Sisters of a Different Dawn

By Darcy Williamson

Sisters of a Different Dawn is the tale of two women ~ New Englander Sara Gray and the Shoshone, Umentucken, of southeastern Idaho ~ two women who are as different as the Shoshone Indian is from the Methodist-Episcopalian in the 1840s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darcy Williamson
• Release date: Mar 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984313600

Darcy Williamson

I am an award-winning author of more than twenty-three books, a Rocky Mountain herbalist, and naturalist. As an independent business woman I own From The Forest, an herbal business that specialized in apprentice training as well as seminars and educational programs. My hobbies include hiking, camping, cross-country skiing, and gardening ~ enjoying the great outdoor opportunities provided by my central Idaho setting. Aside from my eBooks, I currently have three books published by Caxton Printers, Ltd., (Basque Cooking and Lore; River Tales of Idaho and The Rocky Mountain Wild Foods Cookbook) plus two recently published titles, Healing Plants of the Rocky Mountains and McCall's Historic Shore Lodge.

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Sisters of a Different Dawn

By

Darcy J. Williamson

PUBLISHED BY:

Darcy Williamson on Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 by Darcy Williamson

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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ISBN 0-9843136-0-5

Dedicated to my mother, Janet Sally Williamson

A special thank you to Linn Wallace for his time and effort proofreading Sisters of a Difference Dawn.

~ Contents ~

Chapter 1 Sara Gray

Chapter 2 Umentucken’s Story: As Told by Captain Jesse Reed

Chapter 3 Sara Gray

Chapter 4 Umentucken’s Story: As Told by Captain Jesse Reed

Chapter 5 Sara Gray

Chapter 6 Umentucken’s Story: As Told by Captain Jesse Reed

Chapter 7 Sara Gray

Chapter 8 Umentucken’s Story: As Told by Captain Jesse Reed

Chapter 9 Sara Gray

Chapter 10 Umentucken’s Story: As Told by Captain Jesse Reed

Chapter 11 Sara Gray

Chapter 12 Sara Gray

Chapter 13 Sara Gray

Chapter 14 Sara Gray and Umentucken

Chapter 1 ~ Sara Gray

During the autumn of 1848, when the hillsides surrounding Boston were the color of straw, and trees within the Common had lost their reds and golds, I first felt the pain well up from deep within me. That mixture of repressed emotions ~ restlessness, fear, longing for things I had yet to experience ~ was soon to become a constant companion. I stood on a hillside overlooking the shipping docks of South Bay when that first sharp feeling overcame me. The ocean that day was the bluest of blues beneath a clear afternoon sky. Then, toward the north, a mountain of dark gray clouds boiled up over the horizon, and even beneath the midday sun, the air around me chilled. The long bleak winter was about to begin.

I dreaded the coming season. Father was a traveling preacher of the Methodist Episcopal Church, though since that spring he had been ill and could not continue his circuit. We had journeyed to Cambridge where he could seek medical attention, but by midsummer he was confined to bed.

The price of our lodging at the Cambridge Inn, combined with the costly medicines the doctor administered with increasing regularity, dwindled away the money he had set aside, and I was forced to sell our mules and wagon.

It was then that I wrote to seek the assistance of Mrs. Thornton of Boston, the widow of the wealthy and eminent Maxwell Thornton. She came within a fortnight and greeted me with the warmth of a long-lost friend, though she and I had never met.

She and Father had become acquainted a year earlier while she was visiting her sister near the Cape. She had heard Father preach and, impressed by his words, had denounced the Episcopal Church to become a member of the Methodist. Shortly thereafter she began to make substantial donations to further its cause.

Mrs. Thornton quickly took stock of our plight and immediately arranged to move us to one of the cottages she kept near her home out-of-town visitors in Boston. I believe that the move from Cambridge worsened Father’s condition.

I began to spend the majority of my time at his bedside. Occasionally Mrs. Thornton would spell me, and it was then that I walked to the hillside above the docks and watched the activities below ~ the ships, the excitement of those returning from faraway places, the anticipation of those preparing to go. Yet my desire to linger was always overshadowed by thoughts of Father. Duty would draw me back, and I would hasten home, fearful that he had needed me during my absence.

Winter that year didn’t bring deep, insulating snow, but wind and freezing cold. I was forced to stay indoors, bundled in my long woolen cloak, with the windows shuttered to keep as much heat as possible in our small quarters. The tallow dips flickered and wavered as the wind drove through the cracks of the walls to chill both rooms in spite of the warmth of the fireplace. Sometimes the drafts were so brisk they whisked out the candle flames, and I resorted to Father’s ancient pewter lamps. The whale-oil fumes filled the room with a rancid stench far worse than that of the tallow dips.

I piled extra covers on Father and kept hot coals in his foot warmer, but it all seemed to have little effect. The cottage smelled of sickness and death which no amount of cleaning could diminish. How I grew to disdain the odors and the cold. It became an embarrassment to allow even Mrs. Thornton entry to the rooms, but without the relief she provided, I believe I would have gone mad. Night after night I sat at Father’s bedside. When he was conscious, I read him scriptures from his Bible. When he slept, I thought about Momma and felt tremendous sadness.

Momma was born in the city of New York. She and Father met shortly after he arrived from Ireland. They married with her parents’ blessings, and within the year, I was born. What a contrasting impression we could have presented to the world. Momma ~ blue eyes dancing in a face of peace-filled beauty; skin like ivory satin; full, pink lips; petite nose. She was overshadowed by her tall, thin husband: Father ~ his gray eyes brooding; prominent nose protruding; mustache and beard framing a thin, stern mouth.

I matured a mixture of both, the best of neither. My forehead is like Father’s, my skin like Momma’s and my nose neither petite nor prominent. I was fortunate not to acquire Father’s mouth, though I also failed to acquire Momma’s. My two dramatically featured parents produced a plain child.

Momma was always filled with laughter. When Father came home and found us giggling together, he immediately began one of his lectures on the sins of frolic. Momma just gazed at him, a soft smile on her lips and a special look in her eyes, which told me, even at my early age, that she saw something in the man that I could not even begin to comprehend.

Father always preached ~ at home as well as on his circuit. Sometimes I felt that if there were no Bible, there would be no Father. When I read the Bible, his words would leap out at me from the pages, but reading the words somehow made them softer than when Father spoke them.

Momma died when my brother Myram was born. I was seven years of age at the time of my brother’s birth. During those brief years with Momma, I knew her more deeply than I knew Father after our twenty-seven years together.

During the winter as Father lay dying, I couldn’t help asking myself why he so desperately clung to life. I would have liked to believe that he was awaiting Myram’s return, since he was aware that I had written Myram of his illness. But I knew it wasn’t so. Still, I didn’t tell him that my last two letters had been returned unopened. Nor did I share with him the one letter I had received from my brother almost five years earlier. It was far too dear to me to risk Father’s ridicule. But I read and reread it until the paper began to crumble from all the tears I had administered to it:

August 18, 1844

My Dearest Sister,

I beg your forgiveness regarding the profound tardiness of this letter. As you well remember, I always procrastinated when the time came to put pen to paper. The September before last, I wrote to Father. He has yet to acknowledge my letter, which leaves me to assume that I have not yet been forgiven. Since I received no word from you, I assume he has kept my letter and my whereabouts to himself.

Dear Sara, I regretted my abrupt departure. Should I have taken you into my confidence and revealed to you my plans to venture west? I thought it wiser to spare you all knowledge, so that Father could find no blame with you.

Upon our arrival at Pittsburgh, Sam Clark and I were hired as deck hands on a steamship. This was not the romantic occupation we had envisioned upon leaving New England, but gainful employment nonetheless. Some months later during a supply drop in Independence, we chanced upon some members of Hudson’s Bay Company. Their tales of the hardships and adventures faced in the Rockies excited us beyond belief. We finished our duties aboard the steamer, fetched our pay, purchased provisions and trekked west across the Plains.

Our hopes had been to hire on with the Hudson’s Bay Company at Fort Hall. However, they had had difficulty amassing enough furs among those already occupied at the fort. We were fortunate in securing permission from some free trappers to accompany them into the Rockies to work as camp keepers. With time we became trappers as well. There are but few pelts to be had, the beaver having virtually been trapped out during the past ten years. I have been fortunate in securing enough pelts to trade for provisions which will stay me throughout the winter.

Sam Clark has moved on to Oregon, lured by the promise of a land of milk and honey. I shall stay and winter again at the bottom lands of Fort Hall. I love the Rockies with fierce intensity. If I am forever swallowed in this vast, unchartered land, so be it. The Rockies are my destiny ~ this I firmly believe.

Your Loving Brother,

Myram

No, it wasn’t Myram that kept Father fighting; it was the fear of death. And God. I remembered Myram saying that once ~ that Father feared God. That Father, despite of all his studies of the Bible, had misinterpreted who and what God was. At that time Myram’s criticism angered me. I attributed his statement to his dislike for our father. I hadn’t suspected that there may have been truth in Myram’s words. Not until I had watched Father refuse to die.

Yes, that winter I fought the cold and Father fought God. It had seemed to me that if one were destined to win the battle, it would have been Father. But I was wrong. One frigid January night God finally loosened Father’s grip and took him away. I had napped at Father’s bedside and woke to find him gone. He had left behind his shell, but unlike the shells found cast upon the beach, sand-rubbed and lusterless, Father’s shell stared at me with fear-stricken eyes. I grieved at his bedside ~ not because he had died, for I had wished an end to his imprisonment, and God forgive me, my own as well, but because of his fear. I prayed to God to forgive that fear and take pity on the man who did not understand the lessons of his maker.

I had been unprepared for the resentment brought about by Father’s death. Since Momma’s death twenty years earlier, I had been consumed with caring for Myram and Father. When Myram left at the age of fourteen to find his own path to freedom and sanity, I became more deeply devoted to Father in an effort to fill the void. Father, in his greed to find favor with God, had ignored my future. My emotions at the time of his death were such a paradox. How could I condemn Father’s fear of dying when his death left me fearing life? I truly loved my father, but during the pain and confusion of that time, I could have wished him damned to the devil had I not known that he had feared God more.

Mrs. Thornton had come to the cottage the afternoon following Father’s death and found me sitting at his bedside, staring at the sooty, patch-worked quilt that covered him. She bundled me in the woolen cloak that had slipped from my shoulders and fallen to the floor. She took the large fur-lined hood from her own head, fastened it upon mine, and hastened me to her carriage.

Though the journey to her home took less than thirty minutes, it seemed an eternity to me, for time seemed to stand still. My only memories of the ride are the endless clopping of hooves on the cobblestones and the soft warmth of Mrs. Thornton’s hands as she briskly rubbed mine in an effort to bring warmth and circulation. When the carriage jogged to a halt, I was hustled into a large, brick mansion. Servants rushed me up a wide, marble staircase and into a room warmed by a blazing fire. I was quickly undressed, vigorously rubbed with warmed towels, dressed in an oversized flannel gown, and placed in a huge featherbed with soft, down quilts drawn up around me.

I remember no more until I awoke the following day to the sound of a fire cheerfully consuming wood and the faint odor of pine smoke. I gazed about, hazily taking in the details of the room, trying to place where I was, and at the same time trying to hold from my memory the reason that had brought me here. But it washed over me nonetheless ~ a great wave of grief with icy fingers of panic rippled within me.

I must have cried out, for the door burst open and Mrs. Thornton hurried to my bedside. I wept in her arms for what I fear must have been an inexcusable length of time. Later a young servant she called Anne brought a silver tray with tea steeping in a pot, delicate China cups, and small buttered sandwiches filled with finely diced chicken and pickles. I find it strange, that while consumed with grief, the tea and sandwiches made such an impression that I remember them still.

The funeral was held the next day, though I felt ill prepared to attend. Mrs. Thornton, having local influence, had arranged to have Father buried in King’s Chapel burying grounds. She also arranged a mourning dress of heavy, black, woolen cloth, sewn for me by her personal seamstress. Few people attended the funeral ~ most of them friends of Mrs. Thornton’s that had been persuaded to pay their respects. Considering the trauma I had suffered during the previous days, I was standing up well under the procedures until the preacher began to cite the fact that Father had been a God-fearing man. Mrs. Thornton steadied me and led me to the waiting carriage.

During the following days I barely left my bed. I memorized each detail of the room ~ the way the sun streamed through the lace-curtained windows and highlighted the fine surface of the black walnut washstand; the matching bed on which I rested, with its ornately carved headboard; the pair of rosewood chairs with velvet cushions by the fireplace; the great hooked rug of muted beige, green, and rose which dominated the polished hardwood floor. On the mantle above the fireplace was the alabaster figurine of a seated woman draped at the waist. At the foot of the bed was a mahogany blanket chest with two drawers, and against the wall stood a large, walnut wardrobe. Never had I been surrounded by such elegance.

Soon my fascination with the room diminished, and I began to play a rather sinister game. I let all adult reasoning slip away and became a pampered child. I filled my mind with fantasies in which I became various persons of great importance. So desperately did I seek freedom from myself that I feigned sleep when I heard footsteps approaching for fear that voices would jar me from my created world and leave me soberly facing the existence to which I truly belonged.

My self-indulgent state ended rather abruptly. As usual, when I heard footsteps approaching along the corridor, I closed my eyes and turned my head away from the doorway. The door opened, then slammed shut again, and from the hallway I heard the irate voice of a man: Anne! Anne! Come at once! Do you hear me? At once!

I heard Anne scurry up the staircase, the hard soles of her shoes tapping lightly on the marble, and I heard her muted voice on the far side of the door. I couldn’t distinguish all his words, but I had no trouble with the man’s disconcerted voice.

What do you mean, she’s an acquaintance of Mother’s? Where is Mother?

Anne’s muffled explanation was followed by more shouting.

She’s visiting. She left a girl sleeping in my room and went visiting? This is preposterous. I will not tolerate this!

Then as his voice faded down the stairway, he repeated his pronouncement. I-will-not-tolerate-this!

I sat upright in bed, heart pounding, consumed with a trapped feeling. My weakness and lethargy vanished as survival instincts took hold. I dressed hastily, filled the wash basin with cold water, and freshened my face. Atop the washstand lay a silver comb, and with great disdain, I plucked from it several short brown hairs before I straightened my own tangles.

Once presentable, I paced before the fireplace, believing that at any moment the disagreeable man would return and demand that I remove myself from his room. I was most appalled. Not once during the ten days of my stay had I suspected that I had been resting in a man’s room, sleeping in a man’s bed. My eyes dared not stray to the half-nude alabaster figurine on the mantle.

Just as the sky began to darken beyond the curtained window, I heard a light rapping on the door, and Mrs. Thornton waltzed in, cheeks a-flush.

Oh, Sara! she said, you are awake. And dressed. My Dear, I am so delighted to see you looking well and refreshed. I had so hoped you’d be feeling strong enough to join us for supper. There is someone here you simply must meet.

With that, she practically dragged me to the stairway, where she paused briefly to do some last-minute preening before the large gilded mirror. Then we rushed down the steps and around the corner to the dining room.

There at the head of the table sat a man in his thirties, his soft plump hands resting on the table before him. He held his chin extremely high, giving the impression of snobbishness ~ or perhaps it was a method he had devised to keep his double chin off his neck. His lower lip was larger than his upper, which gave him a perpetual pout. Thin brown hair was parted to the side, with locks that swooped across a receding hairline. He stared at me with eyes the color of watery tea.

Sara, said Mrs. Thornton, this is my son, Edward. Edward, Sara. She guided me to the chair at her son’s left and seated herself opposite me.

So, Edward began, we have a street waif as a house guest. What a pleasant change.

Mrs. Thornton flushed. I wouldn’t call the daughter of a preacher a street waif, Edward. I have clearly explained to you her situation.

Ah, yes. The penniless daughter of your mentor, Samuel Gray. I must say, Mother, you do keep life colorful. I never know from one visit to the next just who you’ll plop down before me. You see, he added, turning to me, Mother has the misconceived notion that she may rightfully select her own daughter-in-law.

Edward! You are being extremely rude. Mrs. Thornton’s cheeks were blushing pink.

I have nothing against Miss Gray, Mother. It’s your meddling and matchmaking that sets my teeth on edge. You fear I’ll marry a trollop ~ or worse, marry not at all, and you would be deprived of those grandbabies you so clearly crave.

I looked at Mrs. Thornton, waiting for her to clarify the situation ~ to deny any intention of using me as a pawn in a matchmaking scheme. Her cheeks merely took on a brighter hue, and she cast her eyes to her plate as though wishing our supper would miraculously appear and divert the conversation. There followed what seemed to me a long, ugly silence.

Finally I cleared my throat. Mrs. Thornton, I hold you in high esteem. Never have I been treated with greater kindness, and I intend to repay that kindness in whatever way I can. However, it would be a greater honor to become your indentured servant than betrothed to your son, for I do not find him at all to my liking.

You jest, Edward said, as though bemused.

Not in the least, I assured him. I am fully qualified to serve. Mrs. Thornton, you know I am a strong and able worker. Please consider my offer.

I wanted to tell her that I had nowhere else to go. I felt frightened and alone, and I wanted to weep in her arms as I had after Father died. Instead, I looked into her face with all the intensity I possessed. I wanted to show pride ~ not insecurity. I did not want her pity. And most assuredly I did not want her son. All that concerned me then was clearing my debt with her.

You owe me nothing, Sara. I implore your forgiveness. It was extremely inconsiderate of me to have placed you in this awkward situation, especially since you are still in deep mourning. Furthermore, you are far too gentle to be paired with one possessing Edward’s crassness and insensitivity. I’ve had Anne light a fire in the room you will be occupying. Let us retire there and have Anne bring our supper up.

Now you both jest, Edward cried. Mother! Who shall dine with me?

I do not know, Mrs. Thornton mused. I suppose Anne may.

My new room was not as spacious as Edward’s, but it clearly had been decorated by a feminine hand, giving it a coziness the other lacked. All Father’s and my things from the cottage were neatly stacked in a corner. I knelt beside the pile and sorted through it until I found my little pecan-wood box that contained Momma’s locket and Myram’s letter. I clasped the box close to me.

I had your and your father’s things brought to this room, Mrs. Thornton said, so you wouldn’t need to face them until you were ready. With Edward’s unexpected return, you have moved to this room earlier than planned. I hope seeing these things hasn’t upset you. Goodness knows the events of the evening have been upsetting enough."

I find comfort in them, Mrs. Thornton. Thank you for bringing them. Before our supper arrives, let us talk about settling my debt with you. Father taught me that kindness can extend only so far and then it must be repaid. Please, let me find a way to repay yours.

We talked late into the evening. It was decided that I would remain as Mrs. Thornton’s companion. I would accompany her to social engagements once my period of mourning was concluded and she had schooled me in the social graces. Along with room and board, she insisted that I accept a small wage.

One evening in mid-February as Mrs. Thornton and I visited in her room, there came a knock upon the door. When I opened it, there stood Edward in a long, fur coat and beaver-skin hat, his neck wrapped with a thick, woolen scarf.

Miss Gray, I thought you might enjoy the pleasure of my company this evening. The moon is full, and you would delight in seeing the city by moonlight, I’m certain. Fetch your cloak and come along. The sleigh waits.

I stepped back into the room, for I had no desire for a moonlight ride with Edward Thornton. But his mother had already grabbed up a cloak and thrown it about my shoulders; she hastily fastened a fur hat on my head as she spoke.

What a delightful idea, Edward. Sara could use the fresh air. She has been so pale of late. I’m sorry I haven’t boots to fit your dainty feet, my dear, but if you bundle them in extra woolen stockings, they should remain warm. Here, take my woolen mittens, for it is very bitter out. And do have an enjoyable evening. She kissed me on the cheek.

Numbly, I walked down the staircase to the front door, where I stopped to strap the pattens onto my shoes. Edward went ahead to the sleigh and seated himself behind the driver. Reluctantly, I followed and climbed into the seat beside him as I silently admired the double-seated black and red cutter and the matched pair of Hackneys. Edward draped a fur robe across our laps and signaled to the driver.

As we got underway, my apprehension slowly receded. The night air was frigid, but I did not feel chilled. A week earlier it had snowed, and crystals on the crusty surface shimmered like millions of diamonds in the moonlight. Everything was covered with a layer of glitter ~ each branch of each tree sparkled. Other sleighs passed us, drawn by prancing horses with beards of hoarfrost. I felt my heart lighten. Hold onto this moment, I cried to myself ~ savor it, for contentment is so fleeting, one never knows when such feelings will again return. I ingrained in my heart the sound of the snow that squeaked beneath the runners, the near and distant tinkle of sleigh bells, the snorts of the horses as their breath froze in their nostrils.

We rode along the Charles River until we reached the back bay, where the water had frozen, leaving open only a tiny rivulet. Skaters glided along the blue-green ice, their way lighted by the moon and the lanterns that swayed from overhanging branches. Our sleigh paused briefly as we listened to the peals of laughter and the slicing sound of blades cutting the ice. Then the driver took us around the Commons and past Beacon Hill. The gold-domed capitol building stood out against the star-speckled sky, and again we paused as we gazed up at the gilded magnificence of that historic structure.

But all the beauty, the joy, the excitement dissolved in an instant, for Edward Thornton had the audacity to place his hand upon my knee. I let out a shriek, leapt from the sleigh, slipped upon the icy surface of the cobblestones, and twisted my ankle. Edward gave out a lusty laugh, for he found the moment quite humorous.

How dare you place a hand upon me, Edward Thornton! I yelled. How dare you take such a liberty? I shall be hard-pressed to find any forgiveness in my heart toward one as unsympathetic as you.

A small group of onlookers began to cluster about, whispering. Their presence embarrassed me all the more, so when Edward reached down to take my hand, I allowed him to assist me into the sleigh. The ride home was extremely chilling, and made all the more unbearable by Edward’s frequent snickering, for he clearly had been amused by the scene he had caused. Once home, I limped up the staircase to my room.

Mrs. Thornton opened the door between our rooms. Did you have quite a nice time, dear?

Quite, I replied simply, and quickly turned down the bedside lamp so that she would not detect the tears of humiliation that slid down my cheeks.

A week later Edward again came knocking at my door. It was Saturday afternoon, and Mrs. Thornton had gone visiting, leaving me with some time to myself. He stood at the door with two pairs of ice skates in his hand.

I have come to take you skating. Here, he said, flinging the smaller pair toward me, I borrowed these from the sister of a friend of mine. She had intended to use them this afternoon herself, but when I told her of you, shut away in this house day upon day, she reconsidered.

I have not the least intention of going anywhere with you, I objected as I tried to ease the door closed. But he held it open with his foot.

Sara, have I angered you in some way? If so, I desire your forgiveness.

He did not sound sincere, nor did he appear contrite. But it was a beautiful day, and it had been years since I had had the pleasure of skating. Quickly, I reconsidered, fetched my cloak, and hurried