Mac stayed with Jenny through her labor. Shortly before midnight, as Jenny continued to moan, the midwife said, “This baby comin’ now. Nothin’ I can do to stop it.”
Jenny wailed, she pushed him away, he tried to calm her, but she cried, “It’s too soon.” Her tears mixed with perspiration, and he wiped her face.
Mac wished there were some way to remove the pain. He always wished it, each time he’d seen Jenny in labor. He cursed God’s plan, letting women suffer to propagate the species. Will’s birth was Mac’s first experience seeing a woman in labor. Will might not be Mac’s son, but he’d suffered as much through Will’s delivery as through any of Jenny’s later labors. Each one caused Jenny pain, and each time Mac vowed it would be the last child.
But he loved his wife, and so more children came. Maybe this one would be the last.
At least Jenny was strong and healthy now, unlike at Will’s birth, when Doc Tuller said she was too young. Yet now Mac feared for the child coming into the world too soon as much as for Jenny.
If the child died, he feared for Jenny’s sanity. She’d been bereaved for months after her earlier miscarriage. And also when little Abram died. Mac grieved after Abram’s death as well, but it seemed harder for a mother to cope with a child’s death than for a father.
This year, Jenny had lost Will—would she lose another child tonight?
William would never meet this little one, Jenny mourned as she bore down in pain. This baby would die before Will returned. If Will returned. She screamed and pushed and cried and prayed.
A baby’s thin cry came. Once.
“A wee boy,” the midwife announced, holding the infant up for Jenny to see. “Let me clean him up.” And she whisked the newborn away to a table across the room.
Jenny sobbed, and Mac cradled her in his arms.
Hearing nothing from the baby, Jenny moaned, “Why isn’t he crying?” She clutched Mac’s arm as she remembered Hattie’s little daughter again. Clarence Tanner had tried and tried, but the baby wouldn’t breathe.
Then a small whimper. And a choking sound. A cough.
“He’s gonna make it,” the midwife said. “At least through the night.”
Mac ushered the midwife out of the house, then returned to their bedroom and sat beside Jenny, who held his newest son. Maria crept back into the room and sat at the foot of the bed. The other children slept through the night’s excitement.
“What shall we call him?” Mac asked, touching his finger to the baby’s hand. The baby’s arm wasn’t much thicker than his finger.
“Andrew?” Jenny suggested. “We named William after my father. Let’s name this one after yours. Or would that distress you?”
“Andrew.” Mac tried the name out, thinking of his tumultuous relationship with his father, his failure to reconcile before the older man died. Perhaps naming this new son after the crusty old banker made sense. He smiled at Jenny. “You should have a part of him as well. Let’s call him Andrew Calhoun McDougall.”
Maria laughed. “That’s a big name for such a little mite. Do you think he’ll grow into it?”
Mac laughed, too. It felt good to laugh. There hadn’t been many reasons for joy recently, what with Will’s departure, his father’s death. And the fear this baby wouldn’t make it.
“He ain’t out of the woods yet,” the midwife had said after telling them to keep the newborn warm and comfortable. “He’s little. You gotta guard against chills.”
But for now, they could be happy.
“If only William were here,” Jenny whispered. “This little one came before midnight—still on Will’s birthday.”
Mac left Jenny to sleep and stole downstairs to his study. He’d placed Andrew beside his wife in a little cradle and sent Maria back to bed. Now, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and lit a cigar, feeling drained after the night’s ordeal.
Retrieving the cradle from the attic had brought back memories. He made that cradle for Will not long after they arrived in Oregon City. His first task in Oregon was to build the cabin and barn. But during the long cold evenings that winter, he needed something to do with his hands. He wasn’t skilled at carpentry, and the cabin and barn were largely the work of Clarence Tanner, Zeke Pershing, and other friends. But Mac made the cradle out of love for Jenny. He did most of the work himself, relying on Tanner only for guidance.
He didn’t realize he loved Jenny then. He didn’t figure it out until he left her, not until he learned Zeke wanted to marry her. Then Mac raced back to Oregon to claim Jenny himself.
Mac thanked the Lord every day she hadn’t married Zeke and had waited for him.
Now he thanked God again for Jenny and for delivering her of their new child. And he prayed his son Andrew would live.
He was relieved now he hadn’t gone to Boston. He should have made the trip years ago, perhaps. But at this moment, he was heartened to have been with Jenny during Andrew’s early birth. And comforted to know she wouldn’t wait alone for Will to return.
It was strange, Mac thought—he felt no more strongly about Andrew’s birth than he had about Will’s. Andrew was his, while Will was another man’s child. Except Will wasn’t another man’s child. Mac had lived through the trials of raising Will, save only the two years Mac spent in California. Will’s personality was due more to Mac’s toils and training than to any blood from the man who fathered the boy.
Mac felt every inch Will’s father. Somehow, he would have to prove it to the boy. He hoped Will would return so he could.
He picked up his pen and started a letter:
September 17, 1864
Dear Mother,
I received Owen’s telegram yesterday. It is now the wee hours of the morning, and my wife has just been delivered of a son we named Andrew, after Father.
