St. Agnes’ Stand. Thomas Eidson
Читать онлайн книгу.
an angry glance, but she wasn’t looking at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said loudly, leaning over a large pot, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.’
Swanson waited a few seconds and then said, ‘Nat Swanson.’ He turned his head towards the night and the canyon sounds.
‘Nat Swanson,’ she said gaily. ‘What a strong-sounding name. Children, come for your dinner and say hello to Mr Swanson. Jessica, you first.’
‘Hello, Mr Swanson,’ the small voice said.
Swanson watched the darkness for a few seconds longer, but the innocence of the voice tugged at him and he turned, instantly bothered by what he saw. Jessica was small, maybe nine, thin and dirty looking in a rag dress; her tiny face seemed far too old.
‘Hello, Jessica,’ he said, glancing at the nun. She was smiling approvingly.
There were twins, Betty and Nan, perhaps ten or eleven, but it was difficult to be certain because of their starved condition. Next came a gangly girl of about thirteen wearing a filthy calico dress and swollen with child.
‘Tell Mr Swanson your name, child,’ the older nun said softly. The girl didn’t speak. She stood holding her stomach awkwardly as if she wanted to set it down and watched the flames of the fire. ‘Well, that’s okay,’ the nun said pleasantly. ‘Mr Swanson, we don’t know this lovely child’s name yet, but we have christened her Millie until we do.’
Then two little girls, Bonnie and Anna, six or seven years old, came into the light of the campfire. They were holding hands as if they were lost and they were as dirty and poorly clothed as the others. The last child would not leave the shadows until the third nun brought him forward.
‘And this, Mr Swanson,’ the old nun said proudly, ‘is the man of our party, Matthew.’
The boy was in the worst shape of all of them. He was perhaps eight. His face had been disfigured by fire. Swanson had seen those kinds of scars before. They had been done on purpose. He was almost naked, and he limped badly on a leg that had been broken and not set.
‘Nice to meet you, Matthew.’ The boy stared at the ground. He looked ashamed to speak. The third nun was holding him gently by the shoulders. Swanson glanced at her. She was tall and thin, in her thirties, and had a very pleasant face. He remembered her name was Sister Elizabeth. She was proper, proud and pretty, and he watched her for longer than he felt comfortable. She was a handsome woman. She was staring at the top of the little boy’s head.
After the last child had been served, the old nun put dirt on the fire and seemingly total darkness fell on the party. Swanson sat by the wagons, listening to the night, amazed the Indians had not fired on the campfire light. It was still and hot. Somewhere off in the distance a hunting owl sounded, once, then twice more. He focused on the sound and decided it was the real thing, not an Indian imitator. Sister Martha brought him a plate of beans and half a cup of water. He ate, thinking about the children and the old nun. Then, with his plate half full and without realizing it, he fell asleep.
The cave had the faint odour of burned incense and a snug feel about it. The three nuns and seven children fitted nicely into it, and there was a clean starkness that reminded the three sisters of a monastery, and this gave them great comfort. The children were asleep in a long row on the soft, sandy floor. They lay peacefully on the blankets spread for them, and for the first night none were crying, none shaking. The heels of Sister Martha’s plain black shoes thumped softly against the large rock she was sitting on. Her face was beaming and she was leaning forward with both of her hands on her knees, the heavy cloth of her habit spread over the rock. Sister Elizabeth was kneeling nearby, rubbing a pan that had been used for supper with clean sand. A large candle burned on a smaller rock near the back wall of the cave casting a warm glow over the children’s faces, softening the gauntness and sadness somewhat. In the deeper shadows sat Sister St Agnes, her thin back propped against the sandstone wall, her eyes closed.
Sister Martha looked lovingly over the faces of the children. ‘Wasn’t he wonderful to come?’ she whispered. ‘He’s a sainted man to risk his life for theirs.’
Sister Elizabeth poured the sand from the pan and set it aside, reaching for a plate. ‘I don’t think we should enroll him among the saints.’ Her voice was low and carrying a practical edge to it. ‘We don’t know why he came.’ She scrubbed hard at the plate.
‘He came to save the children,’ Sister Martha said. Her words were gentle, but slightly worried sounding.
‘Perhaps, but perhaps not.’
Sister Martha was sitting up straight now, her hands clasped together in her lap as if they ached. ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered louder. ‘Why else would he come?’
‘I don’t know why. I just suspect he’s not a saint,’ Sister Elizabeth insisted. ‘Sister says he killed one man. And I don’t believe in my heart he’ll stay and save the children. God wouldn’t send a man like that.’ She worked over the plate longer than it took to clean it.
Neither woman spoke after that. Sister Martha did not know what to say, and Sister Elizabeth felt she had said too much and was sorry for it.
‘He was sent to save the children,’ Sister St Agnes said from the shadows, her voice gentle but firm. ‘We must not question God’s gifts.’
Out of respect, Sister Elizabeth did not say anything else, but in her heart she did not believe that Sister St Agnes was correct.
A full hunter’s moon had crested the far mountain, splashing the canyon with a gentle light, by the time Swanson awoke. He moved his hand down slowly until he felt the comforting chill of the revolver’s handle. His leg felt somewhat better. He lay peering out at the grey shapes of the rocks, probing the familiar sounds of the night. A second later, he realized someone was sitting near him and he tensed.
‘The moon’s beautiful tonight,’ the old nun said softly.
His leg began to throb and he pulled himself slowly into a sitting position and studied the wagons and the shadows on the road. He watched her from the side of his eye.
‘Tell me about the children,’ he said.
‘There’s not much to tell, Mr Swanson.’ She was looking up at the stars overhead. ‘We learned six months ago a Mexican town had ransomed ten American children from a band of Comanche Indians in Sonora and wanted more money than they had paid for their release or they would sell them as slaves. Unfortunately, no one could come up with the names of their next of kin or the money, so our church raised it and Sisters Martha, Ruth and Elizabeth and I came for them.’
‘Where are the other three?’
‘They died before we could get to them,’ she said quietly.
He didn’t speak for a while, thinking about the children huddled in the dark of the cave. Then he thought of the sisters, Martha and Elizabeth, and felt better. ‘I’m sorry they died.’
‘I’m certain heaven is a wonderful place to grow up in, Mr Swanson.’
He looked at her profile in the dark. ‘Do you believe all that stuff you say, ma’am?’
‘Do you?’
He should have known she wouldn’t defend herself. That wasn’t her way. He sat thinking for a while and then he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good, so do I.’
Swanson thought about her answer for a long time. Later, after the moon had risen to full height, he spoke again. ‘Why won’t the boy talk?’
He felt her shift on the sand beside him. She waited a few seconds as she resettled her cloak before answering. ‘He can’t very well. The Mexicans who bought him told us the Indians had cut his tongue out because he wouldn’t stop crying for his parents. And now I guess he’s ashamed or afraid to try.’
Swanson heard a rock fall somewhere out in the darkness. And, a