Her Healing Ways (9 page)

The frantic tolling blasted through Mercy like gunpowder. She had read once in a newspaper that a woman had confessed to being “drenched with terror.” Now Mercy knew exactly how that felt. The familiar twin jolt of energy and alarm rushed through her, the same jolt that had come whenever a cannon had roared.

She rushed from the church and over to her office to gather up supplies she might need for victims of a cave-in. Instead of wounds caused by grapeshot and lead bullets, she would no doubt be faced with the aftermath of bodies crushed or struck by falling rock and wood supports.

Like a bee straight to its hive, a sudden thought whizzed through her. Pierre Gauthier was a miner.
Father, protect this fine young man. Indigo's heart would be broken if anything happened to him.

L
on stood, looking over the still-swinging doors of the saloon. He watched the town race like a pack of rats up the street toward the mountainside. He fought the urge to grab his hat and join the exodus. He gripped the top of the doors and stopped them from rattling. Or tried. Not only did he hear the pounding footsteps pelting down the wooden sidewalk in front, but the sound also communicated through the wood vibrating in his hands.

He released the doors and turned away. As he did, he saw Mercy. He cursed himself for his weakness in continuing to think of her as “Mercy.” He saw that she was hurrying along with the others, her black bag in her hand, racing to the rescue. Lon turned away, resisting the urge to follow her.

He recalled that recent evening when he'd ended up going to her cabin. Why had he felt the need to tell her he intended to leave? Had he somehow
hoped she'd try to talk him out of going? While she hadn't, her startled-wide eyes at his announcement had haunted him ever since.
But I'm right. This town is bad news.

Would the Quaker never learn to watch out for herself first? Had she already forgotten that after saving countless lives from cholera, this town had handed her less than five bucks for her tireless efforts? Had she already forgotten that no one in this town would rent her a room because she had adopted a Negro orphan in the war? His gut burned with the injustice.
Well, perhaps St. Mercy can forget, but I won't.

 

Mercy arrived at the mine as angry gray clouds scudded fast and free overhead. In the milling crowd, she tried to decide whom to approach. Who was in charge? Who would
take
charge?

Mercy began looking around and then realized she was seeking Lon. For all she knew, Lon was already gone. That thought gave her the familiar empty, lonely feeling.

Even standing on her tiptoes, she couldn't see a leader of the rescue effort. If only she were taller, or she'd been a tomboy, like her sister, Felicity. If Felicity were here, she'd climb a tree to get a bird's-eye view of the crowd.

Then Mercy glimpsed a tall man with red hair. It was Digger Hobson, the mining company manager. She began threading her way through the crowd, which was becoming larger and larger by
the minute. As she ventured toward the man, the throng surrounding him became tighter and tighter. She was soon forced to beg men to give way to her. They did, of course. Even though she was an odd woman, she was still a woman and must be treated with deference.

“Digger Hobson,” she said, arriving at his side, panting. “How serious is it? Are men trapped?”

Amid all the other voices clamoring for information or giving advice, he glanced down at her. “I'm glad you're here.”

His simple, direct words were both welcome and unwelcome. If he were glad to see her, it must be gravely serious. Heart throbbing, she drew in a calming breath. “Has the rescue effort begun?” she asked.

During this exchange, the men around him had quieted, listening. Raising both hands, Digger spoke in a strong, ringing voice, “We're trying to figure out what exactly has happened. There are some men inside assessing the situation.”

“Have there been cave-ins here before? Does thee have experience in recovering miners alive?” she asked. At her questions, more and more people fell silent around them.

“I've been in mining most of my life, so, yes, I have experience.” Digger gave her a grim look. “We've had a few minor cave-ins, but this sounded bigger to my ears.”

His words hung in the air over them all. “I will stay as long as I am needed,” she said.

He reached for her hand and gripped it momentarily. “If you weren't here, we'd have to transport any injured a day's journey to Boise. So thank you.”

Mercy's insides clenched, thinking of injured men lying on buckboards, being rattled over bumpy trails and getting reinjured on that rough trip. Some would die from the journey itself.

From the mine entrance, a younger man came forward, shoving his way to Digger Hobson. “The rescue party is ready, Monsieur Digger. We have filled already our oil lanterns. The equipment, it is ready, and we have the new beams to hold up the unstable walls. You must only give the word.”

Mercy was relieved to recognize the young man as Pierre Gauthier. She learned much about him in that moment. He was at the forefront of the rescue effort, which meant Digger Hobson trusted him. And Pierre Gauthier was concerned—very concerned—for others. Indigo had chosen well.

Digger nodded to Pierre, then raised his hands and his voice again, saying, “The crew has cleared away the loose debris. Now they're going to work their way into the mine. They have to move slow so they don't set off another cave-in. Everyone should fall back so we can maneuver—”

“Please!” Ellen Dunfield called out from where she stood with the other miners' wives. “Please, we
need to know who's in the mine.” The women around Ellen added their voices in agreement.

Digger Hobson frowned. “If you don't see them here, they're probably in the cave-in.” Many of the women gasped in unison. “Now everyone fall back and open paths for my men to work.”

“I'll stay with the women until I'm needed,” Mercy declared, mustering all her strength and will. She headed straight for Ellen. She took Ellen's small, cold hand in hers and led her away from the workers. And as if she were the leader, most of the women followed her. She led them higher on the nearby slope so that they would be able to see yet not be in the way.

“We must not give in to fear,” Mercy declared. “‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'” she quoted. Spontaneously, all the women joined hands and bowed their heads.

“Please pray for us, Dr. Mercy,” Ellen said, her brave voice quavering.

The anxiety mounting all around Mercy pulled at her, weighing her down. Still, in this request, she discerned the silent pleading for reassurance and hope. She took a deep breath and prayed aloud, “Father, we need Thy mercy and provision. Loved ones may be in the mine. We ask that Thy presence enfold them, that help will be able to reach them in time. Help us pray as we ought to.” Then she began the Lord's Prayer and the women all joined in.

When Mercy looked up, tears still streamed down the women's faces. But they had all drawn together.
They had put this awful occurrence into God's hands. They would face this together.

Then the waiting began. Strong winds from the southwest buffeted them, making Mercy tie her bonnet ribbons tighter. The racing clouds darkened. They became a moving gray-flannel roof over each head. And, below, the gloom of fear hovered over each heart. How long would it take the rescuers to reach the trapped men, the husbands and fathers who loved and protected them?

 

Lon stood alone in the dim, shuttered saloon. After hours of no customers, even the bartender had been unable to resist the call of the mine cave-in. Alone, hands in his pockets, Lon walked to his bunk in the back room. He sat on it and stared at the blank wall. It was time to start packing—Idaho Bend was not working out for him. First had come the cholera, then being stabbed nearly to death and now a cave-in. It was time to move on to a luckier place. He pulled his valise toward him. His belongings were sparse. His hand touched his father's gold pocket watch and his mother's locket. He held one in each hand. Who could have predicted that they would die while he was away, facing bullets, sabers and grapeshot?
Mother would have liked Mercy.
He crushed this errant thought and thrust the two mementos back into the pouch where they belonged. Maybe going all the way to the Pacific would be a good change for him. Mercy Gabriel was claiming too much of his mind.

 

Near evening, Indigo led the children she had been watching during the church meeting to the mine site. They walked hand in hand up the last few feet toward the women around Mercy. The children ran to their mothers, who folded them into their arms. A sudden harsh gust of wind grabbed their skirt hems, twirling them. Some mothers lost their bonnets to the wind and their children chased and caught them.

Mercy overheard children asking about fathers and uncles and older brothers, and mothers soothing them. The wind snatched at their voices, carrying them far. But Mercy's heart ached for these little ones. They could barely understand anything, except that something bad had happened in the mine and that something more dreadful might come.

“I kept them away from here as long as I could,” Indigo murmured into Mercy's ear, “but they need supper.”

Mercy took Indigo's hand in hers. “Pierre is helping with the rescue effort.”

“You saw him?” Indigo's eyes revealed the strain of unspoken worry.

Mercy nodded and squeezed Indigo's hand. She knew the longer it took to reach the trapped miners, the less hope there would be for survivors. The rescuers were also in danger of subsequent cave-ins. Closing her eyes, she grappled with this hard fact. She opened her eyes, refusing to give in to the despair that clutched at her spirit like icy fingers.

She faced the women. “If thee must go home to care for and feed thy children, go. Indigo and I will stay, and she will bring word to thee if any progress is made.”
Or if thy loved one is pulled from the mine—living or dead.
She didn't need to say this out loud. Why should she? It was what they all were thinking, fearing.

Blinking rapidly, Ellen Dunfield swallowed down obvious tears. “Thank you, Dr. Mercy. The children must be taken home for some care and comfort. It's best for them.”

Mercy appreciated this young woman's quick response and the assurance it brought to the rest of the waiting women. Ellen lifted her son into her arms and took Missy's hand in hers. Together they started down the rise toward town. Soon only women without children remained on the hillside.

Mercy noticed that several older men were starting a fire at the mine entrance. Even protected as it was from the wild wind, the blaze sent sparks flying high on the relentless gusts.

Ma Bailey came into sight around the bend, walking between the shafts of a two-wheeled cart, dragging it behind her. From the cart, the wind carried the scents of biscuits, bacon and something sweet. Ma stopped by Digger. “I made biscuits and fried bacon, Mr. Hobson, for the men working to open the mine. And I'd already baked cinnamon rolls for tomorrow's breakfast.”

Mercy waited to hear what the tight fisted
woman would be charging for this needed and welcome food.

“It's free,” Ma barked as if arguing with someone unseen, “to the workers.”

Mercy stood, astounded. The wind took advantage of her distraction and untied her bonnet ribbons. She caught the bonnet just before it sailed away.

“I just hope no one comes out dead,” Ma said, looking mournful.

Mercy wished Ma Bailey hadn't added this, but she couldn't find fault with this cantankerous woman today.

Indigo spoke up, “I have food I can bring, too. I baked bread last night. I'll go home and get it.” Several other women hurried along with Indigo, calling that they would be back soon with more food and drink for the vigil.

The older men continued to tend the fire at the mine entrance. A few held spades, ready to put out any sparks that might escape and ignite the grass. The orange flames were welcome against the graying sky and the chill from the damp ground.

Suddenly, Mercy missed Lon Mackey. Had the whole town come out to work together—even ill-natured, stingy Ma Bailey—while he had stayed behind? Could it be that he was truly gone already?
Lon Mackey, if thee is still here, thee must come. Thee will never forgive thyself if men die and thee did nothing. Thee may deny that, but I know thee better.

 

The long evening stretched into a long night, and the rushing wind brought the scent of rain. Mercy wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself. Men kept working, digging through the blocked mine shaft. The sound of their picks and shovels could be heard even above the surging wind. The men took turns coming out periodically to warm their hands by the fire, drink strong coffee and swallow any food handed to them.

The mothers had returned with their children. They had tucked them, wrapped in blankets and quilts, into mining wagons to sleep together, to comfort one another. It was touching to see little children patting each other and talking softly.

In light of the coming storm, large canvas sheets had been set up and lashed over the wagons, making snug tents. Mercy and the mothers clutched shawls around themselves and paced around the fire, shivering and praying.

Distant thunder sounded against the stiff wind, stirring the night. She found herself glancing at the mining shack where the rescuers would take anyone they carried out. And then her gaze would return to the fire at the mine entrance. There lantern lights flickered as men went in and out.

The impetuous, worrisome storm rushed toward them—closer, closer. Over the western mountains, lightning flickered ominously. Which would come first—survivors from the mine or the big storm
bearing down on them? Finally worn out, she leaned back against one of the wagons filled with sleeping children.

“Mercy.”

She jerked upright. Lon was standing beside her. He had come. Golden joy surged within her spirit. She threw her arms around him, so solid, stalwart—so welcome.

Bright lightning splintered overhead.

Sudden thunder hammered like a blacksmith working iron.

By the crackling lightning, she glimpsed two men carrying a miner from the cavelike entrance. She ran toward them, Lon's hand in hers. Lon jogged beside her, trying to make himself heard. Mercy couldn't understand what Lon was shouting in her ear, but there was no time to stop. The brunt of the violent storm had reached them.

Lightning flashed quick and steady like the tapping of a telegraph key. Cold rain poured down on them, snatching Mercy's breath. Thunder pounded, battered them. Jagged lightning streaked, struck and ignited.