As Mac ate breakfast that morning, he realized Jenny was melancholy. He followed her into the pantry after the meal and asked her what was wrong. “It’s William’s birthday,” she said, a catch in her voice. “I miss him.”
“We know he’s with the militia,” Mac said, trying to soothe her. “Colonel Drew said he was fine. The boy will be home soon.”
“But I worry,” Jenny whispered. “The papers report Indian attacks south of here.”
“Drew’s expedition is surveying mountain passes, not fighting Indians,” Mac said. He’d sent a note to Bryan Pengra asking how Drew’s mission fit with the new military road. Pengra replied that Drew’s primary purpose was to find a shorter route between Boise and Klamath and to determine if a military post in the area was needed.
Pengra’s letter also revealed that Drew’s militia unit guarded wagon trains attacked by tribesmen. So Jenny was right—there was some danger to Will. But Mac wouldn’t tell Jenny any more than he had to.
After breakfast, and only slightly reassured by her conversation with Mac, Jenny gathered the mending from Cal’s and Nate’s room. She glanced across the hallway at William’s room, the bed neatly made and unoccupied for so many months. She wondered how her oldest child coped with soldiers all around him. He relished the privacy of his little room under the eaves.
Nate had gone to school that morning, but Caleb begged off, claiming a toothache. Now he sat on his bed reading.
“Is your tooth better?” Jenny asked. Cal winced and gingerly touched his cheek. She suspected the wince was mostly for her benefit, and his tooth didn’t hurt as badly as he said. “Shall I get you more camphor oil?”
“No, thank you, Mama,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”
She picked up clothes off the floor, sighing. These boys would never learn to care for their garments. Will was a neat child, but Cal and Nate were careless with their belongings.
“Where do you think Will is on his birthday?” Cal murmured.
Dropping the clothes on Nate’s bed, Jenny sat beside Cal and brushed his hair off his forehead. He didn’t feel feverish. Maybe she should have made him go to school. “Are you worried about your brother?”
Cal nodded. “He left because of me. I wanted him gone, but not for this long.”
Stilling her hand on his head, Jenny asked, “I thought we talked about this earlier. It’s not your fault William left.”
“He teased me so.” Cal whimpered. “I hated him sometimes. I told him so the day before he left. After he hit me for breaking Maria’s horse.”
“Oh, Caleb,” she said, patting his shoulder. “You shouldn’t ever say you hate someone. Particularly not your brother or sister. We all have spats sometimes. Brothers often have them.” Jenny’d been an only child and didn’t know how brothers felt, but surely siblings were no different from other friends. “William didn’t leave because of you. And he’ll come home safely. You’ll see.”
Mac spent much of the day in his office in town. He drafted letters to Ladd in Portland, to Pengra in Eugene, and to his contacts in the P.T. Company. He wanted updates on these Oregon investments.
In midafternoon, a delivery boy brought Mac a telegram. After paying the boy, Mac read:
DATE: 16 SEPTEMBER 1864
TO: CALEB MCDOUGALL OREGON CITY
FROM: OWEN MCDOUGALL BOSTON
FATHER WORSE DOUBT YOU CAN REACH BOSTON IN TIME
What did that mean? Mac wondered. He rushed out and went to the telegraph office.
DATE: 16 SEPTEMBER 1864
TO: OWEN MCDOUGALL BOSTON
FROM: CALEB MCDOUGALL OREGON CITY
CANNOT LEAVE OREGON HOW BAD IS FATHER
As he paid for the telegram, Mac regretted he hadn’t attempted to get to Boston immediately upon hearing of his father’s illness. Now, if his brother was right, it was too late. Too late to make peace with his father. Too late to mend the breach that had lasted for decades.
But too late to leave Jenny also—she was distraught over Will and would soon bear Mac’s next child. Mac couldn’t abandon her now.
His family in Boston had done without him for eighteen years. He might well miss seeing his father again in this world, but at some point he should make amends with his mother and brothers.
Still, Mac agonized over his father. He should have visited sometime in the past eighteen years, if only to clear the air between them. When he’d left home, Mac had been little more than a college boy. In the years since, he’d made a success of himself. He’d made money in several enterprises and could talk his father’s language—the language of money. Perhaps they could have built a relationship as men of commerce, if not as father and son.
Late in the day, Mac received another telegram from his brother, this one with a black border.
