The Reluctant Bridegroom (8 page)

Their lives had settled into a pattern. Mary went to work
in the morning, while Rebekah stayed home and took care of Timmy and the house. She kept the house neat as a pin, and the baby filled her heart. Once she said, “Mary, I feel awful. You do all the work—and I stay home and do nothing.”

“It’s God’s hand at work, Becky,” Mary had replied. “Don’t be faulting the way He does things.”

The two of them went to the church almost every night; Rebekah had never known there was such joy in going to church. She had been apprehensive when she had first gone to pray for a young woman who was struggling with doubt, but the pastor insisted that it was the duty of all believers. The young woman had not been saved, but the following night, Rebekah prayed for another who was. Her work with the church became a joy to her, and she was happy.

Mary came home one afternoon with a newspaper one of the women had given her. As she sat down to eat the meal Rebekah had prepared, Mary had a peculiar look on her face. “Well, Becky, at least now there’s always one thing we can do—to get husbands, I mean.”

“Get a husband?” Rebekah looked up quickly, frowning. “What are you talking about, Mary?”

“Look . . .” She held up a newspaper with
Puget Sound Herald
emblazoned across the front. “Look at this—no, I’ll read it to you.” She found a notice in the middle section of the paper and began to read aloud:

“ ‘Attention—Ladies of the East! If you are seeking a new life, Oregon is your answer. The men outnumber ladies fifteen to one, so the situation is desperate! Many fine men who would make wonderful husbands are wretched for want of comfortable homes, and would lose no time in allying themselves with the fair daughters of Eve if they would deign to favor us with their presence!’ ”

Rebekah laughed out loud at the last sentence. “He must have gotten that from a romantic novel, Mary! Nobody ever actually
talks
like that!” Then she cast an unbelieving look
at the paper. “Advertising for brides! I never heard of such a thing!”

“Just you wait, now,” Mary said quickly. “He goes on to say as how a man named Asa Mercer came east last spring and got over a hundred women to go to Oregon. ’Course, he made a call for
schoolteachers
—but everyone knew that was just for the looks of things. Says every one of them women got husbands, soon as they got there.”

“You’re not
really
thinking of going!” Rebekah stared at Mary in disbelief.

Mary dropped her head for a moment, then looked up and said, “Who’d marry me in this place, Becky? And what about Timmy? You’ve seen what this place makes of kids! They learn to be thieves and grow up to be drunks. I’m thinking maybe it would be different in Oregon. I—I’d be a good wife to a man if I had the chance.”

Rebekah shook her head. “But to marry a man you don’t even
know!
Why, Mary, I couldn’t do it!”

“I’m surprised you’ve still got them romantic notions left, Becky,” Mary said soberly. “I don’t—had those knocked out of me long ago. All I want is a place for my son, and I’d work my fingers to the bone—and never look at another man—if I could find somebody who’d be decent to me and Timmy!”

Rebekah sat there, trying to fit the pieces together in her mind, but try as she might, she could not reconcile it with her ideas of marriage. “You’re serious, Mary?”

Mary moved her finger down the page and said, “Listen to this, Becky. Here’s another notice about a group that’s going to Oregon next month:

“ ‘A group of responsible bachelors in the Willamette Valley of Oregon have formed an association to promote the institution of marriage in the area. Due to the scarcity of unmarried women in Oregon, the association will provide free transportation to Oregon City for any woman who qualifies. There are some positions open as schoolteachers and music
teachers, but the primary purpose of the program is to bring marriageable women into the territory.

“ ‘Any woman who is healthy, unmarried, and who will consider marriage to one of our citizens may qualify. The virtue of all women who engage in this enterprise will be carefully guarded, and there will be a minister of the gospel to serve as a chaplain on the journey. There will be no pressure on any lady to marry any individual. Any lady who does not wish to remain in Oregon Territory will have her passage paid back to New York.

“ ‘Any woman interested in this venture can apply in person on March 15, 1839, to a representative of the association at the State Hotel in New York City. Space is limited, so membership in the association will be selected on a first come, first serve basis. Applicants should ask for Mr. Winslow.’ ”

Rebekah brushed the idea aside. “I couldn’t do it, Mary.”

Mary didn’t argue. “We better hurry and eat. I don’t want to be late to the meeting.” She could see that the idea disturbed Rebekah, but her own mind was made up. As they walked toward the church, both of them were quiet. Finally, Rebekah spoke up. “I’d miss you, Mary—and Timmy; why, he’s almost like my own!”

Mary smiled. “Best not to worry about it—Mr. Finney used to say we spend so much time worrying about what might happen tomorrow that we don’t have the strength to bear our trials for today! I don’t really expect it’ll work out—but I’m going to meet that Winslow man! Anything that’ll get my boy a daddy and a home—I’ll do it!”

CHAPTER SIX

SPECTER IN THE CITY

Just as the rigors of winter passed away from the city, a far more critical problem struck. Cholera in its most virulent form descended and struck without warning; young and old, rich and poor were equally defenseless against its onslaught. At first there were only a few isolated cases, like scattered drops of rain before a deluge, but by the first of March every block in the city knew the undertaker’s carriage and had heard the agonized weeping of the survivors.

The rich took refuge in the country, but Mary and Rebekah had nowhere to go. Mary’s meager earnings were scarcely enough to keep them going from one day to the next, so like the vast army of the poor, they remained in the city. Two families in their little cluster of houses were ravaged by the disease; despite the danger of infection, Mary insisted on going to help prepare the bodies. She had been adamantly against Rebekah’s accompanying her, however, saying, “One of us has to be well to take care of Timmy.”

The attendance at church grew as the plague claimed more and more lives. “It’s a shame that people have to have trouble to make them get right with the Lord,” Mary said one day as they got to church at their usual time and saw that all the seats were occupied. They found standing room only, but when the ministers came out to the platform, Rev. Finney was not among them.

Brother White, the song leader, came to the center of the stage and said, “We must be much in prayer. Brother Finney
is ill.” A murmur of dismay rose, but White put up his hand for silence. “It is time for the church to have faith. Our assistant pastor, Brother Reynolds, has been struck down as well. Tonight, I feel that instead of preaching, we should go to prayer for our pastors and for all others in our fellowship and in this city who are ill.”

The church prayed fervently, but the next night, there was a somber look on Brother White’s face. “We suffer loss, friends—Brother Reynolds went to be with the Lord early this morning. He died praising God. Now, we must pray for Brother Finney—pray as we never have prayed before for this servant of God!”

“It was so quick!” Rebekah said in a subdued voice when they got home. “Brother Reynolds was fine day before yesterday—and now he’s gone!” She was dressing Timmy in his nightgown while Mary made his little bed. “I feel so helpless, Mary!”

“ ‘Our help cometh from the Lord,’ ” Mary quoted in a tired voice. “That’s what the Scripture says, and at times like these all we can do is trust to God and His promises.”

After Timmy was asleep, the two women sat at the table to read a chapter in the Bible and pray, as they always did. Each night one of them would select a portion, read it, and then they would discuss it briefly before praying. Mary opened her Bible and read Psalm 23, and when she had finished, she closed her eyes and began to pray. There was, Rebekah noticed, a weariness that crept into Mary’s voice, and from time to time she would stop praying and sit there silently.
She’s working too hard,
Rebekah thought.

Finally they sat with their heads bowed, praying silently. Tired to the bone, Rebekah was about to rise and go to bed, but a thought came into her mind, not once but several times. She knew it was a verse of Scripture, but she could not place it. Finally she said, “Mary, I keep thinking of something—and I think the Lord may be telling one of us something.”

“What is it, Rebekah?”

“Well—it’s a little like a Bible verse, but not quite. It’s like someone was whispering inside me: ‘Don’t be afraid! I am the Almighty God, and my arms are under you. Am I not the helper of the fatherless? I am merciful and gracious, and my mercy is from everlasting to everlasting, and my righteousness is unto my children’s.’ ”

She stared across the table, her eyes troubled. “I don’t know what it means. Is it from the Bible, Mary?”

“Some of it is.” Leafing through her worn Bible, she came to a page. “ ‘Thou art the helper of the fatherless.’ That’s Psalm 10:14.” She studied the page and said, “I guess that’s plain enough. My Timmy is fatherless.”

“And my baby will be too,” Rebekah added quietly. “I think the part about not being afraid is for me. Even though I’ve found Christ, sometimes I get to thinking about how my baby will make it, and fear just rises up in me.”

Mary reached over and squeezed Rebekah’s arm. “I think the rest of what you said is somewhere in the Psalms too. Let’s see if we can find it.”

They started searching, and finally Mary said, “Here it is! It’s in Psalm 103—in verses 8 and 17!” While Rebekah found the place, Mary looked at her thoughtfully. “The word of God has come to you, Rebekah! Look what it says in verse 17: ‘But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear him, and his righteousness unto children’s.’ ”

Rebekah read aloud the last phrase: “ . . . and his righteousness unto children’s.” She looked up and tears glittered in her eyes as she said in wonder, “Why—that’s Timmy and my baby, Mary! God says He’ll take care of them!”

“If God says it,” Mary announced, “then that settles it! I’ve been so afraid that this cholera would strike Timmy, but God says He’s going to help the fatherless—and that’s all there is to it! Glory to God!”

“I think that’s right!” Rebekah answered happily. “I never knew God would speak to people like this! I’m not going to doubt Him anymore!”

Mary said slowly, “I hope you won’t, Becky—but it gets hard sometimes. Right now we’ve heard from God, and we’re feeling happy—but we have to remember times like these when things get bad.” She paused, and her face brightened. “But God has given us a promise—and we’ll help each other to remember it!”

For a week Brother Finney lingered between life and death, but on the next Sunday, March 6, it was announced that he was through the crisis, and the church went wild with joy. “I knew the Lord wouldn’t take him from us!” Mary cried out happily.

The following Tuesday she came home from work early, her face pale with fatigue. “I’m feeling a bit down, dear,” she said to Rebekah. “But I think if I lie down a bit, it’ll pass.”

Rebekah’s heart sank, but she kept a smile on her face, saying, “It’s probably just a bad cold. You get into bed and I’ll fix you some warm broth.”

But it was not a cold, and both of them knew it. Mary’s fever rose and the diarrhea and vomiting began. By morning she was delirious, but in those brief moments when she was herself, she cried out to Rebekah, her eyes wide with fear. “My Timmy! Take him out of here!”

“He’s over at the Satterfields—don’t worry, Mary,” Rebekah said. By noon she was worse, and one of the neighbors managed to get an overworked doctor named Gleason to stop by. The thin man was haggard, and his eyes were hollow from lack of sleep. Bending over Mary, he examined her briefly, then lifted his eyes to Rebekah. “You know what this is?”

“It’s the cholera, isn’t it, Doctor?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “Are you a relative?”

“No. I—I take care of her little boy.”

Dr. Gleason bit his lip, then said, “Her family should be told.”

“She has no one.” Rebekah’s heart filled with fear. “Is she going to die, Dr. Gleason?” she whispered.

He turned to look at the sick woman, who seemed to have
dozed off into a fitful sleep. “She’s very bad—very bad! I’ve seen worse cases recover—but it would take a miracle.” He turned to leave, but paused. “I’ll see that the boy gets a place to stay.”

“The orphanage?”

“It’s not a bad place,” Gleason assured her. “Maybe it won’t come to that. Give her the medicine. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

He left and as soon as the door closed, Mary’s voice caused Rebekah to move at once to her bedside. “What is it, Mary?”

“What was it he said—about Timmy?” Mary’s face was a skull, the flesh stripped so quickly by the virulent fever, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. “He said the orphanage, didn’t he?”

Rebekah picked up a damp cloth and wiped the perspiration from the sick woman’s brow. “You’re going to be all right, Mary. Don’t worry—”

“No! Don’t let them take him there, Rebekah!” Mary sat up and grabbed at Rebekah with frantic strength. “I was brought up in an orphanage! Let him die, God—but don’t let him go to that place!”

It was all Rebekah could do to hold Mary in the bed, for fear had given the sick woman strength. Her voice rose, and she fought wildly—but it didn’t last long. She fell back, pleading with Rebekah. “Don’t let them take him—please don’t let them!”

“I won’t!” Rebekah took her friend’s hand tightly in her own. “They won’t take him, Mary! I swear it!”

Both of them were weeping, and finally Mary fell into a feverish sleep. Rebekah rose from the bedside and went to the basin, washing her face and hands. She was trembling all over, her heart beating wildly. Sitting down at the table, she rested her arms and hid her face on them, trying to get control. She tried to pray, but her mind whirled and it seemed to do no good.