F rom weakness or happiness, perhaps a bit of both, Sophia’s tears ran down her face, spotting the clean gown Kezzie had put on her after sponging her weary, wracked body. Kezzie had also bathed the baby and dressed her in clothes dredged from the depths of the trunk, clothes they had been assured would not be needed “aboard ship.”

But now it was over. Her child was here, safely here, she added, giving a thought to poor Mary. A euphoria never known in all her life flooded Sophia’s heart. Turning back the blanket she let her hungry eyes feast on the tiny face and dark patch of hair, and she caressed the perfect wee hands that tended to wave aimlessly in their first taste of freedom.

Hugh stood silently looking down on the wrapped baby still in the steamer trunk. Too still, it was. Too silent.

“Dead.” Hugh’s eyes misted; his gaze went from the dead infant to the live one, safe and loved in Sophia’s arms.

“Did it live at all, Kezzie?” he asked softly.

“Never took a breath, Mr. Hugh.” Kezzie stood by her Mr. Hugh, also weeping. In an unexpected gesture Hugh Galloway put his arm around his loved nurse, and together they mourned the passing of one they had not known, would never know.

“Both gone,” Kezzie said in a thick voice. “Mother and babe. It’s just as well, Mr. Hugh. If Mary had to go, it’s just as well the wee’un went with her.”

“Poor Angus,” Hugh said feelingly, glancing again at the contented scene just a few feet away where Sophia was crooning words of love to the child snuggled against her breast.

“He has Molly and Cammie,” Kezzie answered quickly. “Dinna forget that. And that’s all and more he’ll be able to manage.”

“Kezzie, I release you to go with him to the frontier. You’ll be needed there even more than with us.”

“Never, Mr. Hugh!” Kezzie said with such passion that Hugh blinked. “My place is here—with Mrs. Hugh and the bairn.”

“Think about it,” Hugh urged kindly. “Now, what will we do about this little man?” And he indicated the dead babe.

“It’s . . . it’s a girl, sir.”

“A girl, Kezzie?”

“My Mary,” Kezzie said steadily, “gave birth to a girl.”

“Ah, yes, and Angus helped deliver it.” And Mr. Hugh turned from the small body, adding, with a sigh, “You take care of it, won’t you? Take him . . . her into your room, perhaps, and prepare it for burial.”

“With Mary.”

“Yes, with Mary. That way,” Hugh finished with a broken note in the usually brisk voice, “it won’t have the journey alone.”

Sophia was dozing, and Hugh was wondering if he could escape the cramped quarters when Kezzie returned, the dead child sweet and clean in some of the Galloway selection of infant clothes and wrapped in a white blanket.

“You feel free to go, Mr. Hugh,” she said, interpreting Hugh’s indecision and knowing him well. “Mrs. Hugh will be fine for a while. I think,” her eyes dropped to the waxy face in her arms, “this wee bairn should be in its mother’s arms. I’ll go now and prepare my Mary for . . . for burial.” The wrinkled face sagged suddenly, and the eyes, blue beyond believing and no whit faded by age, filled with tears. Kezzie’s last few incredible hours told on her at last.

“I’ll go with you, Kezzie,” Hugh said. “Let me carry the bairn. I need to have a few minutes with Angus, puir mon.”

The transfer was made; Hugh and Kezzie closed the door behind them and turned toward the tragedy below, expecting to double it by the addition of the dead infant.

The Morrison bunk had been shut from public view by kindly loaned and hung blankets. Pulling them aside, Hugh and Kezzie were unprepared for the face Angus lifted to them from the bedside. It was ablaze with hope.

Angus on one side and an elderly woman on the other, Mary’s wasted limbs were being massaged. Though her eyes were closed, there was a faint tinge of color in the sunken cheeks.

“Mary—” Kezzie stammered. “But I thought—”

“We all did,” Angus almost sang. “I know the doctor thought her gone. It was while I was clasping her in my arms . . . speaking her name. . . .” Angus broke down. The strong face, ravaged by the last few days’ despair, was run with rivulets of tears, which he let flow freely, unashamed of his sorrow or his blessed relief.

He turned momentarily from his ministrations, which were apparently meant to stimulate blood flow and were possibly all he knew to do.

“Mrs. Simms,” and Angus indicated the woman still working over the prostrate form, “cleaned her up, and we’ve changed the blankets—”

“We know she’s no’ dead,” the old midwife said. “An’ that’s a’ we need to keep us workin’. More warm oil, Libby.”

“The bleeding has stopped, all thanks to God. And none to the doctor,” Angus said, and who could blame him for sounding bitter, even outraged.

Cameron and Molly crept from the shadows where they had been restrained by kind hands, and Angus gathered them into his arms.

Peering at his mother, Cameron asked, “What’s wrong, Da? Why is Mum so still?”

“She’s tired, Cammie, very tired. Just be patient; be a good boy a little longer. She’ll be fine; you’ll see.”

Angus spoke with an assurance he could not have felt, but it satisfied the children. Holding them over Mary, Angus allowed them each a kiss to the white cheeks.

“That’ll be just the medicine she needs,” he said and set them on their feet and sent them off into the shadows again to the caring family who tended them.

“We’re going up, Da,” Cameron called back, excitement in his voice. It had been a nightmare, in the ship’s bowels, that none of them would forget, even the young. A breath of fresh air on deck was a rare and treasured happening.

All this while Kezzie seemed as one in a daze, standing beside Hugh with the baby in his arms.

“Kezzie,” Angus said now, with concern. “You look ill . . . very ill. But,” his voice lifted, “isn’t it marvelous? Our Mary—” His voice broke.

“It’s wonderful!” Kezzie whispered through trembling lips. “If I’d only known! Oh, Angus,” Kezzie’s eyes were tragic in her white face, “her baby . . . oh, Angus—”

“What about the baby, Kezzie?” Angus turned eyes clouding with apprehension on Hugh and the blanket in his arms.

“The baby . . . oh, Angus, the baby is dead!”