When Breaks the Dawn (Canadian West) (4 page)

FOUR

Supply House

Even though I had tried to brace myself for the intrusion into my home, I found I was totally unprepared for what happened.

The rain of course did not help matters. Everyone who came through the door brought with him mud and water that gathered on my wooden floor in dirty little puddles—which eventually got to be big puddles.

There was no use trying to clean them up. The men came in a steady stream, groaning under the weight of the crates and boxes. At first all of the supplies were stored in Wynn’s office room, but soon that was filled to overflowing and the men began to stack the boxes in our living area.

I knew as well as anyone that the need for those supplies was now. I knew too that there simply was no other place in the village where they could be unpacked. It was unthinkable to try to sort and distribute it all in the rain.

By the time the last of the boxes were stacked high in our small quarters, our house no longer looked like a home. Nimmie, who had been the traffic director, of sorts, found one of their boxes, and with hammer in hand, busied herself looking for dry clothes for Ian. This reminded me that, with the boxes now all inside, Wynn, too, would be able to change into dry clothes. As Wynn shut the door for the last time and the men with the teams climbed aboard to drive off, leaving deep ruts in what had been our front path, I turned to Wynn and implored him to take the time to change his wet clothes.

He did not argue but went to the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, not wanting to waste time. I mournfully watched the muddy tracks as they followed him out of the room.

Without comment to our two guests, I went for the mop pail and the mop.

As soon as Wynn had returned from the bedroom, looking much better and safer in dry clothes, Nimmie sent Ian in to change from his wet things.

Wynn reached for the mop. “Here, let me, Elizabeth,” he offered, but I held on to it.

“You have enough to do without mopping floors,” I told him. “I can’t do much, but I can at least do this.”

Wynn looked at the heaped-up crates and nodded his head. Ian soon joined him and the two went to work. With hammers pounding and boards squeaking their protest, the sacks, tins, and cartons with their intriguing labels—flour, tea, coffee, sugar, and such— began to stack all around us.

I looked at Nimmie, hoping she would suggest we head for her temporary cabin again, but she didn’t. Instead, she began sorting things into piles. I gathered my energy up and joined her.

We worked for hours, and then I looked at the clock and checked with Wynn.

“Would you like me to fix us a cup of tea?”

He straightened rather slowly, placing a hand on the small of his back, and he too looked at the clock—seven minutes to four. We had been working without a break since our noon meal.

“That would be nice, Elizabeth,” he answered. “We could use that.”

I went to work on it right away. I wished I had something special to go with the tea. But the cold biscuits from the night before spread with some jam Mary had sent would help to refresh us some. Our dinner soup did not stick to the ribs for long when we were working so hard.

The men did not sit and sip their tea. I feared they might burn their mouths, but they were soon back at their task.

It was shortly after five when Ian went to the door and began hammering on a tin drum.
What a strange way to celebrate the
unpacking of the last crate of the day,
I thought.

Ian saw my questioning look and smiled a tired smile. “It’s the dinner bell,” he told me.

“The dinner bell?” My eyes traveled again to the clock.

“We told them that we’d call them when we got the supplies unpacked so they could come and get something to prepare for their suppers.”

“Oh!” I nodded in understanding. Many of the Indian people probably had nothing in their homes with which to prepare a meal, except perhaps a little meat from the day before. No hunting detail would have been assigned on this day as every available back had been bent to the task of getting the crates unloaded.

As soon as Ian’s call rang out, lines of hungry people began to form at our door and make their way through to hold out baskets, pails or pots to be filled with food for their evening meal.

It seemed like the rain-soaked stream would never stop—and stream it truly was. My mopped-up floor was soon a river of muddy water again.

Wynn stopped doling out supplies long enough to ask me to start a fire in the fireplace. Our door was constantly open and the room was chilly with the damp air.

Seeing the relief and gratitude in the hungry eyes of those who came, I quickly chose to ignore the muddy water that ran from their clothes and feet and thanked the Lord instead that the supplies had arrived in time. I marveled that we had actually managed to make it through the tough months of early spring without disease and death overtaking the village.

I smiled at the hollow faces and the outstretched hands, often saying a few words in their native language to welcome them to my home and to express my thankfulness that they and their families had stayed well.

It was dark now and the evening air was close to freezing. The rain clouds would keep actual frost away, but the line of people at our door—mostly women, with an occasional girl or a man holding out the container—certainly would have a cold walk home.

No one lingered. They were concerned with one thing only— to get their needs for the evening meal and to hurry home to their fires so they might prepare it for the family.

My own household needed an evening meal too. I did not as yet have my own food supplies replenished. Our boxes had been stacked in a pile at the far end of the room. There was not room for me to open them in the already crowded room, so I gave up the idea of heading for the corner with hammer in hand. The leftovers from the big pot of stew I had made the night before would have to do.

I got out the cold stew and put it on to heat. Then I set to work making another batch of bear-tallow biscuits. I nearly choked at the thought of eating them for yet another meal. I had so looked forward to having something new from the supplies—so near yet so out of reach!

The men would not stop to eat until every home in the settlement had been supplied. It was late by then. Nimmie and I had already nibbled on the biscuits. With hunger gnawing at me, I had to admit they tasted rather good. Especially when I spread them with Mary’s jam.

It was almost eight o’clock when the door finally closed and the tired men straightened up and reached for a chair. I dished up our overheated stew, put out the now-cold biscuits and we gathered around the table.

Our table prayer was a little longer that night. In a reverent voice, Wynn expressed his thanks to God that the people of the village would not go to bed hungry on this night. I knew he felt it very deeply.

There was no room left on the floor for the McLains to spread their fur robes. Wynn suggested that he and Ian take the furs and blankets and go to the Lamuir cabin, and Nimmie stay with me again.

I wanted to protest. Not that I wasn’t glad to share my bed with Nimmie, but I didn’t like to think of Wynn, as tired as he was, sleeping on the floor in a cold cabin. The window still was not fixed. That was Ian’s job as soon as he discovered where the glass had been packed. There was no wood for a fire. The mud walls were not thoroughly dry in the damp, rainy atmosphere. It would not be a nice place to spend the night.

Nimmie protested, answering us that she was quite able to sleep in the cabin, but Wynn insisted that she stay in our house; and Ian, rather reluctantly, supported him.

In ordinary circumstances, Nimmie could have slept on our cot, but even that was stacked high with sorted-out supplies.

At last the men ventured back out into the damp night, their arms filled with blankets and furs which had been bundled in slickers to protect them from the rain.

Nimmie and I were too tired to spend any more time talking. We simply stacked up dirty supper dishes and headed for the bed. I did not even stop to wash all that mud from my floor.

FIVE

A New Day

A soft stirring in the cabin aroused me from a deep sleep. With my wakefulness also returned a consciousness of my circumstances. It was Nimmie who shared my bed, not Wynn.

Nimmie needed all the rest the all-too-short night would afford her, I thought as I slipped cautiously out from the covers and dressed in the semidarkness. The men would soon be looking for their breakfast. I tiptoed from the room, shoes in hand, and carefully closed the door behind me.

In the soft light of the oil lamp I found Wynn back at work on the supplies. I could tell by the way he moved that he was making a great effort to be quiet—which of course hampered his agility. He looked up when he heard me.

“Did I waken you? I’m sorry. I tried—”

“That’s fine. I needed to be up anyway. I have so much to do and—”

My eyes traveled to the table where I had left dirty dishes the night before. They were all gone. I looked then at the floor I was dreading to clean. The mud too was gone. I glanced back at Wynn, embarrassed that he should have needed to do housework in addition to his other tasks. He was reaching for a hammer. With the loud bang, I let out a little gasp. The hammer stopped mid-swing and Wynn’s eyes met mine.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, the hammer still poised for the strike.

“You’ll waken Nimmie and she needs—”

“Nimmie?” Wynn said cheerfully. “Nimmie was up and left for her cabin the minute I arrived, and that was almost an hour ago.”

He turned his attention to his task.

I blinked. How had Nimmie wakened, dressed, and left the room without my hearing her?

Wynn finished with the board and laid aside the hammer.

“I invited them for breakfast again. After that they expect to be on their own.”

“So soon? Their window isn’t even fixed.”

“Ian’s working on it right now, and Nimmie is busy doing the rest of the cleaning. They expect to move all their things out of here this morning. Then Nimmie says we should be able to have our living room back again—at least most of it.”

“I’m sorry about the dishes and the floor—” I began, but Wynn stopped me in puzzlement.

“Sorry about what?”

“That you had to clean up.”

“I didn’t clean up.”

“You didn’t?”

“It looked just like this when I got here.”

“Nimmie!” I said, the light finally beginning to dawn. “Nimmie must have gotten up and cleaned everything early this morning.”

Wynn nodded in agreement, his attention back on what he was doing.

“And I was sleeping,” I chided myself.

“I’ve found you some supplies,” Wynn remarked, seeming not to have heard the scolding I was giving myself.

Supplies?
Our supplies! I hurried over to Wynn and peered into the box he was opening.

“This is just flour, sugar, salt and such,” said Wynn. “You might be more interested in those other two boxes. They came from Mary and Jon.

It seems forever since I have seen so many good things.
I rejoiced as I stacked the treasures around me. Mary and Jon had thought of everything. They had even packed fresh fruit and vegetables. The Calgary newspaper piled up on the floor as I unwrapped item after item. There were even fresh eggs and butter.

I was about to crumple the newspaper out of the way. “Save that, would you please,” Wynn suggested. “We’ll even get to catch up on some world news, thanks to Mary’s foresight.” Carefully I began to smooth out each sheet of newspaper, sorry that in my eagerness I had unwrapped so hastily and carelessly.

When I turned to the kitchen, eager to get at the special breakfast I was planning with all my wonderful new supplies, Wynn was carrying armloads to our storeroom and arranging the things for our future use. Already a welcome little square of our floor was beginning to show. How I looked forward to having my house neat and orderly again.

By the time I had our sumptuous breakfast of fried eggs, jam, fresh oranges, bran muffins, and oatmeal porridge ready, I heard Nimmie’s and Ian’s voices as they came up the path. Peering out the window, I noted it was still raining.
This day will be no more pleasant than yesterday,
I groaned.

Wynn opened the door for our guests, and I began to dish up the food for the table. On the back of my stove stood a bubbling pot of potatoes. I just couldn’t wait to taste some. We had been without potatoes for weeks! I had told myself as I peeled them before breakfast that I would cook them to fry up for our noon meal. Now as I sniffed their fragrance, I knew I had been fooling myself—I’d never wait for dinner. A bit shamefaced, I put them in a dish and set them on our breakfast table.

After everyone was seated and the morning prayer said, I reached first for the bowl containing the potatoes. Yes, the oatmeal would surely taste good, the oranges would be a wonderful treat. And I could hardly wait for a bran muffin with real butter rather than dry biscuits. But the thing I wanted most was a good helping of potatoes, even if it was breakfast.

“This is silly, I know,” I said, blushing, “but I just can’t wait for a taste of potatoes again. I never realized how much I missed them until I saw them there this morning, all fresh and round, without wrinkles in their skins or sprouts all over them.”

Ian smiled and winked at Nimmie in understanding. I sprinkled salt and pepper, dabbed on some real butter and lifted a forkful of potatoes to my mouth. They were just as good as I had expected them to be. I savored the mouthful, enjoying it to the full.

Wynn, too, bypassed the oatmeal and reached for the steaming bowl. “You’re going to have potatoes, too?” I asked, surprised.

“Sure am,” he laughed. “I was afraid when I smelled them cooking that you were going to make me wait for our noon meal. I was wondering how I might sneak a few from the pot without getting caught.”

We all had a good laugh. Nimmie and Ian allowed us our potatoes, and they ate the oatmeal and muffins.

After breakfast Ian went for the team and wagon so their things could be taken to the cabin in a single trip. The rain had slackened, but their belongings still needed to be tucked under canvas.