Questing Lights

By Belle Watson Anderson

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Chapter 6

Synopsis: Andrew Rumgay leaves his mother and his fiancee Jane Allison in Scotland and joins his friend Hugh Shand to emigrate to America. They meet Mother MacKinlay and her son Bob, whom they had known while doing missionary work, and become acquainted with Kathleen Coleman and her friend Margaret Purvis. Hugh and Kathleen are married on board the ship. While in Iowa preparing for the handcart journey across the plains, Margaret tells Mother Mac she is in love with Andrew, and Kathleen tell the two women she is expecting a baby. While crossing the plains Andrew is lost in a blizzard, but is rescued by Margaret. She later leaves the Mac party and goes to Tooele to live. The Macs get settled in Zion. Kathleen and Hugh have a son and name him Mac Coleman Shand. Andrew begins farming and saving money to bring Jane over from Scotland.

The crop was everything that Andrew had hoped it would be – many bushels of glowing, golden grain.

“A wonderful combination,” the young man observed, “the rich fertile soil of the bottoms, the gentle rains from heaven, Brother Hunter to plan and to organize, Brother Rumgay to do the work.”

As Andrew gazed at the wonder of the harvest, he felt the thrill of security pulling and tugging at his heartstrings.

In King’s Kettle he had led a day-to-day existence, working from sunrise till sunset for an amount that could barely keep body and soul together.

The wheat was wealth, great wealth, and although the young man knew that most of it must go for Jane’s emigration, there would be many more summers and many more harvests.

The milling company would buy his crop. They would give coal, flour, equipment, even sheep and cattle in exchange, but they had no money. He sold the grain, and waited to receive his pay in money.

Once again Andrew needed work. At this time of the year, the autumn, all of the men in the village were hauling their winter wood from the canyons. Andrew joined them and worked for weeks piling up winter fuel. He became acquainted with the loggers and learned about timbering. When the trees came down in the mountains, homes went up in the valley. Cities were built to the music of the swinging ax.

Andrew wanted a home. He could cut down the trees and pay to have them hauled to the sawmill, with the logs and lumber. So he threw his ax over his shoulder, and went into the deep, silent forest to work and to dream of a home for Jane.

The high mountains were exciting, inspiring. Each day he worked knee-deep in graceful, ornamental ferns, grasses, and flowers. At night the men gathered around a bonfire to talk and to listen to the music of the guitar and mandolin, singing early American songs.

At times there were storms, heavy rains, with flashes of lightning, and the deep roll of thunder through the high mountains. In clear weather the stars shone through a roof of glossy leaves. It was autumn. The leaves and cones were falling; soon they would be buried under the snow. Every week end Andrew went into town for provision, and to attend Church.

One Sunday afternoon he was at Mother’s, trying to describe to her the wonderful beauty of the hills. He told her of a very comforting lesson he had learned from the trees. While he worked, and at night in the bright light of the fire as it blazed and crackled in the clearings, he had studied the trees. They all seemed beautiful in their dignity and stateliness, perfect in design and structure.

Then one day he had examined the trunk of the tree he was chopping and found it wasn’t perfect at all, but very imperfect, revealing all the history of its life – accidents, storms, insects, and animals, even fire. The limbs and branches proved to be the same, some of them were even badly warped and twisted. He had been amazed – the trees were just as beautiful as before, but this time, with perfections and imperfections.

He had thrown his shoulders back. There was hope for him. He would grow as tall and straight as possible, but now with the thought that the scars of his imperfections would not ruin the design of his Creator.

“It is a very comforting thought,” Mother agreed. “Andrew, my weaknesses have always worried me; they will continue to worry me. I will try to grow into the pattern God intended, with all my failings and shortcomings. It is the effort we put forth to grow tall and straight, fully as much as the results we obtain that counts. It puts strength into the roots.”

Time passed, and with its passing came the reward of hard work and labor. Every spring new acres were broken up and more grain planted. Every autumn Andrew went into the forest to cut down timber.

Three years had been a long time to wait for pay day, but the money came through at last, and Andrew sent it on to King’s Kettle.

While he watched his growing treasure in the valley, the Mac and the Hunter men finished the cabin. It looked like a palace. Log houses were comfortable, warm in winter and cool in the summer. He would not be able to get windows for a while, but he had a big fireplace built in the east end, one of his very special dreams. Kathleen and Mother provided new rag carpets for the windows and rugs for the floor. Everything would come in time. Andrew Rumgay was a very happy man.

One afternoon Hugh went out to the farm to release Andrew for a few hours from his work. It had been a long time since Andrew had been to Resplendence.

A letter had been left at Mother MacKinlay’s for him and he hurried to town, hoping for word from Jane. The letter was from King’s Kettle, but it wasn’t from Jane. He discovered it was from the president of the branch.

“Surely there is some mistake,” Andrew said, holding the letter open in his hand. “How could the president send such a message?”

He read it over and over. “It says that Jane Allison was married some months ago, and is living in Dumferline.” Andrew looked blankly at Mother Mac. “How could such a mistake have been made? It can’t be true!”

“But, my son, if the branch president wrote it, then it mut be true.” Mother Mac knew it was useless to postpone this inevitable shock. he placed her hand on Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew turned pale. He reached for Mother’s rocker and sat down.

“The president would not hurt you, on. It took Jane Allison to do that, and a fine job she’s made of it. She might have been lady enough to have written herself.”

“No, Mother, no! I can’t bear it.” Andrew picked up his hat and walked out the back door.

Mother was stunned for a moment, but decided this was no time to be thinking of herself. Something must be done for Andrew. Mother’s husband used to say, “There’s nothing for a sore heart like a tasty bite to eat.” Andrew’s favorite dish was a Scotch boiled fruit pudding. She hadn’t much time, but she hurried and got it on to boil.

Andrew would also need a chicken dinner to go with the fruit pudding, Mother decided. But she was fond of her pullets. She had said not one of them should see the pot until its days of usefulness were over. But now, in this emergency, she sent Bob to kill and clean the fattest one in the coop.

Then Bob went over on the sidehill and gathered some sage, and a round smooth rock.

“What are they for?” Mother asked as her son brought them into the house.

“Well, they are what we used on the plains in the snowdrifts. This rock is a whopper. I don’t know whether Andrew will weather this shock or not. Maybe it’s ginger tea he needs. I just don’t know what to do for him, but we can heat the rock for keeping Andrew’s feet warm tonight.”

“There were other things we used on the plains, remember, son. A few prayers, and a lot of faith. I don’t think we can help Andrew very much, but the Lord can and will. Perhaps you had better go to your bed early, not to sleep, but it will make it easier for Andrew.”

It was late when Andrew came in. he saw the pudding on the oven door, and smiled.

“Now, just a potato, a leg of chicken, and a dish of pudding, son. Anyone could eat that.”

“You killed a pullet, Mother, after all your warnings to us? Now what will you do for eggs this winter?”

“Put cayenne pepper in the feed,” she answered.

“You are a wise Scotch wife. I hope the pepper works.”

After supper Andrew went to Bob’s room and lay down on his bed. Mother followed to light the lamp. She placed it on the table. The look of trouble on Andrew’s face nearly broke her heart.

“I thought we were through the drifts. This one seems larger than the others, but it isn’t. They all seem big enough until we get through them. Then we know they weren’t so bad.”

Andrew made no answer.

“Bob brought in some sage for soaking your feet, and a stone to keep them warm. I put it on the stove in the kitchen and I’ll make some ginger tea to warm up those cold lumps inside.”

Still Andrew said nothing.

Mother Mac continued, undaunted, “I’m not through yet. I put some coal oil in the lamp and cleaned the chimney. Our lights are as bright as any in the other emigrant companies tonight. Shall we have prayers?”

Mother arose, knelt by the bedside and prayed: “Help us through the snow. Our bins are full. We have plenty to eat, and lots of good wood in the yard to burn.” She paused choked with emotion when she remembered other days. She continued, “But we need your help, tonight, Amen.”

Tears were running down Andrew’s cheeks.

“The thaw,” Mother exclaimed. “Let the tears come. They will soften those hard lumps inside.”

Andrew decided to send the money, which he had saved for Jane’s passage, to his family in Scotland. His mother did not want to leave the old home until all her children were married and settled down, but Andrew wanted the two youngest children to join him in America. Now he could take care of them, and he longed for someone of his own.

Andrew returned to the wheat field. He had to take care of the crop. Work was greater than love. Jane was gone, but how very grateful he was that he still had work to do.

Slowly the time passed. The grain matured and ripened. He began cutting it down with a scythe, slow and tiring work – too slow. There was too much time to think, and to ponder. He worked alone. A this time of the year every man had more work than he could possibly get done.

The days shortened. The nights grew longer, and longer, and darker. Threatening clouds appeared in the sky, then cleared away, but the man knew from the tang of frost in the air that winter was on its way. Sharp wind whined through the calm. The river shrank to a quiet trickle through the bottoms.

Andrew listened and worked, grieved, and yearned for Jane. Sometime the water composed and purled peaceful and understanding symphonies. It seemed to him that Jane had lived in this valley. At other harvests the golden grain had been the color of Jane’s hair, the blue sky had symbolized her eyes, the luster of the sunshine her happy, gleaming smiles.

But this was a harvest without a dream, a man without a sweetheart, a home without a wife.

The river bottoms were very, very lonely.

(To be continued)