Sally was different, though, and she understood. She lowered her voice, even though they were in the womans office and there was no one lurking nearby. Im glad youve got your widows papers, and the scraps of Union pension. Thatll take you most of the way, I expect. Their moneys worth more than ours.
Mercy said, Maam, if anyone sends for me here, youll give them the address in Waterford?
Of course I will. Did I forget anything? Youve cleaned out your bunk upstairs . . . and youve tucked away the nursing papers, I hope? My recommendation letter will mark you as one of ours, and thatll be good for the first legs of your trip, but theres no telling what youll find out West.
She promised, Im going south, then up the river and west. I have a plan.
Youd better. Its a long trip, darling. Ill worry for you, and pray.
Mercy hugged her. Then she made one last walk through the first-floor ward, past the entry to the ballroom, out through the corridor that would take her through the kitchen, and into the backyard grounds . . . so that no one but the staff would see how she carried a suitcase and a large shoulder bag stitched with a distinctive red cross. The suitcase she was taking had come with her from Virginia; the other one had been the property of the hospital, so she was leaving it behind. But the shoulder bag was a gift from Captain Sally. In it, Mercy carried the basics of her profession, as well as her papers, her money, a few small books, letters, pencils, and other useful objects that made her feel prepared.
At the curb to the side of the Robertson house, she stood squeezing her luggage and wondering where to begin, and how. The entirety of her planning process amounted to little more than what shed told Captain Sally.
But first things first: She went to the Western Union office.
The clerk at the counter took the envelope with her fathers message and read it, and while he perused the marks, Mercy said, I need to send a message back. To . . . to Sheriff Wilkes, I guess. Wherever this telegram came from. I need to tell him that Im coming.
The small man in the striped vest peered at the paper through a pince-nez and told her, I can certainly do that. And Im sorry to hear about your father, he added politely.
He quoted her a price, which she paid from the cash that Sally had offered, an immediate severance payment, plus a bonus. And with the help of the clerk, she composed a response to send back across three thousand miles.
TO SHERIFF WILKES: PLEASE TELL JEREMIAH SWAKHAMMER THAT HIS DAUGHTER WILL COME TO JOIN HIM STOP THE JOURNEY MAY TAKE SEVERAL WEEKS STOP WILL SEND ANOTHER TELEGRAM WHEN MY ARRIVAL IS NEARER STOP
She couldnt think of anything else to add, so she watched while the clerk transcribed her message and placed it into a box on his desk. He explained that the telegraph operator was out of the office, but that when she returned, the message would be sent out across the lines.
Mercy thanked him and left, emerging on the street again with her bags in hand and an intense nervousness in her heart-a steady fear that this was the wrong thing to do, and her father would probably be dead by the time she arrived, anyway.
But itll be an adventure, she said to herself, not so much believing it as clinging to it.
Slinging her pack over one shoulder, she stepped down off the Western Unions wooden porch and into the street, where she dodged one speeding cab and leaned backwards to avoid a lurching wagon. In the distance she could hear shouting, and warnings of incoming something-or-others headed for the hospital; she heard Robertson above the din, and her chest ached.
She should drop this ridiculous mission.
She should go back, where she was needed.
Even if she made it all the way West, and even if she made it to her fathers bedside, would they know each other? Her memories of him had distilled over sixteen years, down to blurs of color and a rumbling voice. When she thought of him, if she tried to push aside her anger at his leaving, she could recall glimpses of a wide-shouldered, brown-haired man with arms as thick as logs. But she remembered little of his face-only a scratchiness, from when shed rubbed her cheek against his.
Maybe, then. Maybe shed know him.
But would he know her ? Itd been a lifetime between knee-high childhood and Robertson nurse. Shed grown several feet, to a height that was just shy of quite tall for a woman,
and the corn-tassel blond hair of her youth had grown to a darker shade that was closer to unpolished gold than to baby yellow. The willowy limbs of her formative years had given way to a frame that was sturdy enough for farm work, or hospital work. She was not dainty, if in fact she ever had been.
She hesitated at the edge of the street, recoiling from the traffic and wondering if she shouldnt go back to the office to send another telegram to let her mother know what she was doing. But then she came back to her senses and resolved to write a letter and post it from the road.