Daughter of Grace Read online

  “But it’s . . . it’s—it’s just like a book!” I exclaimed in disbelief.

  “It is a book. Real book pages, bound in calf-leather. I had it made at a bindery.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Parrish!” I said. “I don’t know what to say! How can I ever thank you?”

  “I thought it was high time you graduated from that tablet I got for you last Christmas. But look inside the front cover!”

  I did so. There, embossed in gold, just like it was the title of a book, were the words—The Journal of Corrie Belle Hollister.

  I treasured that volume, carrying it with me wherever I went for the next two weeks, being extra careful over everything I wrote in it, trying to make it as neat as I could so the inside would look as good as the outside. Pa was probably right about me being a mite fanatical, and when Mrs. Parrish gave me the book, it only made me think about writing things down all the more.

  So I could see easily enough why Rev. Rutledge would be taken with Mrs. Parrish, and would want to say his thanks to her, even though he didn’t do it in so many words. For the way I figured it, that church building was as much her doing as it was Pa’s or the minister’s or anybody else’s. If it hadn’t been for her, there wouldn’t have been a Rev. Rutledge in Miracle, and no church built either.

  As I’d been thinking about him and Mrs. Parrish, the minister had gone right on talking.

  “So let us be hopeful as we move into the future together—hopeful that blessings will come as a result of this building we have built. Let us now join our hearts together in prayer to the God who has given us strength to accomplish this task in His name.”

  He paused, and throughout the small building everyone bowed their heads.

  “Almighty God, we thank thee for blessings thou abundantly bestowest on us thy servants and children. And now, our Lord and our God, we dedicate this building to thy service and thy glory. May we be ever mindful of thee when we enter herein, and may this church be a light to the lost and weary of the world. We pray, too, that the school which will also utilize this building will be a beacon for the light of truth for every child who comes here to learn. Let those of this community support both this church and this school with our time and our resources and our energies for the ongoing work. May both the church and the school of Miracle Springs grow to influence this town and this community for good and for thy glory. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost we pray. Amen.”

  Chapter 4

  The Town Picnic

  As we rose from our seats and walked outside, everyone had a smile on his face. It was such a good feeling to see the whole town friendly and together. For once there were no bickerings or disputes or differences. Even the saloons had agreed to close down for the whole day. Of course, not everyone was in church, but many were, and I figured there’d be a lot more at the picnic.

  As we made our way to the door in the slowly moving crowd, folks were talking and laughing and visiting. Pa came behind us, chatting a bit with Doc Wiley. Up by the door Rev. Rutledge was shaking people’s hands as they left the church, and I could see that Mrs. Parrish had joined him and was on the other side of the door doing the same. I found myself wondering if she hadn’t wanted to be a minister’s wife instead of a business woman—she looked like she enjoyed it. I steered the kids in her direction.

  “Well hello, Tad!” she said as we reached her. “Becky, how are you today? And Emily—how bright you look in that pretty dress! Zack, it’s nice to see you,” she said, giving Zack a firm handshake. Then she turned to me. “Oh, Corrie,” she said, giving me a hug, “isn’t this a great day? We’ve waited for it so long!”

  I can’t even recollect what I said—it must not have been anything too important. There was a lot of noise and folks were pressing all around us. And the other four kids were already out the door and running off yelling like dogs that had been cooped up in a shed for two days.

  “I have something I must talk with you about later,” Mrs. Parrish said softly into my ear, “. . . maybe during the picnic.” Then louder to Pa as he came up behind me, she added, “Perhaps your family can join Avery and me this afternoon.”

  I glanced back hopefully at Pa, but he just gave her one of his in-between sort of looks and answered, “We’ll see, ma’am.” Before anything else could be said, we were out the door and Mrs. Parrish was greeting the people behind us.

  The town picnic! The images of that day stood out in my mind so clearly I could hardly go to sleep that night. It wasn’t so much that any single thing happened. It was more the picture of the whole day—the sounds, the faces, the food, the kids all running about, the fiddle music and dancing, and most of all the togetherness of the townsfolk. It was one of those rare moments when people put aside their differences and came together in friendship, as a community instead of a bunch of separate parts squabbling about things that didn’t even matter.

  I couldn’t get out of my mind the picture of Pa and Mr. Royce, the banker, shaking hands, or Rev. Rutledge helping one of the saloon ladies to her seat. The looks on the faces—most of all, the smiles and laughter—were so vivid! I didn’t want to ever forget that people could be this way to each other. I wanted to remember every detail of the day—every face, every sound, every bit of laughter, every smell, every taste.

  Sometime around two o’clock in the afternoon, I went off by myself for a spell. I walked up the sloping hillside east of the grassy meadow next to the church building. I must have walked five or ten minutes, while the shouts and sounds behind me were gradually growing fainter in the distance. Finally I sat down next to the big trunk of a gnarled old oak tree and turned around to look back.

  It was just like I’d hoped it would be! There was the church, white and shining in the sunlight, off to the left. Then all over the meadow below me were the townsfolk, in big clusters and little clusters, men talking, kids running about playing games or chasing a dog or each other. Two long rows of tables had been put up with boards where the ladies were spreading out enough food to feed an army. We were supposed to start eating in about an hour, which was just enough time for what I wanted to do.

  I opened up my satchel and pulled out a big sheet of drawing paper and my drawing pencil. Once Mrs. Parrish found out I liked to draw as well as write, she got me some sheets of extra big paper, and now I spread one out in front of me, trying to capture the picture of the picnic. I’d be able to write about the day in my journal later. But to make a memory I could see—that was something I had to do right then!

  I started with the church building. I guess that was the natural place to start, because that’s what the picnic was about in the first place. Then I drew in some trees, a few of the town buildings in the distance, the tables with the food on them. And then it was time to start trying to fill in the people.

  I couldn’t help noticing Mr. Alkali Jones first of all. Even way up where I was sitting I could hear the high cackle of his voice, although I couldn’t make out what he was saying to Patrick Shaw. He was probably giving him some kind of advice on how Mr. Shaw could get more gold out of his mine. The Shaw claim ran over the hill right next to ours, but up till now Mr. Shaw hadn’t found nearly the rich vein folks thought he should have from the way Pa and Uncle Nick’s vein ran. Mrs. Shaw was over by one of the tables cutting up a turkey she’d roasted, and her two children, Sarah and Josiah, were nearby with Tad and Becky, throwing a stick out for Marcus Weber’s dog Mutt to fetch. I didn’t see Zack right then. Emily was sitting down in the grass a ways off with Amanda Jenson, who was a couple of years older than Emily. Marcus Weber was just driving up with one of Mrs. Parrish’s wagons. I guess his dog had jumped down off the back early and had come running and barking to join the fun. The wagon Mr. Weber was pulling was empty, and he drew it to a stop at the far end of the meadow, away from the tables, and proceeded to unhitch the horses.

  Pa was with a group of men talking. I could see Mr. Dewater, Doc, Mr. MacDougall, and Mr. Larsen. They were probably talking about m
ining. Just then Uncle Nick walked up. He hadn’t been at church and was just now arriving. Mr. Larson gave him a big slap on the shoulder, and whatever Uncle Nick said in reply must have been funny, because I could hear the laughter that burst out from the men all the way up where I was.

  Mrs. Parrish was carrying a ham over to the table from her basket. I couldn’t see the honey dripping from it or the pieces of clove stuck into the sides, but she’d told me how she baked hams. I could practically smell it.

  A little ways off to one side three or four men carried a big chest of ice they’d brought from the icehouse, then set it down with a heavy thud. A little dog cart sat nearby with four big milk cans standing in it. I knew they’d been brought by Mr. Peters, who didn’t care about gold nearly as much as he did about his dairy cows. In the short time since he’d immigrated from Germany, his farm had come to supply folks thereabouts with nearly all their milk and cheese, and he’d brought thick cream today for the ice-cream freezers later in the day.

  All around the meadow were other folks. There must have been two hundred altogether, maybe three hundred. Most of them were standing around, a few sitting on the grass or leaning against trees. There weren’t many chairs, not even enough for the ladies with dresses, though I saw Mr. Bosely and Sheriff Rafferty carrying a few chairs Mr. Bosely’d brought from the back room of his store. Some other men were setting long planks of wood on chair-height wood chunks for benches.

  Even Mr. Singleton showed up for the day. His California Gazette paper had started up as sure as he promised, although he never got around to doing all the stories he talked about at first. He was mighty interested in the new strike at Pa and Uncle Nick’s mine, and when I went to talk to him about writing something for his paper, at first his eyes lit up as though he liked the idea. But when I told him Pa wouldn’t let anything get printed that used any of our names, his interest fell mighty fast. I tried to write something for him too, but when I showed it to him, he just handed it back to me and said, “Well, we’ll just have to see.” He was nice enough, but I could tell he didn’t like it much and I was too embarrassed to try again anytime soon.

  Mr. Singleton went out to talk to Pa a time or two about letting him write the story, but Pa was firm with him that he wouldn’t let a word be said about us. And that pretty much doused Mr. Singleton’s enthusiasm for it, because by then there were other men finding gold all around and he had plenty to keep him busy.

  By summertime (the summer of 1853), Mr. Singleton was printing his paper every week. But he was printing it in Sacramento, so it didn’t really turn out to be a Miracle Springs newspaper after all. It was the California Gazette of Marysville, Oroville, and Miracle Springs. Most of the news seemed to have to do with the other towns, and the paper didn’t get to Miracle until two days after it was printed. Besides that, Mr. Singleton set up the office for the paper down in Marysville.

  So by the time the paper was established, folks in Miracle Springs figured they’d had a big celebration for Mr. Singleton the year before for nothing, and some of them were downright perturbed at him. Most of the articles and advertisements were for the other towns too, though Mrs. Parrish would put in a notice about her freight service every month or so.

  I kept secretly hoping someday I’d get a chance to see my name in the Gazette no matter where it was printed and no matter what anyone around Miracle may have thought of its owner!

  My sketch was about as full as I had time to make it. The hour had gone by quickly, and I could hear the bell down below signaling dinnertime.

  Chapter 5

  Miracle’s Surprise Guest

  About an hour later—after most folks were done with their fried chicken and baked ham and turkey and rolls and all the other stuff that had been brought, and the kids were off yelling and romping again, and most of the men were standing around with tins of coffee in their hands—we heard horses coming through town.

  At first the sound was just in the background. As it came closer and closer, folks started turning their heads to look. The horses and riders were coming right toward us, and everybody got up and started making their way in the direction of town.

  I didn’t recognize the name Grant at first, though after I thought about it, I did seem to remember hearing it someplace before that day. But at the time it was just a name, nothing more. My first reaction to the man leading the small procession of soldiers wasn’t on account of recognizing his name, but because of the look and bearing of the man himself.

  He sat up tall and straight on his horse, a rugged, almost stern man with a short sandy beard. Wide-eyed sixteen-year-old girl that I was, I was impressed. I didn’t exactly fall in love, but I sure stared a lot. Then he got down off his horse and began shaking hands with the men, and there was lots of talking and laughing. The women hung back and the kids just gawked.

  Most of us had never seen men in uniform before. The bright blue shirts and trousers, with yellow stripes down the side, and their yellow scarves and big wide hats—it was a sight to remember! I was already starting to think I should make another sketch of that picnic day to include the army riders and their horses!

  Then the handbell started ringing again. I looked around and saw Sheriff Rafferty swinging it, trying to quiet everyone down. When he finally had folks’ attention, he shouted out so he could be heard.

  “This here’s our special guest!” he called out loudly. “My friend, Captain Ulysses Grant! I’m sure most of you men heard of him from the fracas with Mexico a few years back, where he and I served together.”

  A few cheers went up, followed by everyone clapping their hands in welcome.

  “Well, Captain Grant wanted to see some of the gold fields in California, and I invited him up here to see ours.”

  More applause and shouts.

  “ . . . so after a bit we’ll all gather round and listen to what Captain Grant might have to say to us!”

  The noise and hubbub broke out again. The captain and the eight or ten soldiers with him got down and tied up their horses. Several of the women went over and invited them to sit down and eat, and that didn’t take much persuasion! For the next thirty minutes the whole sound of the picnic changed. The high-pitched shouts of small children running and playing were gone. Now the kids were standing around just watching the men talk. I was real curious, but I didn’t dare get too close. I could see Pa in the center of the crowd, and once or twice I saw him talking to Mr. Grant himself.

  A while later everyone started moving toward the edge of the meadow. The sheriff jumped up onto the back of the wagon Mr. Weber had brought, then Captain Grant joined him, and all the folks gathered around in front of the wagon and sat down on the grass.

  “Well, folks,” the sheriff said, “the captain’s just been promoted from being a lieutenant in the Mexican campaign, and he’s now on his way to a new duty up north of here.”

  He turned and spoke to Grant for a minute, then faced us again.

  “He’s going with the 4th United States Infantry to be stationed up overlooking Humboldt Bay. That’s where he’s headed. But now I’m going to let him tell you what it’s like being a genuine army hero!”

  Some cheers went up while Sheriff Rafferty stood back and Captain Grant took his place.

  “I ain’t much at speechmaking,” he said, “and I ain’t going to get up here and pretend to be a politician! And if Simon here hadn’t saved my life once down in Mexico, I wouldn’t have agreed to do this at all. But I would like to visit some of your mines and like I said, I owe your sheriff my life, so here I am!”

  He was a shorter man than I’d figured from seeing him on his horse, three or four inches shorter than Pa, who was six feet. But he was so stout and rugged that he seemed big. His nose was large and straight, his eyes firm and steady.

  “What’s up north that they need an important man like you?” shouted out Uncle Nick. “I ain’t heard of no gold up there.”

  “No gold,” he answered, “just Indians. There’s a lot of tr
ees up there as good as gold, some folks think. So they built a fort to protect this little lumber port town, and I guess they figure I’ll be able to keep the Indians from burning it down.”

  The talk and the questions went on for a while, mostly settling around the captain reminiscing about the Mexican War during ’46 and ’47. After a while I wasn’t paying much attention to the words anymore. I heard them off in the background but wasn’t focusing on what they were saying. Instead, I was trying to sketch the scene on my paper.

  On one side of it I tried to draw the captain and his men as they had ridden up on horseback. I’d practiced a lot on horses, and could draw a decent one. But a group of eight or ten, with men on them, with people gathering around as they came, was harder. It wasn’t much good as a drawing, but at least it would remind me what the scene had looked like when I wanted to remember it. Then on the other side of my paper, I drew Mrs. Parrish’s wagon with the sheriff and the captain on it, talking to everyone sitting around on the grass.

  Well, the day went on, the speeches, music and ice cream ended, and we didn’t get back to the cabin until nearly dark. The three younger ones were sound asleep in the back of the wagon even before we got there, because it had been a long, long day. I was wide awake though, and lay in my bed later for two more hours with my eyes open, thinking about lots of things, none of which was going to sleep! Mrs. Parrish had had her talk with me later in the day, as she’d promised at church, and I was so excited I could think of nothing else.

  But before I say what she asked me, I want to tell what happened to the sketch I’d made. I showed it to Mrs. Parrish a few days after the picnic.

  I knew it wasn’t a great picture. But when she saw it she got all in a dither over it. I figured she was just trying to make me feel good. But then she asked if she could put it up on the board outside her office, for the men to see who hadn’t been to the picnic or those from out in the hills who hadn’t heard about Captain Grant’s visit.