"A tale of the friendship and hardships of three courageous women..."
Reviewed by Dot Dittman
Posted October 25, 2014
Inspirational Historical
I have to admit, lately I have been reading mostly light-
hearted books, quickly read, and just as quickly
forgotten.
The synopsis A LIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS by Jane Kirkpatrick
intrigued me. It seemed to be something unique—the story
of
a freed slave heading to the Oregon Country. But it is so
much more than that.
While Letitia, the freed slave is the focal point
of the story, it is interlaced with the stories of two
other remarkable women. One is the Kalapuya (Flathead)
Indian woman, Betsy, who has lived her whole life in the
valley that Letitia settles in. The other is the white
woman, Nancy Hawkins, who is in the same wagon train on
the
way west. Her belief is that "souls are all the same
color." These courageous women bind together into a
sisterhood who support and encourage each other in the
most
terrible hardships imaginable.
Kirkpatrick writes beautiful prose with an
undertone of anxiety for the characters—mostly Letitia.
Letitia is worried constantly about her manumission papers
which are her only proof of her freedom. If anything
happens to them, she could be sold as a slave once more.
Every time she would fret over or get "cowers" about her
papers, I fretted right along with her. I put the book
down
once because the apprehension was almost too much for me.
I
was also angry at her husband, in name only, the Irish
immigrant Davey Carson, who makes the most impulsive
decisions. But of course, I picked it up again because I
had to know what happened. I was glad I did.
Letitia is an incredible person. She takes the good
from all she sees and embraces it. She refuses to let
hateful things define her. An example of this is when all
her earthly goods are being sold for auction; she imagines
the blessing they will be to their new owners. In the end,
when she decides that she must stand up for what is hers,
she does so with a sense of justice, not revenge.
Jane Kirkpatrick is to be commended for converting
A LIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS from legal documents and news
articles to the
living, breathing story it is now. It is historical
fiction
at its finest.
SUMMARY
Letitia holds nothing more dear than the papers that prove
she is no longer a slave. They may not cause white folks
to
treat her like a human being, but at least they show she
is
free. She trusts in those words she cannot read--as she is
beginning to trust in Davey Carson, an Irish immigrant
cattleman who wants her to come west with him. Nancy Hawkins is loathe to leave her settled life for the
treacherous journey by wagon train, but she is so deeply
in
love with her husband that she knows she will follow him
anywhere--even when the trek exacts a terrible cost. Betsy is a Kalapuya Indian, the last remnant of a once
proud
tribe in the Willamette Valley in Oregon territory. She
spends her time trying to impart the wisdom and ways of
her
people to her grandson. But she will soon have another
person to care for. As season turns to season, suspicion turns to friendship,
and fear turns to courage, three spirited women will
discover what it means to be truly free in a land that
makes
promises it cannot fulfill. This multilayered story from
bestselling author Jane Kirkpatrick will grip readers'
hearts and minds as they travel with Letitia on the dusty
and dangerous Oregon trail into the boundless American
West.
ExcerptPrologue1842—KE N T U C K Y She had imagined the day she would escape; it would be high
noon when people least expected them to run, when the dogs
lay panting in the Kentucky sun and the patrols rested, not
seeking a colored woman making her way to freedom. She’d be
fearing for her life. But now, no one chased her. No
braying hounds barked; yet her heart pounded. Here she was, her bare feet ready to leave Kentucky soil;
and she was going as a free woman. Letitia patted the
parchment inside the bond at her waist. It was secure. Then
she pulled the shawl around her shoulders, lifted her tow
linen skirt and her only petticoat, and pulled herself up
with ease onto the wagon seat beside Sarah Bow- man. Not
that she was their equal, oh no, she knew that wasn’t so.
But she was free and free people rode facing forward. The
rough cloth pressed against her legs as she sat. “All set?” Mr. Bowman turned to his wife. “As good as I’ll ever be.” The woman held a baby in her
arms. She patted Letitia’s ?ngers, held them for a moment,
then with- drew them as though she’d touched a snake.
“Maybe you should ride in back, Tish. Yes, that would be
better. Make sure the little ones are settled.” Letitia hesitated. Was now the time? “Letitia?” She moved then without complaint under the wagon covering,
the August heat already sti?ing, the scent of canvas new to
her nose. “Over!” One Bowman child barked at her sister,
who sat on the older girl’s doll. Letitia wiggled her way
past the two-year-old who smiled at her even when Letitia
lifted her to retrieve the sought-after doll. Like a lily
pad on a pond Letitia nestled herself within the array of
bags and bedding and other property of the Bowmans. She
swooped the toddler into her lap when the child crawled to
her, smelled the lavender of the girl’s hair, then pointed
so the child would look out the back arch of the opening.
Caged chickens cack- led their discontent on the other side
of the wagon. A hot breeze pushed past them. As Letitia
looked out through the wagon’s bow, a thousand memories
bled through the tears in her eyes. She’d miss the Kentucky goldenrod. She wondered what
flowers bloomed in Missouri, what life would bring there.
It didn’t matter. She was leaving this place as a free
woman; she wouldn’t have to be afraid now. She could own
firkins, candlesticks, and kale seeds,property that
belonged to her. She had papers to show. Her heart no longer pounded as a woman running. Dust
drifted up to scent the warm air. Flies buzzed. The
children had settled their claims for space. A slow grin
worked its way onto her face, sent a shiver down her bare
arms. She brushed at the tears, rested her chin on the
toddler’s head, indigo-colored arms soft around the child.
“Thank God Almighty,” she whispered. The toddler reached up
without looking and patted Letitia’s cheek. Letitia began
to sing, a low husky sound. “I gotta right. You gotta
right. We all gotta right to the tree of life.” Letitia
stared out the wagon back and smiled. A free woman didn’t
have to face forward to know she headed in the right
direction. Having an Opinion 1844—PL AT T E CO U N T Y, MI S S O U R I Letitia preferred the shadows, avoiding the skirmish before
her. But the child tugged on her hand and led Letitia to
the dust in front of the Platte County courthouse. Men’s
voices sliced the air like the whips of a ?eld marse, sharp
and stinging.The air was heavy as a wet, wool quilt, yet
dust billowed around the two men as it did when bulls
scraped the earth. “She was contracted for, fair and
square. She failed to do the work!” Letitia knew the
speaker, Davey Carson, once of Ireland, now of Carroll
Township, Platte County, Missouri. Today, full of
consternation. Bushy eyebrows with the tint of auburn
formed a chevron of scowl over his nose. “Sure and I did
nothing like she says I did. Not a thing. The girl didn’t
work, I tell ye!” Letitia shrank back, grateful his anger wasn’t directed at
her. She tugged at the child’s hand to move toward the
Platte City store. “We’ll settle it in court then.” The second man brushed
past Davey, leaving the Irishman like a shriveled pickle in the
bottom of a barrel, no one wanting to touch it. Davey’s red face scanned the disappearing crowd. When his
eyes caught Letitia’s, she glanced down. Hot sun brought
out sweat on her forehead, intensi?ed the scent of coconut
oil and honey she’d used to smooth her crinkly hair. She
turned her head to the side. “Let’s go.” She started to
reach for the child’s hand. “I suppose you believe that too,” he accused. She halted. “That I’m a madman capable of beating a young lass and mis-
using her, slave or no! Is that your opinion, woman?” Was he really speaking to her? She should walk away. She
didn’t need to get in an argument with a white man. She was
in the town getting buttons and bows for Mrs. Bowman and
looking after Artemesia, who had begged to come along. The
child stared, slipped her hand inside Letitia’s. It felt
wet and warm. “I gots nothin’ to speak of, Mistah Carson. I gots no
opinion. I jus’ stayin’ out of the way.” She did have an
opinion, though. He had been kind to her the year before,
not long after she’d arrived in Platte County, when she’d
asked him to take her money and buy a cow with it. His voice rose again. “I may be an old mountain man not ac-
customed to town ways, but I know how to take care of
property.” He threw his hands into the air. “I never
touched her. Never! It was a trick all along, I tell ye.
They told the lass to run away so they’d have their
property and my money and I’d be without her labor and my
money both.” Davey stomped up the courthouse steps past the
black and white cornerstones. Letitia was dismissed. Each American was due his “day in court,” or so she’d
heard. She hoped he was successful in his lawsuit. She
wasn’t sure why. Tak- ing sides wasn’t her way. Her
heartbeat returned to a steady pace. In the store, they waited. The mercantile owner had
customers to keep happy, and serving those white people
first was a given.
Letitia spread her hands over the smooth bolts of cloth,
the new dyes tickling her nose. She lifted the lacework on
the shelf, ?ngering the tidy stitches. Irish lace? She
shook her head. People were trading their ?nery for
hardtack and ?our, getting ready for travel west. Letitia was going to Oregon too, with the Bowmans. She
wasn’t certain how she felt about that. She’d learned the
rules of Missouri, showed her papers when asked, endured
the sneers and snarls of “free black” as though the word
meant stink or worse, a catching kind of poison spread by
being present near her breath. But good things had happened
to her since she’d been in this state too. She’d earned
money helping birth babies, enough to buy a cow. Davey
Carson had in fact made the purchase for her, taking her
money to acquire the cow that she paid the Bowmans for
feeding—along with her own keep. But she’d heard that the Oregon people wanted to join the
states as free. She’d be free there too, and without
slavery and its uncertainty hovering like a cloud of
fevered mosquitoes. Maybe in Oregon she’d try her hand at
living alone. Or if she married and had children, they’d be
born free there and no one could ever sell them away from
her. What property she had would be hers to keep. Like the
cow she owned. She eyed a silver baby rattle on the
mercantile shelf. She felt its cool weight. For when . . .
if ever again. No, Mr. Bowman said they could only take
essentials. A baby rattle wouldn’t qualify. Still, Letitia chose to go to Oregon with them, chose to
help Sarah with the laundry and care of the children. She
felt free to call her Missus Bowman whenever they were in
public, even though at the log cabin she could call her
Miss Sarah, like an older sister. Though they weren’t ever
so close as that. While Artemesia ogled the hard candy counter, Letitia wan-
dered the store, placing a set of needles into her basket,
looking at a hairbrush, her face re?ected in the silver
back. Coal black hair frizzing at her temples beneath her
straw hat, damp from humidity heavy as a dog’s breath at
high noon. Dark brown eyes set into a face the color of the
skinny piano keys. Sadness looked out at her,
reminding her of all those eyes had seen in her twenty-six
years. The set was nothing she could a!ord. A gust of wind burst sand against the store’s windows. Out-
side the weather worked itself up into a downpour. Getting
home would drench them. She ought to have remembered the
slicker for the child, but it hadn’t looked like rain. She
didn’t want the child to catch cold. A sewing box caught her eye. Tortoiseshell with green and
blue silk lining the inside. She opened it and saw the
ivory spool holders. She could make a false bottom and put
her paper there, somewhere safe and secure. “What can I do for you, Miss Artemesia?” The shopkeeper
spoke to the child. He and Letitia were the only adults
now, all other customers serviced and gone, scampering
through the rain with the umbrellas the shopkeeper loaned
them. “Mistah Bowman will be in tomorrow to pick up these
things.” Letitia handed him a list, careful not to touch
his ?ngers even though she wore gloves. “I’s buying the
needles.” “This your mammy, Miss Bowman?” He nodded toward Letitia.
“Yes sir. She’s Aunt Tish.” “She has money to buy needles?” Letitia raised her voice. “I has money. Suh.” He frowned. Letitia handed him the coins. “Bowmans pay me.
I’s a free woman.” He harrumphed. “So you’re all really going to Oregon then,
Miss Bowman?” Artemesia nodded. “Must say, you’ll be missed, little lady.” He turned to put
Leti- tia’s money in the till. “Half the town seems to be
heading west. I see the wagons rolling.” He sighed.
“Wouldn’t mind a change of scenery myself now and then. Not
sure though that I trust those letters sent back about all
the good things Oregon has awaiting.” “We able to borrow
one of your umbrellas, suh? It rainin’ harsh.” “Should have remembered to bring one.” “Yessuh, but didn’t see no storms walkin’ in. Don’t want
the chil’ getting’ sick.” He nodded. “Wouldn’t want that on my conscience either.
Here you go.” Letitia didn’t give her opinion of letters sent and
received. He wouldn’t care. Few asked her opinion. Miss
Sarah didn’t invite suggestions for how to clean the
bedrolls of ?eas or how to lessen morning sickness. Mr.
Bowman acted like she didn’t exist except to help break
hemp or butcher hogs. But Davey Carson had asked her
opinion of his lawsuit, now that she thought about it. She
wore a little shame that she’d sidestepped his question,
didn’t answer that she found him to be a kind man, unlike
what he was accused of. He had treated her as though she
was more than a post. That so rarely happened, she’d been
shocked and was now surprised at the feeling of warmth
arriving on the memory.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
2 comments posted.
Re: A tale of the friendship and hardships of three courageous women...
My thanks to Dot for reading this book and for her review. Obviously, I loved this review because she captured the heart of these women and I'm grateful for her insights. A writer gets all sorts of reviews and this one rewarded my read with the last line: "It is historical fiction at its finest." These women made it so. (Jane Kirkpatrick 12:17pm October 30, 2014)
I hope you will continue this story telling what happens to these 3 courageous women such a great story!! (Rose Archer 10:54pm October 30, 2014)
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