Read Online In the Face of Danger by Joan Lowery Nixon - Free Book Online
Authors: Joan Lowery Nixon
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I’ve eaten any.”
Emma and Megan put the bowls of mashed squash and sliced cooked potatoes—both dotted with butter made from Rosie’s milk—in the center of the table, andBen brought the platter of fried meat. There was bread and more butter, and Megan could smell real coffee—instead of the usual chicory—being brewed in honor of the visitor.
They bowed their heads as Ben said grace, and the bowls were passed first to Mr. Cartwright, who—without waiting for any encouragement, Megan noticed—scooped liberal portions onto his plate and ate with obvious enjoyment.
But Megan was more curious than hungry. “Are you a Kansas farmer, too, Mr. Cartwright?” she asked.
He wiped his lips with his napkin and laid it back on his lap before he answered. “No,” he said. “I’m employed by the United States Department of the Interior.”
Megan had no idea what that meant, but Emma said, “Oh, my!” and looked impressed.
“Surveying the land?” Ben asked.
“In a way,” Mr. Cartwright said. “I was hired to travel with a United States Army western survey crew and make detailed sketches of the countryside.”
“You’re an artist? A real one?” Megan dropped her fork on the table and stared. She’d seen a few paintings in public buildings, even one in the entrance hall of the Children’s Aid Society. She’d been amazed when Mike told her there were homes uptown with large, gold-framed paintings hanging right in their living rooms. But she’d never seen a painter before.
“Yes, I’m an artist. That’s my business.” The dimple in his cheek came back as he said, “I’m on my way home from a California-to-Oregon branch survey with many of my drawings and sketches.”
“All the way to California!” Emma said. “What is it like out there?”
“I can best show you through my sketches,” Mr. Cartwrightsaid. “Would you like to see them after we’ve finished supper?”
“
I
would!” Megan said. Ben and Emma eagerly agreed.
“I’ve heard of the artists of the western surveys,” Ben said. “I’d like to know more about the kind of work you do.”
The men began talking about the expeditions: some sent to map and explore, some to define boundaries, and some to survey land for proposed rail lines.
“I’ve worked with some notable artists,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Solomon Carvalho and Richard Kern. Unfortunately Kern was killed during a Paiute Indian attack in Utah.”
Megan’s question came out in a whisper. “Were you there when Mr. Kern was killed?”
“Yes,” he said. “I was with the expedition.”
She knew the expression on her face must show the horror she felt, because he added, “The Indians don’t understand our taking over their land, and they certainly don’t like it. They’re afraid, and sometimes they’re angry when we slaughter their food supply.”
“Buffalo,” Ben said.
“That’s right.” Mr. Cartwright turned back to Megan. “I’ve been able to make many friends among the Indians, and along with my watercolors and sketches of the countryside, I’ve done some portraits of the Indians.”
“Do you have those with you, too? Could we see them?” Megan asked.
“I have a few. Whatever I’ve brought with me, I’ll be glad to show you.”
Emma had brought the custard to the table and spooned it into bowls. Megan gulped her portion without tasting it and could hardly wait until the adults had finished eating. A real artist! And he was going to show them thesketches and paintings he’d made! Wouldn’t she have something grand to tell Mike!
After the dishes had been done, Ben brought in the oil lamps from the bedrooms so that in addition to the glow from the fire there would be as much light as possible in the room. One at a time Mr. Cartwright unrolled the paintings he had pulled from his saddlebags. At the sight of the towering mountains, crashing surf, and churning, foaming rivers, Megan could only gasp in amazement.
“These places are
Emma and Megan put the bowls of mashed squash and sliced cooked potatoes—both dotted with butter made from Rosie’s milk—in the center of the table, andBen brought the platter of fried meat. There was bread and more butter, and Megan could smell real coffee—instead of the usual chicory—being brewed in honor of the visitor.
They bowed their heads as Ben said grace, and the bowls were passed first to Mr. Cartwright, who—without waiting for any encouragement, Megan noticed—scooped liberal portions onto his plate and ate with obvious enjoyment.
But Megan was more curious than hungry. “Are you a Kansas farmer, too, Mr. Cartwright?” she asked.
He wiped his lips with his napkin and laid it back on his lap before he answered. “No,” he said. “I’m employed by the United States Department of the Interior.”
Megan had no idea what that meant, but Emma said, “Oh, my!” and looked impressed.
“Surveying the land?” Ben asked.
“In a way,” Mr. Cartwright said. “I was hired to travel with a United States Army western survey crew and make detailed sketches of the countryside.”
“You’re an artist? A real one?” Megan dropped her fork on the table and stared. She’d seen a few paintings in public buildings, even one in the entrance hall of the Children’s Aid Society. She’d been amazed when Mike told her there were homes uptown with large, gold-framed paintings hanging right in their living rooms. But she’d never seen a painter before.
“Yes, I’m an artist. That’s my business.” The dimple in his cheek came back as he said, “I’m on my way home from a California-to-Oregon branch survey with many of my drawings and sketches.”
“All the way to California!” Emma said. “What is it like out there?”
“I can best show you through my sketches,” Mr. Cartwrightsaid. “Would you like to see them after we’ve finished supper?”
“
I
would!” Megan said. Ben and Emma eagerly agreed.
“I’ve heard of the artists of the western surveys,” Ben said. “I’d like to know more about the kind of work you do.”
The men began talking about the expeditions: some sent to map and explore, some to define boundaries, and some to survey land for proposed rail lines.
“I’ve worked with some notable artists,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Solomon Carvalho and Richard Kern. Unfortunately Kern was killed during a Paiute Indian attack in Utah.”
Megan’s question came out in a whisper. “Were you there when Mr. Kern was killed?”
“Yes,” he said. “I was with the expedition.”
She knew the expression on her face must show the horror she felt, because he added, “The Indians don’t understand our taking over their land, and they certainly don’t like it. They’re afraid, and sometimes they’re angry when we slaughter their food supply.”
“Buffalo,” Ben said.
“That’s right.” Mr. Cartwright turned back to Megan. “I’ve been able to make many friends among the Indians, and along with my watercolors and sketches of the countryside, I’ve done some portraits of the Indians.”
“Do you have those with you, too? Could we see them?” Megan asked.
“I have a few. Whatever I’ve brought with me, I’ll be glad to show you.”
Emma had brought the custard to the table and spooned it into bowls. Megan gulped her portion without tasting it and could hardly wait until the adults had finished eating. A real artist! And he was going to show them thesketches and paintings he’d made! Wouldn’t she have something grand to tell Mike!
After the dishes had been done, Ben brought in the oil lamps from the bedrooms so that in addition to the glow from the fire there would be as much light as possible in the room. One at a time Mr. Cartwright unrolled the paintings he had pulled from his saddlebags. At the sight of the towering mountains, crashing surf, and churning, foaming rivers, Megan could only gasp in amazement.
“These places are
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