The Oregon Trail, page 3
“Al,” began his wife, peeking out from between the folds of canvas, “Is this wise?”
“Leave me be woman,” he answered, none too friendly, “You can come or stay, suit yer self.”
She disappeared back into the wagon. “You two wanna come?” he asked his wife’s two older sisters. They sat squeezed together, their skirts blending into a cascade of black.
I watched. I knew little of the sisters, only that Anne, much younger than the two older maiden ladies, had married Al Roydon rather suddenly before they’d left. And that Anne had begged her two sisters, Victoria and Elizabeth, to come with her. There was a stony silence that surrounded their wagon except when Al Roydon had something to say. Then it was usually an order barked at someone.
“Well,” he said, “You comin’?” The sisters nodded, their hands folded tightly in their laps, their backs tense, mouths in a grim line. “Then we’re off. See you on the other side,” he said to Bert.
“Right,” said Bert, “Ladies,” he said touching the brim of his hat.
From the moment the wagon rolled into the water, it was wrong. Al started from a place further downstream from where the Uncles had tried to cross. The water was lapping at the bottom of the wagon after only a few feet. We watched from shore in horror as the oxen struggled to keep their heads above the rushing water. They bellowed a frantic cry, the muscles on their shoulders tensing, as their legs frantically reached out for solid ground. Al struck the animals again and again with his whip.
“Get on now,” he yelled over and over. I never did see the necessity of hitting an animal. I winced every time I heard the crack of his whip.
I could see Anne peering out of the back of the wagon her hands gripping the splintery boards, it looked like there were tears sliding down her cheeks.
The two uncles, both mounted, saw what was about to happen as the wagon swayed and began to be pushed down the river. The twins looked at each other and together galloped into the water, their mounts shivered as the iciness engulfed them.
No words were needed as each man guided his horse to a side of the oxen. The brothers spoke encouraging words to their mounts – experienced or not, the whites of the eyes of those two horses bulged with an unspeakable terror. They swam when their hooves no longer touched bottom. David came around the back going to the far side. Bert urged his horse to the side up river. Together they grabbed the oxen’s tether and pulled and guided them until they once again gained their footing.
The wagon swayed again as a branch slammed against it. Al Royden slashed again and again with his whip, the oxen bawled, but the branch had lodged in the spokes of one of the wheels, locking it in place. The wagon began to tip as we watched in horror. One of the sister’s slid off the seat. It happened so fast. She was over the side into the icy water. The other sister screamed in terror. There was no way to stop it; she was being swept down the river. Four of the men mounted on shore galloped into the water.
Bert grabbed at the branch trying to pull it from where it was locked in the wagon wheel. David held tight to the oxen. Bert couldn’t get a good grip on the branch. His foot came out of the stirrup and with one last effort he kicked out with a tremendous force. There was a loud crack. The branch was broken. It released the wheel.
The four riders were traveling downstream trying to catch up with the black bombazine skirt that bobbed up and down through the rapids. An arm reached up out of the depths, the hand claw-like. The rushing of the water drowned out the screams and cries of the women watching from the shore.
Anne looked as though she was going to jump out of the back of the wagon. But instead had her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. Her other hand trying to hold her steady gripped the wagon to keep from being tossed out too. The river traveled out of sight between the trees. The light was fading. The patch of black disappeared in the rushing water.
Angry words came from the other side of the river. Al’s voice rose in agitation. Uncle Bert rarely raised his voice, but now spared nothing in his tongue lashing of Al Royden. Although the words couldn’t be distinguished over the noise of the river, we knew he was about as riled as he’d ever been.
The wagons circled. We were unusually quiet. Dinner fires were started; it seemed that even the young ones made little noise. As we washed up the last of the supper dishes, the four riders came back into camp. They just shook their heads. They dismounted and said nothing. Guess one of the sisters is lost forever may God rest her soul.
The fires died down, the horses were tethered. It was the first casualty on the trail. I’d heard not everyone made it all the way through to the west. But I didn’t want to think about it.
Uncle Bert came by to say good night. “Head further upstream in the morning,” he said. “Water’s more shallow. Not so treacherous.” He shook his head and walked off.
A hush fell over the camp with only an occasional hoot from an owl. His lonely cry echoed through the darkness.
FOUR
Odd how quickly we’d settled into a routine. It was already June. The days were longer and so warm that we walked without shawls. The trail continued to be passable. There were still forests and huge rocks to get around, but we were managing. Uncle Bert said it had once been a buffalo trail and the Indians had used it too, probably not so long ago. I had become accustomed to walking beside the wagons and rarely tired. Most often I would stay by one of the others so’s I wouldn’t have to be under Isabelle’s watchful eye.
She seemed to be getting better, although she was still thin as a fence post. Her coughing fits were further apart so I only had to drive the wagon occasionally. She liked being up there on that high seat, being in control of two lumbering beasts. ‘Course she didn’t like what it was doing to her once soft white hands. But in truth, I think she preferred to be up on the seat alone or with just Hannah. I’m thinking I may be too much of a trial to her and she’d prefer not to have me around all the livelong day vexing her with all my bad habits.
Father had said Isabelle loves you all and just wants to help and to teach you three children proper manners. Before he left, he said he trusted us to behave properly and not make him ashamed. I sure wish he were with us now. Things always seemed right when he was nearby. Isabelle didn’t go correcting me all the livelong day when he was there; she pretty much would let me be. Now without him here, I’m almost like her pet project – needing constant correction and to be endlessly bossed around.
What seemed to work best was my walking next to the Applegate wagon or even up by the Cantrell’s. Abigail Cantrell is just 17 years old and she’s stuck up and likes to lord it over me that she’s older, but sometimes it’s either talk to her or talk to myself. I’ve about given up on Jane Applegate. We walk together sometimes, but I always babble like a fool when I’m with her. The silences are sometimes so long, so I just talk away. Once in awhile she nods or looks at me out from under her bonnet, sometimes in disbelief at some of the things I say. Like the time I said I wonder how many of us will make it through.
This wasn’t a journey for ladies who wore lace gloves and played the pianoforte. I knew that much. At the meetings they had before we left, they were very clear that this wasn’t for the weak. There were all sorts of hazards. Some people turned back and others didn’t make it through. ’Course they didn’t talk about why they didn’t make it through – but I knew.
I sure wish Sadie was with me, she’d been my only friend at home. Isabelle couldn’t wait to get us apart. Being from Boston, Isabelle likes to pretend that slavery doesn’t exist. She calls it an abomination and the scourge of mankind. If she was so opposed to the difference, why’d she use Sadie’s mom so often to come and clean the house and do the gardening? And why’d she turn up her nose whenever Sadie and I would go off to play together? ’Course that didn’t happen too often what with all the chores we had to do.
Father had freed Sadie’s whole family before he set off for the West. It was best he said. We couldn’t afford to take them with us and he’d been intending to free them for a while. It just all fell into place.
“Put your bonnet on young lady or you’re going to get so brown you’ll look like a wild Indian,” Isabelle called down. She sometimes had eyes in the back of her head, which was a real annoyance. And then sometimes it was just easier to do what she said rather than argue with her. I wanted to ask her how many blonde and blue-eyed Indians she’d ever seen. But Father had said don’t rile her; we were lucky he said to have her for our new mother.
Wish he’d asked me about that before he’d chosen her. I wondered sometimes if it would ever settle right with me. Mother died just five years ago, I’d been about ten at the time and never felt like I’d really known her, she’d been sick so often. And here was Isabelle to take her place.
“Wait up.” It was Brian McElhinney. He slid off his horse and looked like he wanted to walk for a while. He’d done it before; I think he was sweet on stuck-up Abigail Cantrell.
“Hi,” I said, pretending enthusiasm. We still had hours ahead of us ‘til camp and it would be more interesting to talk with him than to babble away at Jane Applegate.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Well tonight I’ll be going to a dance, and tomorrow I’ll be having a fitting for my new riding outfit and then…”
“Hold on now, what’s the problem?”
“Nothing,” I answered, “Just plain out bored I guess.”
“Hey, you’re doing fine,” he said. “It’s going to be a long trip, may as well try to enjoy some of it.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“Hey,” he said, “You didn’t used to be like this. What’s going on?”
“Whatdaya mean I didn’t used to be like this?”
“Well now, when Randy was alive didn’t we used to have some fun? Like, remember sneaking away and swimming in the creek when we were supposed to be doing chores? And remember when your father would try to teach us all how to shoot?”
“Yeah, I remember.” I kicked at a stone, then wished I hadn’t. I was barefoot and had been feeling such freedom. Now my toe was throbbing and I wished I’d put on my boots.
“You miss him don’t you?” he asked.
I knew who he was talking about. Brian and I had one thing in common; we missed Randy so much it was as if we could see the hole in each other’s hearts. No one else ever talked about him. It was as if Brian and I were the only two on the face of the whole earth who had even known him. He was everything I wasn’t – he laughed, he was always happy, I’m sure he was Father’s favorite and he was almost always poking fun at something. He wasn’t at all like Jacob, the serious and always doing-the-right-thing younger brother.
His real name was Randall but anyone who knew him called him Randy. He’d been Brian’s best friend and my older brother. He somehow took mother’s place when she died. He watched out for me, we were best friends. Now, no one else ever even talked about him.
It was as if he’d never been. As if there was this mysterious blank place in my heart that had no business being there ‘cause the person who’d put it there had never existed. The few times that I met up with Brian he would always turn the conversation to Randy. Wasn’t sure if I liked that or not. Sometimes I just thought let sleeping dogs lie as Father said so many times. But this sleeping dog wasn’t happy lying still and every now and again would get up to nip at me and remind me that he had been part of my life. He’d died too young and too soon. And there was still a mystery surrounding it. He’d been shot. I didn’t like to think about it ‘cause they never found out how it happened or why.
“So Brian,” I said, trying to focus on something else, “Heard that Abigail Cantrell was planning on settling up by your family in Oregon.”
“Might be true,” he answered. “Didn’t know they had made up their minds yet.”
“Maw wants you,” yelled a young boy who was running towards Brian. The similarity of the two was striking; I thought that little one looks just like a copy of Brian, just shorter. But then, the entire family looked like that, like they were quintuplets only different sizes. They had dark blue eyes and sandy, perfectly straight hair. They each had a case of freckles that they seemed to grow out of at some particular age and they all had a small gap between their front teeth. You could pick those five brothers out of a crowd.
Father had said once that they had two girls after Brian but they’d both died from scarlet fever when they were very young and ever since then the McElhinneys could only produce boys. Now there were five of them in the family.
“What’s she want Sean Patrick,” he asked as he swung himself back up into the saddle.
“Didn’t say, ‘cept you better come quick.” Sean Patrick didn’t seem to be able to say anything unless he yelled, which he was doing now. Isabelle said he was probably hard of hearing and didn’t even know he was yelling. Isabelle said it happened sometimes when people had gotten the measles.
“I’m comin,” he said. He tipped his hat to me; that made me feel funny, old maybe. I’m not sure. Only men my father’s age had ever tipped their hats to me and that was mostly when I was with Father.
I continued on trying to decide whether or not to climb up in the wagon and pull my boots on before Isabelle noticed. I decided against it. Wish I could’ve ridden a horse like the wranglers did or Jacob and the other boys, but as with most things Isabelle said it would be unseemly. We didn’t have a sidesaddle with us and I didn’t want to explain to her that I’d been riding astride horses since I had learned how to walk. After all, we were raising horses at our farm and it would be highly unlikely that one of us couldn’t ride.
I’d get back to it as soon as we settled in Oregon. I had ridden most of the dozen horses that we were bringing with us, some of them bareback, which even Father disapproved of. I missed riding, a lot, and wasn’t even allowed to help the wranglers drive them along. Somehow it couldn’t come soon enough, our getting to the Oregon Country.
The wagon train was slowing and then came to a stop. Isabelle must have been dozing ‘cause she very nearly ran our wagon into the backend of the Barnes’s wagon.
“Hold up.” It was Uncle Bert. It was too early to be stopping. The sun had a ways to go before the darkness canceled our day.
“What’s up?” I asked Uncle David as he rode past.
“Lost a boy,” he answered. “Need some help here,” he yelled. “Boy’s lost.”
It took minutes only to get together six mounted men to go back along the trail. Didn’t take long to figure out who it was. Mrs. McElhinney could be heard for the entire length of the train. She was bawling and carrying on something terrible. It was her Ryan, Brian’s five-year-old brother. No one seemed to know where he’d gotten off to or how long he’d been gone. He’d been seen at breakfast but we hadn’t stopped at lunch ‘cause there were rain clouds gathering and we’d wanted to cover some territory before it commenced.
The children would often walk or ride with different wagons. They all seemed to turn up and appear at the right campfires at suppertime so there didn’t seem to be much call to worry during the day. We all kept a good eye out for each other. We saw Indians occasionally, off in the distance, but Uncle David said there more’n likely wouldn’t be a problem in this area. I think he didn’t want to scare us ‘cause that’s not what I heard.
Some remnants of what was left of the tribes of the Osage were still around and it was said they weren’t any too friendly. There weren’t all that many left after the government took their land when they tried to relocate them to somewhere where they’d never been - and didn’t want to be. Heard they still weren’t happy and the few who were left weren’t real pleased with the wagon trains that kept coming. I did notice that there was now a watch posted each night.
“Have you seen him?” asked Brian. I shook my head no, but kept searching the horizon. Ryan usually walked along the side of the wagons. Seemed that when he got tired one or the other of the wranglers or his older brothers would take him up on their horse. Now it seemed that no one could account for him since early this morning. Uncle Bert stayed back and said we may as well circle up for the night, we probably wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile.
I felt a chill crawl up my back. It wasn’t a nice feeling. Since losing one of the sisters to the river, we’d had no bad luck at all ’cept of course for the Barnes ox that broke his leg. Broke it so bad they had to shoot it. They took one of the three that were left and took him off the yoke and were now operating with just a pair.
Course that meant they had to lighten their load some and it was a sorry day for Miz Barnes when she watched them unload her bedstead and bureau and what looked like a real heavy dry sink. They left it all at the side of the trail. There were other pieces of furniture and trunks too that had been abandoned. Guess maybe others realized they were never going to make it with the loads they wanted their team of oxen or mules to haul.
Miz Barnes added her things to the scattered pieces already there, which included a table with a broken leg and two chairs with badly peeling red paint. There was a mirror there too, which I would have liked to have, but a crack went from one corner to the other. Nevertheless, it’d been awhile since I’d seen any likeness of myself. I stood for a moment peering into the glass. The reflected image was wavy and it was hard to tell, but it looked like I was taller than I remembered. Maybe even more filled out, but it may have just been the ill-fitting dress I was wearing. Not sure if I liked what I saw. The face seemed sad even though it was hard to tell who was looking back at me. I saw as much as I wanted and turned back to see Miz Barnes who was using her apron to wipe at the tears dripping off her chin.
They said her furniture had come all the way from Connecticut. Mr. Barnes’ parents had brought it down with them when they moved to Virginia. Mr. Barnes told his wife he’d try to come back and get it. Somehow we all knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Well sometimes there’s an upside to things ‘cause after they shot that ox with the broken leg, we all had stewed or roasted ox for a week. Meant that the men didn’t have to take so much time hunting every other day.
