The Barefoot Bride (4 page)

A shiver raced down Molly's spine. The
Mary Lee
was the whaling vessel that had seen James's ship go down. Roger Sturgis, the captain of the
Mary Lee,
had been James's best friend. Molly felt queasy at the thought that someday Whit would want to go to sea and be a whaler like his father. She leaned back in the captain's chair in which she sat and arranged Nessie more comfortably in her lap, tucking the little girl's head under her chin.

“Did you say hello to Captain Sturgis?” Molly asked.

Whit's gray-green eyes sought out the seams in the planked wooden floor. “I did.”

“What did he have to say?”

Whit's whole attention focused on the toe of his shoe, which he was trying to fit into a knothole one-tenth its size. “Not much. Only that the
Mary Lee
is ready to sail on the morrow.”

Molly shook her head and smiled faintly. “He never was a talkative man, as I remember. Well, dinner will be ready soon. Go wash up.”

Whit seemed reluctant to go. He stood there a moment longer, opened his mouth, shut it, then backed his way out of the room.

Molly had never understood the attraction of any man for the sea. The sea was so unforgiving, and it took as often as it gave. She had already tried to interest Whit in some other occupation than whaling, but so far, without much luck. She took comfort in the fact that Whit was an obedient child; she only hoped she could lead him away from a life on the sea.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Whit said few words. Nessie said nothing. Molly was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice. She
put Nessie down to bed right after they had finished eating and soon after came to help Whit get settled for the night.

When James was alive—and at home—he had helped Whit at bedtime while she took care of Nessie. Then they had changed places for a last good-night kiss. Now Whit depended on her to follow James's ritual. Molly wasn't James, and she couldn't ever take his place. But because she understood Whit's loss, she did as her son asked and ignored her own feelings of awkwardness.

She sat down beside Whit, gave him a quick hug, then helped him scoot down under the covers. She began firmly tucking the wool blanket around him, following the shape of his lanky frame down one side, as he had told her James used to do.

Molly was tucking her way up the other side when Whit stopped her. “Wait,” he said. “You forgot to do my toes.”

“What?”

“Da always used to go around my toes.”

Molly took a deep breath and bit down on the cry that sought voice. /
am not your father. Your father is dead!
Instead, she forced a smile and tucked down Whit's side again and around his toes and back up the other side.

“Thanks, Mother,” Whit said. “That was almost as good as Da.”

Almost as good.
Molly leaned over and kissed her son on the forehead. The ceremony was done. Not as good as Da. Not perfect. But all either of them had. And a constant painful reminder to both of them of all they had lost.

“Good night, Whit. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mother. Remember that. Whatever happens.”

Molly frowned. She opened her mouth to ask what Whit meant, but he turned and tugged the covers up over his shoulder—in complete disregard of all those careful tucks —and said, “Good night, Mother.”

She blew out the lantern and left the room to seek out her own bed. She could finish the letter to Seth Kendrick in the morning.

But in the morning, her son was gone. All Molly found was a note on Whit's pillow.

Molly raced for the wharf that cloudy spring morning with her heart in her throat. She couldn't seem to catch her breath and held a fisted hand against the agonizing stitch in her side nearly the whole way. She half-laughed, half-cried in relief when she reached the wharf and saw the
Mary Lee
had not set sail. From the activity on deck, it appeared she didn't have much time to find her son.

“Hold! Please, hold!” she cried as she stumbled up the gangplank.

“Hey! You, there! No women on board ship!” a sailor cried, reaching out to stop her. “It's bad luck!”

She eluded him, shouting at the top of her lungs, “Whit! Whit! Where are you? Please, don't do this!”

A superstitious lot, the sailors turned ugly. The intruding woman might prove an ill omen for their entire whaling voyage. The men on deck formed a menacing circle to keep her from stepping farther into their domain.

Molly perched her fists on her hips and tipped her chin in the air. Her long black hair whipped in the brisk wind. “I'm not leaving without my son. Now please find him and bring him to me.”

“Here, now. What's the trouble?” Captain Sturgis wasn't happy about being called on deck by the first mate to settle a disturbance. He couldn't believe his eyes when he sighted Molly Gallagher.

“Why, what's this, Molly? What are you doing here?”

Molly let out a heartfelt sigh of relief when she saw the friendly face before her. “It's Whit,” she explained. “He's signed on as your cabin boy.”

“Yes, I know,” he said.

She waited for him to say more, but with dawning horror realized that James's friend approved of having her son on board his ship. “You can't take him,” she said, her voice sharpened by anxiety. “I won't let you.”

“The boy wants to go, Molly,” the captain said. “You can't keep him a child forever.”

“I don't intend to!” Molly retorted. “But I'll not lose another of mine to the sea. So bring him here, and I'll take him home.”

“He wants to go,” the captain said.

“I don't care what he wants,” she snapped back. “I'm his mother. He'll do as I say.”

Captain Sturgis turned to a nearby sailor. “Tell Whit Gallagher I want to see him on deck.”

Molly's heart lifted when her son appeared. But from the defiant look in Whit's eyes, it was clear he wouldn't come of his own accord. She turned to the captain, her feelings bared for him to see. She said only, “Please, Roger.”

“Come here, Whit,” the captain said.

The tall, reed-thin boy obeyed immediately. The brisk sea wind ruffled the boy's collar-length black hair as he stepped forward. His fisted hands were hidden deep in his pockets.

“Your mother does not wish you to go, lad.”

“1 am the man now, sir,” Whit replied. “I must earn a living for my family.”

“No!” Molly said. When they looked at her she added, “It's not necessary. I've found a way to take care of us.”

“Oh?” The captain arched a questioning brow.

Molly swallowed hard and said, “I'm going to be married again. To a man in Montana. That is why Whit must come with me
now.
There'll be no one for him to come home to when you return in three or four years.” Her throat had tightened so much in fear that the last few words came out in a raspy whisper.

“I see,” the captain said. “Well then, lad, I think you had best go with your mother.”

“But, sir—”

“I am the captain, lad. You will obey my order.”

A flush began at Whit's neck and worked its way up to pinken his fair-skinned face. It was the only visible sign of his distress as he answered, “Yes, sir.”

Molly reached out to put a hand on her son's shoulder, but he jerked away and started down the gangplank without a word to her.

“Thank you, Roger,” she said to the captain. “Thank you for my son.” She rushed after Whit.

The sun had come out, but the narrow streets of New Bedford did not feel it. The warmth was held at bay by giant oaks and hickory, bushy elms and pointy-leafed maples.

They had traveled more than halfway home before Molly finally caught up to her son. When she touched Whit's shoulder, he whirled on her. In his face was all the agony
of humiliation and embarrassment a ten-year-old boy can feel when he is trying to act as a man before men, and his mother treats him as a child.

‘Til just find another ship,” he said, his face flushed, his sea-green eyes bright with unshed tears. “Next time I won't leave you a note. Next time I won't give you a chance to stop me.”

“Whit, I—”

“How could you lie like that?” he demanded. “Captain Sturgis would never have put me off the ship if you hadn't told that made-up story! There is no man to marry in Montana, is there? I mean, there couldn't be. You would never force us all to go so far from New Bedford—so far from the sea. Would you?”

Molly didn't know which accusation to answer first. But the thought of Whit running away again—and he could easily manage it with the number of whaling ships that would be leaving New Bedford over the next few weeks—made it clear what she must do. She struggled for the words to explain her decision to her son.

“It's true, Whit. I am to be married again. For the past several months I've been corresponding
with a man in Montana who advertised in the paper for a mail-order bride.”

“How could you do such a thing?”

“I don't know why I answered the ad. Yes, I do. I wanted something better for us. And Whit, he wrote me back, and he sounds like a very nice man. He's a country doctor and … in his most recent letter he asked me to come to Montana. He asked me to be his wife.”

Whit was aghast. “You can't marry another man. Da is—Da is—”

“Dead.” Molly spoke softly, but the word had a finality that was unassailable. She yearned to reach out and fold her son into her arms. But it was clear that even though he was a boy in years, he had a man's pride.

Whit scrubbed at his pooling eyes with the back of his hand. “You don't have to do it,” he said. “I can earn a living for us.”

“By going to sea? No, Whit, I shan't allow it. I've made up my mind. I'm going to marry him.”

“You can't do it! You can't! Da is barely cold in his grave!” Whit whirled and fled toward home.

Whit's threat made it imperative that Molly act, and with all possible speed. Once her mind was made up, she didn't waste any
time. A letter was posted that same day to Seth Kendrick, agreeing to marry him and promising that she would be heading west within the next several days.

Molly also wrote to Cousin Rupert saying she was “sorry not to be able to take him up on his kind offer.”

Then she began packing. Among those items she couldn't bear to leave behind were her mother's rose-patterned china, a walrus tusk carved by the Esquimaux that James had brought home from a whaling trip to Point Barrow, and a ship in a bottle that James and Whit had made together the year James had been laid up at home with a broken leg—the year Nessie had been born. Last, but not least, was a painting of a sailor harpooning a bowhead whale amidst the icebergs of the Arctic. In the distance, a whaling ship—James's ship—was pictured in all its splendor.

All their warmest woolen clothes got packed, of course, since Doctor Kendrick had warned that Montana winters were harsh. She added a box of books—including an autographed volume by Massachusetts-born poet Emily Dickinson—because he had said the winters were lonely. Only they wouldn't be quite so lonely now, she supposed.
Even less lonely than Doctor Ken-drick expected, actually. Because he would be getting a little more family than he was counting on. An additional son and daughter, to be precise.

The three of them left New Bedford a mere two days later, during which time Whit was never out of her sight. The trip across country by train as far as St. Louis, and by steamboat from St. Louis up the Missouri River to Fort Benton, was as fascinating as it was frightening.

It wasn't so much the change in terrain that made Molly realize the momentousness of what she had done. Although the terrain did change tremendously. The lush, tree-laden hills in the east flattened out into grassy rolling prairies. More telling was the size and number of the towns they encountered. As they traveled farther west, the settlements became fewer and farther between and grew smaller. Finally, they were no more than mere whistle-stops for wood and water tended by a single man. That was when it dawned on Molly that she had left the civilized world behind and was heading into the wilderness.

They were in bustling St. Louis only a single
day before the
Viola Belle
left on its journey up the Missouri. In contrast to the tiny Pullman sleeping car on the train, their accommodations on the steamboat more closely resembled those in a sumptuous hotel.

Molly had reserved one of the two staterooms aft, a spacious cabin with a four-poster bed, washstand, and built-in closet. A door with a curtained window in the upper half of it opened onto the deck, which ran completely around the boat.

They made about fifty miles the first day, at the end of which Molly saw her first Indian. He rode along the bank following the steamboat, practically naked on his pony. His posture was proud, erect—graceful and threatening at the same time. He was a Sioux, the captain told her, part of a tribe that expected them to be carrying flour and tobacco for tribute—tribute that wasn't on board. That night they anchored in midstream, and the captain left guards posted to keep a sharp lookout for attack.

Molly didn't close her eyes all night, terrified of being killed in her sleep. The next morning, the sun dawned bright and hot, and it was as though the threat had never existed. That day she saw her first herd of huge,
shaggy buffalo, so vast they seemed to cover the entire prairie.

The places along the river had strange names—Rattlesnake Springs, Wolf Point, Alert Bend, Painted Woods, Devil's Race Ground, Mule's Head Landing, Osage Chute, Brickhouse Bend, Hole in the Wall, Elk Horn Prairie—all of which sounded as untamed as the land through which they traveled.

In the towns where they tied up at night, she met army wives who told of their loneliness. She saw it for herself when they steamed past log cabins where solitary women sat barefoot in rockers with children on their laps. Molly began to have an inkling of the immense difference in the life she and her children could expect to have on the frontier. As the unknown became known, her trepidation increased. In all-too-short a time, their journey was at an end.