.”
Sunshine streamed where the canvas suddenly parted. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed the light and winced again.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Want some bread and stew?”
The mere thought of food made my stomach roil. “No,” I moaned, and sighed in relief when the flap dropped and shut out the morning.
“Should have let her sleep,” Daniel said.
“Oh, she doesn’t mind.”
Gid and Daniel started going on about the cabin. In a murky place between waking and swooning, I heard snatches—“mortice the brace … hipping joints … no difference in the framework, all made to last”—without really absorbing their meanings. It hurt to move my head, let alone think with it. I drew the fuzzy conclusion that I must have caught Adam’s infection and experienced a pang that such a small person had suffered so. I was twice his size and could barely stand the torment.
Time passed. Who knew how much? Then light poured into my makeshift chamber, along with Daniel’s cautious “Harriet?”
He entered, an action that jarred the wagon and therefore my stomach. Nausea rolled through me. I groaned.
“What in the—?”
His hand touched my forehead. “My God, you’re burning up.”
How odd. I felt so cold.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, abruptly: “Hold tight, my dear.”
He disappeared. Couldn’t say I was sorry. I wanted to be alone.
Outside the wagon, Gid greeted the news of my condition with a frustrated growl and suggested they transfer me to Mrs. Gale’s care.
“But she might spread the illness to everyone there.”
“You’re right. Damn.”
The canvas swished. My brother’s voice, impatience lacquered with a thin coat of concern, entered. “Too bad you’re sick, Freddy. Hell of a day to pick for it, though.” He sighed. “Where do you hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“Head?”
“And stomach.”
“Oh, no.” The canvas fluttered shut. “Bad news. She’s never been one to handle stomach ailments well. Can’t toss up her contents. Simply can’t. She might improve faster if she could. Once, the whole family dined at the pastor’s. Mrs. Cartwright fed us breaded fish. I was suspicious of the meal right away. Smelled like the trout had washed up on a bank and soured under a hot sun. Fishy fish, if you know what I mean. Sure enough, within half a day, we were sticking our heads over the chamber pots and vomiting like mad—everyone but my sister. That nasty concoction just stewed in her poor belly, all that god-awful trout that no amount of cornmeal and parsley could doctor, the stinkiest fish you ever did—”
Lord help me. “Stop!”
“You’re not helping, Gid,” Daniel snapped.
“Oh. Sorry.”
A few minutes passed. Daniel slipped in. I felt a sudden weight of blankets, probably the ones he and Gid had been using in the lean-to. I huddled under their warmth. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything?”
My mother. I whimpered. “Water.”
This was shortly provided. I returned to a fitful sleep.
When I awoke again, the light sifting through the wagon cracks had faded to a honey hue. I cautiously stretched. My stomach felt tender and off but no longer wildly disturbed. Mostly, I felt weak.
The canvas parted. Daniel, his hair ruffled and face grave, appeared. “Better?”
“Better.”
He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he looked me over and prodded my forehead again. “Still warmish.” He clucked. “What can I get you, dearest?”
I smiled weakly at the endearment and dragged a hand out from under the covers to offer him a feeble pat. “A little broth.” I wistfully recalled Mama’s sick-food tradition of a healthful broth and biscuit. “Maybe a johnnycake, too, if we have it.” A bit of something to settle my stomach. I closed my eyes.
He didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was a forced “Certainly, sweetheart.”
Gid must have been waiting right outside the wagon, for Daniel immediately asked, “We have any griddle breads left?”
“Uh … no. Ate the last one for a nooning.” Defensively: “I was hungry.”
“Harriet wants bread and broth.” When my brother didn’t say anything, Daniel muttered, “Wish we hadn’t gobbled up the stew. I might have spooned some of the liquid in a cup for her.”
“Well, heavens, we can surely make a soup.”
“You know how?”
“Can’t be that hard. But forget the johnnycakes. Wouldn’t know where to start with those.”