One more river to cross, p.10
One More River to Cross, page 10
She heard Daniel yell, “No!” She looked up and saw Chica bounding down through the fluff. The dog stopped at the horse’s nose. Joker tried again to stand, but his eyes lost some of the fear he’d held from when Ellen had first touched him. His nose quivered. “I know, I’m scared too,” she said. “Chica. Sit.” As though the dog knew the danger they were in, she sat.
Ellen worked her way back toward Joker’s head, never taking her mittened fingers from his skin. She knew the horse would struggle to rise, try to push his front legs up. She hoped she could calm him enough to get him standing—if he was able—with little disruption to what was around them. Then she’d lead him away from this tree well and on lower, downhill, at an angle until he was settled and maybe they’d find a level place to camp. If nothing was broken. Maybe the rest of the horse party would come down then too, making a wide berth around the section of snow that had collapsed. Please, please let him be all right, let me lead him out. Keep the others from danger.
“Come on, big boy. Step back, Chica.” As long as the dog stayed near Joker’s head, the little dog could distract the horse, keep him focused uphill, which was where Ellen now made her way. She reached for the reins, dark ribbons woven through white. She tugged gently on them. “Come on. You can stand now. It’s all right. Good boy, that’s a good boy.”
Joker lunged to rise, pushed with his forelegs and the thrust of him and his own fear made his movements unpredictable. When he charged forward it was faster than Ellen had expected, the snow like quicksand, sucking at her and she couldn’t jump out of the way. She felt her arm jerk as she held the reins and then she was lifted by the animal’s head and shoulder, tossed aside like her old rag doll. She let loose of the reins and didn’t even have time to scream as she put her hands out to stop her fall. Into the tree well. Thud. Followed by pain.
She heard more than saw Joker plunge out of her sight, heard Chica barking, then both were gone. At least she’d dropped the reins and hadn’t dragged him down in with her. She gasped, tried to calm her own breathing. She wanted to cry.
“Are you alright?” John yelled.
“We’ll get you out, mademoiselle,” François shouted.
“Get the horse!” Daniel said.
Daniel would think that the horse was more important than she was and he was right. The horse carried more than her: her packs held grain in the saddlebags for the other animals, carried her bedclothes and the tent she and Beth used nightly. Joker was scared and in new territory. They might spend hours or days looking for him—if they found him at all. She couldn’t think about that. She had to consider this position she was in. “Je suis là.” I am here. With a broken arm, from the feel of it. There was nothing to be done except pray that François or her brother John or someone could find Joker. All, hopefully before dark.
“Darlin’, don’t be crying.” Allen patted Sarah’s back as she leaned into his chest. For the last time.
“I guess I’ve every right to cry, you making me a widow.” She stepped away, wiped at her eyes with her bare hands. Her mittens hung on a yarn strung over her shoulder and under her cape so she wouldn’t lose them.
“You’re not a widow. It’s just a temporary separation is all. We’ll meet up in the spring and both have stories to tell. Here, put your mittens back on. Don’t want to freeze your fingers off.”
“What would it matter?”
“Sarah, Sarah.” He tugged the mittens on, then reached for her again. “I’m doing this for us.” She nodded, the movement offsetting her red-dyed wool tuque. “Believe me, please.”
“What choice do I have?” She hiccuped. “Just . . . stay alive. Please.” She felt like a loose thread in a world where being stitched together was all that mattered.
“I will.”
Joe Foster and Moses tromped by and nodded toward Allen. “I’ve got to go,” he said. With cold lips, he kissed her hard one last time. She gave all the warmth she could with her kiss back, wanted to hold him there forever. But then she stepped away. She’d separate first, to show him she was strong. He touched her nose, then turned and hurried after the two other Wagon Guards. He turned back once and she waved. “Bye,” she shouted, but a gust of wind took her words into a whisper.
Maolisa Murphy, big as a water trough, carried her two-year-old Mimi on her hip while BD clung to her skirts as they stomped along the path worn now by oxen hooves, horses, and men, women, and children carrying what couldn’t be loaded onto the backs of animals. She felt . . . disheveled. It had been disruptive enough of her routines just to come on this journey, and she’d kept as organized a “household” as one could in a four-by-ten-foot space. But this . . . paring down to even less, was troubling. She supposed the group didn’t each need a Dutch pot. They didn’t each need a reflector oven. Those were heavy items and it wasn’t as though they were a separate family now. Everyone was in this together. She’d realized that when Mrs. Townsend and her sister-in-law Ellen had ridden off and the remainder—everyone—had wished them well, said their farewells and waved goodbye. That horse party formed a new family, and that meant all those left behind were part of another.
And she felt that keenly as Isabella Patterson walked with Maolisa’s children, her own big enough to carry objects while Isabella carried BD now and then. “I thank you so much,” Maolisa told her. “I don’t think BD could make it much longer without your help.”
“Happy to help. My own Lydia’s a good assistant, aren’t you, Lydia?” The Patterson girl turned and nodded agreement. She’d been trudging along in front of Maolisa, carrying the salt bag, what was left of several families adding to one supply container. They’d done the same for saleratus, beans, and coffee. Coffee beans had been ground, and the little grinder she adored, one given her by her own mother, had been left behind. Maybe it could be picked up in the spring when they came back for the wagons and the three men left at the lake.
She had to stop frequently. The trail wasn’t exactly level and it rose a few feet, so at times she felt like she was carrying a barn up from a riverbank. She had actually looked longingly at the chains bearing the wagons up and over. Maybe they could haul her up that same way. But they hadn’t. She’d eased through the cleft and up to the summit like everyone else. She hadn’t mentioned her longing for a shortcut using chains. Junior would have thought her daft and risking the baby to be hauled up in such a way. Very unladylike too, she imagined.
“I wish we could have been in a wagon, Mama. Let them pull us up into the sky,” a younger Patterson girl said. The children all had a trace of English accent like their mother’s.
“You put the very words I was thinking into my ears,” Maolisa told the girl. The Pattersons all had hair as black as tar. “Only I was thinking, just put that rope under my arms and lift me up.”
“We could use one of those hot-air balloons,” Lydia said. She had actually turned around and walked backward, facing Maolisa and her mother. Oh, to be so agile as to walk backward in the snow and not fall down.
“That we could,” Isabella said.
“Big birds,” BD said. He tugged on Isabella’s skirt, catching himself as he stumbled.
“Yes, those hawks have noticed us, haven’t they?” Isabella said. They were through the shadowed cleft and dragging themselves toward the gathering of wagons and animals at the top. The wind had picked up. Mary Sullivan stood beside the men, talking to the animals harnessed together to pull up the wagons. Poor girl had been working all day at the task.
“Miss Sullivan says her name means ‘hawk-eye.’ I’d like a name that meant something,” Lydia said. That these children could carry on conversations when she had all she could do to breathe amazed Maolisa. Oh, the joy of youth.
“In Gaelic, Patterson means in part ‘descendant from the little curly-headed one,’” Isabella told her.
“It does? I’ll tell Miss Sullivan that.” She reached to her woolen hat, as though touching her own curly hair.
Maolisa put her child down, pressed both hands against her back. She couldn’t understand why she was so large now. She still had two months to go. Maybe she carried twins.
Isabella pulled her cape around her and then bent to lift BD again. “There you go. Climb up onto my hip. Pretend you’re flying.”
“You’re a very slow bird,” BD said.
“Barney! That’s not nice to say. I’m sorry, Isabella.”
“Don’t be. He’s right. I am a slow bird. But I’m still going, that’s what matters.”
“Yes, it does.” Maolisa stopped then and looked back behind them. Miller children, Sarah Montgomery, Ann Jane—sisters and sisters-in-law—all snaked their way toward the open space on top of a mountain. Mary saw a river of grace. Dressed mostly in grays but for the reddish Irish capes of Johanna and Ann Jane and the blue-dyed wools of Sarah Montgomery’s knitted sweaters, the family that followed lifted her spirits. All who had started were still alive. All had found a way to encourage each other. She hoped she contributed to that, hadn’t become so self-centered with this babe-to-be-born that she’d neglected to be kind and generous. Her eyes teared up with the sight of them all. They were family now in the truest sense of the word. Their presence kept worry at bay—for the moment. She’d seen the supplies, all out in the open as people combined what they had. There was reason to worry.
12
Settling
Mary Sullivan sat on her bed in the wagon now on top of the mountain, while Sarah prepared a cold meal for them and the little boys. Her brother John was with the captain, almost taking Joe Foster’s place helping Capt. Maybe he didn’t want to express his frustration with his sister’s bold behavior, at least not in front of Sarah.
Her daring invigorated her, while it infuriated John. She wondered, though, at the fleetingness of fulfillment, how it had to be constantly restored. At least for her. At this moment, she was just plain tired. No ability to repair either her brother’s upset nor her own weakness at needing invigoration.
“You must be exhausted,” Sarah said. She wore a heavy sweater knitted of dyed wool over her plain gray dress and clunky brogans.
“Aren’t we all.”
“I’ve worn this same sweater for the last week,” Sarah said.
“You don’t have to apologize to me for fashion faux pas.” Mary had hiked her skirts between her legs and tacked them into her waistband. No one had batted an eye at her wearing something resembling a man’s pants—except for John. It was just more practical when leading oxen and later as she helped the men maneuver the cold and wet-stiffened harnesses.
On top of the mountain, there’d been no trees to act as braces against the weight of the wagons being raised, so the animals bore the brunt of the effort, all while wearing heavy yokes and straining through snow. Without trees, there were no dry, dead lower branches for cook fires. They’d also had a cold camp after the three wagons had been lifted and restocked, with more items abandoned.
Mary rubbed her arms for warmth, grateful for the sweater her mother had knit for her. She felt . . . weak to need such comfort, then realized how warmth banished weakness. The hard work of snow stomping had actually brought enough heat into her body that she considered removing that sweater. But she hadn’t. They had not brought sheep with them. Probably wise. They would have died in this weather or already have been stew.
“You certainly surprised everyone,” Sarah said. Mary reached for a piece of hardtack. “I hope you don’t mind my saying it, but you look so frail. I’ve worried about you. I even told my husband.” Sarah’s eyes widened as she mentioned her mate. “And yet you just charged right on up the mountain, first.”
“That rock face seems to have brought out my granite side,” Mary said. She adjusted her tuque, tucked her rounded braids up under the wool.
“Let’s get those wet clothes off you into something dry.”
Mary could barely lift her arms over her head they were so sore. The tenderness with which Sarah treated her made Mary think of her mother, the kindest woman she’d ever known. She hated it that someone said “God needed another angel, that’s why he took her.” Surely God had enough angels that he didn’t need to take the Sullivans’.
After these past days, Mary felt as though she traveled through two worlds—a world of men and animals and another of women and children. It was a side of her she hadn’t considered. Or maybe she had, that time of canoeing in Quebec. Racing the rapids was more like moving oxen up the mountain, while knitting or quilting, or even looking after the plant seeds her mother had carted from Canada, these were activities that didn’t get her heart pounding. She’d never excelled at them. It was a regret she carried that she hadn’t perfected one of those feminine ways before her mother died, just to show her that she could. But her quilt blocks looked like a four-year-old stitched them. Her cooking was perfunctory too, not something she enjoyed though her brothers didn’t complain. In fact, on this entire trip, she hadn’t found any domestic tasks as invigorating as bringing those oxen up the mountain.
The sound of a child’s laughter from another wagon reached them. Her own little brothers were nodding off even as wafer crumbs dribbled at their cheeks.
“Sorry there’s no coffee or anything hot. Nothing to burn. But we have hardtack.” Sarah handed her the biscuit as firm as rock. She sat and took a bite herself, using her back teeth, like a dog might, to rip at the hardness. She chewed. “This is good.” Sarah held the biscuit up. “You’ll have to show me how you made it.”
“My mother prepared them. I’ve never been good at making hardtack or getting saleratus to rise the way my mother could. Nor stitching.” She lowered her eyes. “I never even tried knitting.”
“We all have our gifts,” Sarah said.
There’s probably something wrong with me that my body demands physical challenge to satisfy, while necessary functions of daily living leave me fatigued.
“I guess I haven’t found my gift yet. I’ll have to keep looking.”
“Oh, I think this mountain showed us at least one of your strong offerings.”
“I wasn’t able enough to keep my mother and father alive.” She looked up at Sarah, surprised herself with that comment. She hadn’t known she’d thought it true, but now that she’d blurted it out, she did. She’d failed them, not having doctored them into wellness. Both their parents, happy and healthy at sunrise, gone by sunset.
“Cholera, didn’t you say it was?” Sarah asked.
“Yes.” Several had died just days before they’d left Iowa. “Our parents brought us from Ireland to the Provinces. And we lived well there. But Papa and John decided there’d be better things in California.” She’d stopped adding the “Alta.” She and her mother hadn’t wanted to leave. If only Mary had been stronger then, resisted the men of the family.
“Maybe they tired of the longer darkened days.”
“At least they didn’t have to endure this winter. I suppose I ought to be grateful for that.”
“See, there’s another gift you have, finding the good in the deep of despair. That encourages me.” Sarah tore off another chunk of her hardtack.
Mary chewed hers slowly too, making it last. Maybe carrying on despite grief was a hidden gift.
Capt thought about his farewell to Joe. The young man’s face was a mass of black beard and his eyes teared up with Capt’s words of gratitude about Joe’s willingness to remain with Capt’s wagons at the lake. “We’ll be back in the spring to get you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”
“I know you will.” He’d grabbed the boy’s hand, put his other over the top, nodded his head. “All right, let’s get this party on its way.”
Short and sweet farewells, but the boy was like a son to him. Capt didn’t know how you said goodbye to a child, so he’d been gruffer than he’d intended. He guessed he fought back his own tears. And that first night when he’d made camp without the boy—the young man—he’d missed him anew. Dennis Martin, not much older than Joe, had come by and offered his cold biscuit to share. John Sullivan had wandered in like a waif too. Dennis was one of the Irish-Canadians traveling with his elderly father and brother and a sister married into the Murphy clan, Ann Jane Martin Murphy. Poor woman. She had a hook nose like Capt’s. He’d thought he could keep all the Murphys-Millers-Martins straight after spending this much time together, but every now and then he’d realize that someone’s wife was another clansman’s sister. They were hardy souls, these Irish. He couldn’t have picked a better group to lead—no, to travel with.
The first morning on top of the mountain, the reloaded wagons lined up anew—they’d only brought three up and over, the animals too tired to pull up the remaining two. Plus, Capt felt the demand to hurry on. Snow fell on them. Maybe some of the men should have returned to help the boys build their shelter, but they couldn’t afford the time. Nor the energy it would take. He heard a woman singing a lullaby, one of those Irish tunes of too-aloo-a-lura that made him want to sway to the rhythm. Maybe that inhuman lifting of wagons to the summit was the last of their trials. He hoped so, hoped the same for Joe and his companions.
Wagon Guards
Moses, Allen, and Joe chopped saplings buried in deep snow. They attached them to the ox, asking the beast to drag their bounty toward their makeshift camp. Moses kept up with the more hardened men, urging the animal to do its work. The sky was duck-feather gray as they shoveled snow. They tore strands of green they gave to the two old cows left behind with them, animals too weak to go on. One of the cows had gotten sick. Moses didn’t know what it was, but they’d butchered it when it died and ate it, then used the hide to cover the roof of their cabin. Moses wasn’t worried. They were all good hunters. They’d have plenty of food.
