Edge of the Wilderness

Twenty-eight


Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints.

—Psalm 116:15

Simon staggered ashore with an unconscious Gen in his arms. Shaking so violently he could barely walk, he managed to get back to where the team waited. Meg clutched Hope tightly, but both girls were shivering in the cold. It was pitch-black, the only light coming from a sliver of moon just now rising above the trees. Kneeling in the snow, Simon braced Gen across his lap as best he could, trying to protect her from the snow while he considered what to do. Wisdom, Father. I need wisdom.

He struggled to his feet, and in one colossal shove positioned her in his saddle. Taking his belt off, he did his best to tie her arms around his horse’s neck.

“Can you hold on to Daisy’s harness without falling off?” he asked Meg.

“I th-th-think so,” Meg chattered, beginning to cry.

“Try not to use up your energy crying, Meg. I know you’re cold. But you have to help me or Gen is going to be very, very sick. You must wrap your arms around Hope and keep her from falling off. We are going to go as quickly as we can. We must get help.” He climbed up behind Gen’s unconscious form and urged his horse forward, but the moment they began to trot Meg screeched, “Father—I can’t—hold—on.”

Immediately Simon pulled up, continuing at a maddeningly slow pace through the woods. The wind died down as he plodded along, and moonlight shone through the woods, at last illuminating the way. He could feel his pants and shirt freezing solid, but he went on. After a few moments, he realized he wasn’t cold anymore, but a pleasant flush of warmth was working its way up from his midsection and into his head. He didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything, but simply plodded on, intent on reaching the party, on dancing with Gen, on watching Meg try ice-skating.

After what seemed an age of time, he saw the light flickering through the trees. He could hear music and laughter. It took every ounce of self-control for him not to kick his horse to a lope. Finally, they staggered into a clearing. Voices were shouting, hands reaching up to take him down, to untie Gen’s body, carrying them into the barn, rubbing their limbs. Someone raised blankets around a stall to give privacy and amazingly, Dr. Merrill was there, removing their clothing, wrapping them in warm blankets, giving orders so quickly Simon’s conscious mind could not decipher them.

“My girls,” he said weakly. “My girls are—”

“In good hands, Reverend Dane,” the doctor said. “We’re taking you back to town. Now drink this.” A flask was pressed to his frozen lips. He swallowed and sputtered. Brandy, he thought. He looked over at Gen and saw that other hands were thrusting a flask at her, parting her nearly blue lips, forcing liquor down her throat. The last thing he remembered was the odd sight of her dark hair, frosted over with ice. It was melting, and little rivulets of water were running down the sides of her face, dripping off her chin, spotting the blanket just beneath her chin.

The four of them were lifted into the back of a wagon piled full with fresh straw. Jane knelt beside Gen, rubbing her limbs continually. Aaron worked on Meg, and Elliot on Hope while the doctor concentrated on Simon. Mother Leighton rode beside the driver, a man known for owning the best team of Percherons in the state. He lashed their broad black rumps, forcing them to head for the village at a furious pace. At the Leighton house, Betsy was roused to help create an infirmary in Mrs. Leighton’s parlor. Four beds were lined up and a long few days of vigilance began.



Gen woke suddenly, “Girls!” she gasped and sat up, her head pounding.

“Shh, shh,” someone said in the dark. “The girls are fine.”

Gen rubbed her eyes, which for some reason would not focus. To her left she could see the dull golden light of a fire.

“Thank God you’re awake,” the voice said. She realized it was Jane. For a moment, she thought she and Miss Jane were captives again, sleeping inside a tepee with a fire in the center.

“Where—are—we?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

“You’ve had an accident.” Miss Jane sat down beside the cot and touched her hand. “Do you remember? You tried to cross the creek and the wagon got stuck.”

Gen frowned and closed her eyes. She reached up to touch her forehead.

“Twelve stitches. That’s why it hurts so.” Jane stood up and put an arm around her shoulder. “Lie back. There’s plenty of time for questions. You need to rest.”

Exhausted, Gen obeyed and fell immediately asleep. The next time she woke, she was in bed upstairs in what had been Ellen’s room when she was a girl. No one sat beside her, but a glance at her nightstand revealed quite an array of medicines. She reached up to touch her forehead again. The headache was gone. The door opened and Simon came in. His skin was ashen, but when he saw that her eyes were open, he smiled happily. “Good morning.”

“The girls?”

“They’re fine. They have colds, that’s all. Nothing serious. A few more days and Dr. Merrill says Meg can return to school.”

She blinked, trying to clear her vision. “I remember falling into the water and something hitting my head. Just when everything went dark, I thought I heard someone calling my name . . .” She paused. “Was it you?”

Simon sat down beside the bed. He nodded. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw your wagon tracks diverge from the trail. I was so worried. The old bridge on that road was half rotten when I was courting Ellen.” He traced her hairline. “You were very brave, Gen. You saved the girls:”

“I was stupid,” she said quickly. “I should have waited to be rescued.”

“I would have done exactly what you did,” he said quietly. “Daisy and Darby are strong and unusually trustworthy. I would have driven them in and trusted them to get me across. It’s not your fault.”

“Tell me what happened after—after I went under,” she demanded.

Simon recounted the story, pausing only long enough to get a drink of water when he began to cough. When Gen expressed concern, he waved his hand in the air, shaking his head. “It’s only a little cough hanging on. I’m fine. The doctor is amazed. And frankly, so am I. Everyone says that after a winter like the last one, I should have a permanent weakness in my lungs. Everyone says I should be barely clinging to life.” He stood up and smiled down at her. “Obviously everyone is wrong.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “The only thing that remains is for you to get those stitches out in a few days. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave your hair down until that gash heals. You cannot believe the amount of blood—” He stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”

It wasn’t long before Gen’s stitches came out, her hair went back up atop her head, Meg returned to school, Hope felt well enough to throw her share of temper tantrums. Life returned to normal, and except for Simon’s slight, persistent cough, no one seemed any worse for the ordeal that would forever mark the Burnsides’ Festival of 1865 as the most memorable ever.



It began as such a little thing. But Simon’s persistent cough would not go away. Everything Dr. Merrill prescribed failed. They visited other doctors, who could offer no help. And while Simon insisted he would be fine, as the weeks went on, Gen saw hints that all was not well. He began to sleep later and seemed to have unusual difficulty rousing himself out of bed. He eschewed his walk to church in favor of riding with Jane and Elliot. Gen noticed he was short of breath after any little exertion. Even climbing the stairs to go to bed at night left him wheezing and out of breath. Finally, he began to have frequent fevers. He would spend a few days in bed and then proclaim himself well and drag himself off to mission meetings or other activities.

By the time he finally admitted that something might be seriously amiss, he had been in bed for nearly a full week, fighting raging fevers. When he began to cough up blood, Gen went against his wishes and called for Dr. Merrill’s return. When the doctor came out of Simon’s room, he looked at the circle of adults waiting for his verdict and said, simply, “Pneumonia.”

Gen looked at Elliot and Jane, and at Mrs. Leighton. “I think we already knew.” She paused. “How long?”

“Impossible to say,” the doctor replied.

“Months or weeks?” Gen demanded to know.

“Weeks,” the doctor said. “But I may be wrong. I often am. He’s a determined man. He’s fought it more than once and won.” He shook his head and put his hat back on his head.

The moment he had gone, Gen slumped on the couch, hiding her face in her hands. “Why didn’t I just wait for him? Why did I think I could drive us alone?”

“Don’t,” Jane said. “Any one of us would have done the same. It isn’t your fault. Simon’s been neglecting his health for years. We all know that.” She gave Gen a gentle shake. “You know that. Elliot and I will take care of the children. You just worry about keeping Simon comfortable.”

And so began a new season of life. Only a few days after the doctor’s visit, Simon went to his room to rest, and did not have the strength to get up. Mrs. Leighton wanted to hire a nurse. Gen refused. Never, people would say, had they seen such devotion. And from an Indian, others would add with surprise.

“Genevieve.”

From where she lay huddled on the rug beside Simon’s bed, Gen started awake. She lay with her eyes closed for a moment, thinking perhaps she had been dreaming.

“Genevieve, are you there?”

Turning around, she took Simon’s hand. “I’m here, dear. Right beside you.”

Simon lay so quiet she thought he had fallen back asleep. She watched him, heartened that his breathing seemed to come more easily. Perhaps his fever had broken. When she laid her open palm across his forehead, it was cool. She thanked God.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know, really. Not dawn, yet.”

“Sit beside me.”

Gen got up and perched on the edge of the mattress next to her frail husband.

He didn’t open his eyes, but he pressed her hand in his as a faint smile brightened his tired face. He took a slow breath and opened his eyes. “Light a lamp so I can see you more clearly.”

As Gen lit the lamp at his bedside, she leaned over to peer out the window. “I can see the very first tinges of pink in the sky now,” she said softly. “It will be dawn soon.”

“You’ve been asleep on the floor?”

Gen sat down beside him again, nodding. She stretched and grimaced. “And I must say you should hurry and get well because it’s a hard night’s rest on that rag rug.” She was surprised when her attempt to cheer him resulted in tears welling up in his eyes.

He gave the slightest shake of his head. “I don’t deserve such devotion.” He closed his eyes again as tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes, across his temples and into his hair.

Gen wiped away his tears with the corner of a linen handkerchief.

“Water,” he croaked. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

Gen got up and crossed the room to the marble-topped nightstand where Dr. Merrill had left an assortment of powders and medicines alongside the blue-and-white pitcher and bowl.

After a few sips of water, Simon settled back against his pillow and sighed. “I love you, Genevieve. But not—” His voice broke. “Not as much as I have loved myself.” He swiped his hand across his forehead before pointing toward the nightstand. “Bottom drawer. A book. Bring it.”

Gen recognized the book immediately. Clutching it to her chest, she drew a high-backed oak, chair to the bedside and sat down.

He opened his eyes. “Open it,” he said. “Behold how selfish a man you married.”

Gen opened the book, obediently turning the pages before she looked up at him. “I don’t understand. How could your having my father’s journal be a testimony to selfishness? I—I thank you for letting me see it.”

He lifted his chin and pressed his head back into the pillow, straining to fill his lungs with air. “Help me sit up a little, will you?”

While Simon clung to her arm and raised himself up, Gen added more pillows behind him. Before she could sit back down, he clutched her hand and brought it to his cheek, bathing it with silent tears. “Having you in my life,” he gasped, “has been such joy. At times I was nearly afraid to breathe for fear I would waken from the dream.” He released her hand, moistening his lips before continuing. “You gave me every happiness I imagined, Gen—and some I never dared hope for.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I sound half mad, don’t I?” Finally, he looked at her. “I kept you for myself, Gen. He told me to do it, and I convinced myself it was for the best, but now—” He sighed.

“Stop talking like you aren’t going to get well, Simon,” Gen said, half frightened.

He looked at her, his eyes bright with emotion. “Stop pretending I am, Genevieve. It doesn’t help.” He began to talk, the words pouring out like water from a broken dam. “I didn’t know it then, but Daniel Two Stars did not get hanged in Mankato. Elliot and I saw him. Last winter. At Fort Ridgely. He—he gave me this—” Simon touched the diary. “—And he said to forget I had seen him.” He stole a glance at Gen before continuing. “I wanted you so badly for myself, Gen. And for the children.” He almost whispered, “Mostly for myself.” When he began to cry again, Gen held his hand between hers. “Part of me thinks you should hate me for keeping you from him. I—I cannot bear to think of meeting God with this unconfessed.” He turned his face away.

The misery in Simon’s face sent a raging torrent of sympathetic love tearing through Gen’s heart. “Don’t—don’t,” she urged, grasping his hand. He tried to pull away, but she forced him to let her raise it to her lips and then to her cheek where her own tears moistened the paper-thin skin. She laid her open palm against his cheek and made him turn his face back toward her. “Look at me, dear. Look at me,” she whispered. When he finally did, she said, “I’ve known about Daniel all along.”

He looked at her, disbelieving.

“When you were so ill in St. Anthony, I went to empty your bags so I could do the laundry. The journal fell out.” She looked down at their clasped hands, murmuring, “I knew there was only one way you could have gotten it. I knew it meant something about Two Stars. Elliot told me what happened.”

“Elliot? Told you?”

Gen nodded. “He found me looking at it. I made him tell me.” She saw the question in his eyes and answered it before he spoke. “Yes,” Gen said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I knew. And yet I married you. And I learned to love you. And I would marry you again, and love you still more were I given another lifetime to do it in.” She kissed his cheeks, his chin, his lips. “You are a good husband, Simon. A good father. A good man.” Her voice trembled as she continued. “And I don’t want you to leave me. To leave us. Please. Don’t.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“For what?” she said gently. “For wanting to protect me from chaos? For doing what Daniel wanted?” She leaned over and nestled her head against his shoulder. “Two wonderful men have loved me and protected me. There is nothing to forgive. I love you, Simon.” When it seemed he was asleep, Gen slipped away from him. Taking the journal, she turned the lamp down and sat beside the window leafing through the journal as dawn light began to illuminate the room.

She must have dozed off, when Simon’s mutterings woke her again. This time when she went to him, she could see tiny beads of perspiration along his forehead. Frowning, she dampened a cloth and positioned it on his forehead. “Simon,” she said quietly. “Are you sleeping?” To her relief, he muttered, “Just dreaming—resting—so glad.” He sighed then fell to sleep.

An hour later, as the morning light poured through the window next to his bed, he woke abruptly and said, “I need Elliot.”

Gen stood up, took the cloth off his forehead and dipped it into the china basin at his bedside.

“Don’t.” He shook his head. His eyes were bright as he looked up at her and repeated, “Elliot.” He inhaled sharply, then closed his eyes as if the effort to breathe wearied him. “Alone.”

“I’ll get him.” Her petticoats rustled as she moved toward the door and made her way down the hall. She knocked gently at Elliot and Miss Jane’s door, smiling to herself at the realization that although Elliot and Jane had been married for months, Gen continued to think of her friend as Miss Jane.

Jane responded quickly to Gen’s slight tapping on the bedroom door. Peeping from beneath her nightcap she grabbed Gen’s hand. “Oh, no!”

Gen shook her head. “It’s not that. He has a slight fever again, but I think he’s better. He’s asking for Elliot.”

“I’ll come immediately.” Elliot’s deep voice sounded from the shadows in the room. True to his word, he stepped out into the hall so quickly Gen wondered if he might have been sleeping in his clothes. Only his shirt, open at the neck, gave an indication he had hurried to get dressed.

“Alone, Genevieve,” Simon said almost sternly when the two opened his door.

With a little frown, Gen left the room, hesitating in the hall. If she went downstairs she would have to contend with the servants who seemed to resent it when she made herself at home in their kitchen. She went to the top of the broad staircase and sat down, tipping her head back against the wall to look out the Palladian window and down on the garden. It was barren now, but in spring and summer it was one of the most admired gardens in the village. Mother Leighton prided herself on her talents with roses. She had promised Meg her own corner of the garden this spring.

Gen sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. Elliot exited the room and walked past her on his way downstairs. “We’ll be awhile,” he said gently. “Why don’t you take the opportunity to get some sleep?” Without waiting for her reply, he continued downstairs. He came back up again bearing a sheaf of paper, an ink bottle, and a pen.

“Mrs. Dane?” Betsy called from the foot of the stairs. “Is everything all right?”

Gen stretched and started to get up. “I think so. Mr. Leighton is with the reverend.” She smiled. “I’ve been dismissed.” “Can I get you anything?” Betsy asked.

“I’d love some strong coffee,” Gen said. “I just didn’t want to invade your territory”

Betsy grinned. “Cook guards the kitchen like it was the last stand in a battle. But this is Cook’s day off, and I certainly don’t mind if you make yourself at home in the kitchen.”



Simon lifted his head off the pillow and wheezed, “Promise me you will do it, Elliot. On God’s Word. Promise.”

Elliot looked up from his papers. “You have my word.”

Simon peered into his brother-in-law’s eyes for a moment before relaxing back against his pillow with a sigh. “Thank you, Elliot. You have been a good brother.”

A few days later, Gen sat in the parlor with Jane, waiting for Dr. Merrill to come down from Simon’s room. When he did, his face did not reveal what the women wanted to see. “But only a week ago you said he had survived the worst,” Gen said, her voice wavering. Jane put a comforting hand on Gen’s arm.

“I know,” the doctor said, stroking his beard self-consciously. “I was wrong. We could expect him to throw it off if he had been in better health, but I’m afraid he’s let his general constitution become so run down that even the slightest compromise in his lungs can be serious. And this is more than a slight compromise.” He sighed. “Perhaps I am wrong. A person’s own will can work miracles. I’ve seen it happen before. But I’ve also seen strong-willed individuals succumb to lesser cases. Life and death are in God’s hands, Mrs. Dane. I will do all I can.” He headed for the back door.

Gen went to Simon, who was resting quietly. “What does he say?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“That there is always hope,” Gen answered.

After a moment, Simon whispered, “I’m not afraid, Gen. I’ve lived a good life. God knows the best time to take me home. And if I am to go now, I do not wish to linger long, although I would be glad to stay longer for the children’s sake.”

“Stay for me,” Gen begged, sitting down next to him. “Stay for me.”

“I’m tired, Gen,” he said, and slipped away. She thought at first he was asleep, but soon realized he was nearly unconscious. His skin felt clammy.

Over the next few days, Simon had odd moments of lucidity when he woke and surprised whoever was tending him with a memory of the past or a comment on some biblical concept. Once, he asked Elliot to read hymns aloud. Another time he requested the Psalms. Meg sang to him. Aaron read an essay he had written on the greatness of God. Several times Simon gave Gen suggestions for the future, insisting that she repeat what he had said, eliciting her promise to obey him.

He wanted the children raised in New York, he said. The schools were better. “Where else would we go, dear?” Gen reassured him.

“They love Jane and Elliot, don’t they?” he asked once.

“Of course,” Gen said. “It’s almost as if they have two sets of parents.”

Simon complained of feeling dull and stupid. “I can’t make my mind think on anything for more than a second,” he murmured, “I don’t ever remember feeling so tired.”

When fever raged, his mind wandered and fastened onto impossible, imaginary things. He tried to get out of bed one night and mount an imaginary horse. “But I have to get to Cloudman’s village, Gen—they want me to marry Blue Eyes and Two Stars—they’ve been waiting—let me go.”

It was several moments before Gen could calm him down. When she did, she sat back in her chair, trembling.

One morning, he asked what day it was. “The Sabbath,” Gen answered, and commented that the children had walked up the street with Jane and Elliot to attend church.

“Ah,” Simon said, smiling happily. “I think He may come for me today, Gen.” He sighed. “I hope He does.”

That evening, Simon’s breathing changed. Dr. Merrill was summoned. He had only stepped into Simon’s room when he shook his head. “The battle will be over soon,” he said quietly, looking at Gen. “If his children want to see him—”

Meg and Aaron kissed his cheek.

Hope called out, “Pa! Pa!”, and strained to climb onto the bed.

Aaron scooped her up and nuzzled her cheek. “Pa’s sleeping, Hope.”

“Night-night, Pa,” Hope said, waving at Simon as Aaron carried her out of the room.

When Gen put her hand on Meg’s head and stroked her red curls, Meg asked in a forced whisper, “Do you think he’ll see Mother right away?”

“The minute he’s gone from us he will be there—with your mother.”

Meg kissed her father on the cheek and whispered, “Tell Mother hello, Father. Tell her we are safe at Grandma’s and we are all right.”

In the evening, Simon roused enough to swallow a few drops of tea. Gen slipped out of the room and went to say prayers with Meg. When she came back to his side, he was gone.

“He opened his eyes,” Jane said, “called out the name Ellen . . . and then took a long, slow breath . . . and that was all.”

That was all. The phrase echoed in Gen’s mind over the next few weeks. Eventually her prayers cried it out to God. Was that all, Lord? Was that all You had for me? Is my life over now?

She donned the mourning clothes Mrs. Leighton deemed appropriate and never went out in public with her face unveiled. Sabbath services were her only outing.

Not long after Simon’s funeral, Elliot Leighton left for Washington. He sent them a copy of the new agent’s report about conditions at Crow Creek. One bastion of the stockade has no roof. Plastering is needed, fences in poor condition, prairie sod badly broken. Only two cows and seventeen wagons, mostly in poor condition, to serve the population of 1,043 Indians—900 of them women. Of 170 ox yokes only thirty serviceable. A leaky boiler in the sawmill, and spoiled beef to eat. Potatoes ravaged by grasshoppers and bugs. Many Indians still living in cloth tepees brought from Minnesota two years ago. His letter concluded with, I will not have time to return to New York before departing with a commission appointed to assess the situation firsthand. At last Avery has listened to me. Perhaps now something can be done.

When Jane read the letter aloud at dinner one April morning, Gen felt a sudden stab of jealousy at Elliot’s easy departure for the West. Men had such different lives from women. She looked down at her black dress, smoothing the folds of her skirt. Lord, make me willing to be content. She spent hours in the garden working alongside Mrs. Leighton, inhaling the aroma of the damp earth, coaxing the tendrils of a vine onto the latticework gazebo, thinning raspberry bushes, doing a thousand other things to encourage new life.

Every afternoon when Hope napped she walked up the street and into the brick-walled cemetery, perching on the stone bench beside Simon’s and Ellen Dane’s graves. She could not shake the sensation that she was waiting for something—some new event or announcement that would suddenly give life as a widow new meaning. She told herself this was just grief working its way in her life. Still, she felt as if she were suspended in life like the marionettes she and the children had once seen perform at a county fair.

As soon as the soil could be worked, they began Meg’s promised garden. Meg and her grandmother mulled over plans every evening until they decided on an L-shaped plot in one corner of the yard. Meg was thrilled when her grandmother said she might have a small reflecting pool in the middle. “And we’re going to have roses,” she told Gen one evening over supper. “One bush for each member of the family. What color would you like?”

Gen didn’t know. “I don’t know very much about roses, Meg. Whatever you and your grandmother decide will be fine.”

Aaron dug the new garden with Meg and Hope working at his side picking rocks from the fresh-turned soil and carrying them to the edge of the flower bed where the women used them for edging.

“Grandmother says Mother loved red roses. So we’ll have red for Mother and Father. Pink for us children, and yellow for Uncle Elliot and Aunt Jane,” she said. From where she knelt in the garden she looked up at Gen. “And white for you and Grandmother, Gen.”

“What color for Hope?” Gen asked.

“Meg said pink for the children,” Mrs. Leighton said. “She is one of ours now.” She tapped Meg’s nose. “And you must teach her to call me Grandmother.”

Gen squeezed Mrs. Leighton’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, surprised when her eyes filled with tears.

The rosebushes arrived in a special container sent from a private garden. Gen lingered in the garden long after everyone else wandered off to pursue other concerns. From her seat on the swing beneath an oak tree, she gazed at the nine healthy bushes, marveling at the ability to order plants that might bloom the very first year they were planted. She was happy to see her vine obediently climbing the latticework up one side of the gazebo standing against the stone wall on the opposite side of the garden. Mrs. Leighton told her it was honeysuckle and would attract honeybees and hummingbirds to its orange flowers. It reminded Gen of the wild vine Jane had planted and replanted until it grew up and over the teachers’ cottage porch back at the mission in Minnesota.

Minnesota. Gen closed her eyes, remembering. When she opened them, she looked up at the blue sky and, as she had as a child, began to imagine figures in the clouds: a horse’s head, a turtle; a bird. The game brought back sweet memories . . . and one deep hurt. She must never speak of it to anyone. She was a widow, a resident of New York State, mother to three adopted children. She would be content, she told herself. Sighing, she got up and went inside. It would be summer soon. She should be glad she wasn’t back in Minnesota where Elliot said drought was making it almost impossible to grow food, where life was chaos. She should be glad. But she was not.