One more river to cross, p.6
One More River to Cross, page 6
“Let’s see. We’re miles from civilization and a warm stove. We’re surrounded by mountains and the snow is so deep my calves ache as though I’d run a race for hours just going from here to the latrine. Our horses are lean and exhausted. My good friend Beth has gone off on another trail and I’m worried about her. Yes, I feel overwhelmed.”
“You’ve got me.”
She turned to face him. “Yes, I do. And I even tried to call out to you, worried over your safety in my dream.”
“That’s nice to know.” He kissed her. “Always pleasant to be the subject of a woman’s dreams.”
She didn’t correct his assumption that he was the main part of the dream. The snow was. It was becoming a character all of its own and not one she wanted to spend much more time with. But it was clear she would be. She remembered that day the month before when she’d felt nestled inside a sanctuary, hopeful that the good journey would just continue on. Well, they were still alive and there’d been no avalanche. She’d hang on to that.
“The grade’s steep. Not sure the heaviest wagons can make it at all.”
Seventeen-year-old Moses Schallenberger listened to the Greenwoods’ report, wondered what Capt Stephens would say. The animals were weak, that was certain, and several of the wagons carried heavier cargo than others. Montgomery’s with his weapons and ammunition, Capt’s with his blacksmithing supplies, and Dr. John’s with the bolts of silks, satins, and velvets, and dishes, enough to stock a store. Heavy shovels. He even had a plow. They’d been sent back to their wagons for a meal after listening to the report. The men would gather later supposedly after conferring with their families. Mr. Hitchcock and the Greenwoods would rest their horses, then head back up, still seeking that cleft in the rock wide enough for wagons to go through.
Moses was glad he’d sent Chica along with his sister, but he missed that little face, her breath panting beside him while he cooked now for Dr. John. He missed Joker too. Dr. John bent over his book.
“‘Sleep hath its own world . . . and dreams in their development have a breath, and tears, and torture, and the touch of joy.’”
“Sir?”
“Reading Lord Byron, Moses. You ought to do that too. This one is called The Dream. He goes on to say that dreams ‘leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, they take a weight from off our waking toils.’ Do you dream, Moses?”
“No, sir. Not when I’m sleeping anyway. I have thoughts of the future, but Mr. Byron might not be thinking of those.”
“Lord Byron,” Dr. John corrected.
“Right.”
Moses’s brother-in-law stood beside him now, the little book he’d been reading from put back in his pocket. “The poet is talking about that place of its own reality between ‘death and existence.’ But I suppose your dreaming of the future is not a bad thing. I do that myself from time to time.”
Moses thought Doc did a fair amount of dreaming about his silks and other valuables he planned to sell in California. And he talked a lot about “other ideas” he had for his future, but was sly about commenting on what those might be. His sister loved the man. He tried to.
“I’ve some alum that might help those outbreaks on your face, boy.”
Moses’s hands went immediately to his cheeks.
“Oh, don’t touch them. Just makes them worse. Probably the poor nutrition we have on this trip. It’ll be over soon,” he said. “And you can get back to cleaning better.”
Moses knew he blushed. “What else does he say about dreaming?” Anything to change the subject from my pimples. He even had a pox inside his dimple.
“Let’s see.” He pulled the book out again. “‘A change came over the spirit of my dream.’ Lord Byron starts several verses of this poem with that phrase. An interesting structure for a poem.”
“I suppose that would be true even for daydreams,” Moses offered.
“What’s that?”
“That change comes over the spirit of a dream. Even daydreams that I guess are just wishes. Or hopes. But things change them.”
“That’s quite insightful, Moses. Yes, they do indeed change as we face the consequences of what each day brings us. I suppose hanging on to a dream despite that can require change.”
Had his brother-in-law looked at him with new respect? Yes, he had. It wasn’t as good as a lick from Chica, but it was something pleasant from a brother-in-law who usually wasn’t.
If the baby comes early, Maolisa Murphy thought, this would be a memorable place for it to happen. They could call a boy baby Stephen and honor both their leader and the lake. It wouldn’t necessarily be like Ellen Independence born at Independence Rock on the Fourth of July, but still significant. And saying the child’s name would remind her of this pristine site so quiet, all covered in white. It was almost sacred. Would Indians have rested here, set their tepees or huts, whatever they called their homes? Yes, the snow was deep, but it was absolutely awe-inspiring to see the vast white world of which they were but a dot on the terrain. The Horseback Party—as she thought of them—missed this. She prayed for their success.
She felt a small jab against her rib. “Whoa, baby. Getting restless?”
Maolisa was much bigger than she’d been at this stage in previous pregnancies. She hadn’t been eating as well, given the conditions, so her girth surprised her. They burned up every morsel of fuel put into their bodies and she’d made sure the children all had sufficient sustenance. She was glad they’d prepared so many dried fruits like bleached apples. Pickled beans had filled a wooden barrel. She appreciated the different taste of the pickled foods—crunchy texture too. She’d already rationed those and there weren’t many more. Dried venison was their staple, but it lacked flavor in her mind. Still, she ate it. Junior reminded her that she had to think of the baby she carried as well and to not deprive herself. She noticed that he did, though. They’d better be less than a month from Sutter’s or they’d arrive starving—if they arrived at all.
Something about the lake gave her new hope. It was serenity at this altitude with snow-studded mountains around it, trees so heavy with foot-high stacks like sugared cones. One could barely see the branches. They acted as sentinels to the lake edge. It was enchanting. Gun-gray rocks dotted the shoreline. Those rocks had been there for generations. Solid. Steady.
Was the human spirit capable of continuing when one’s body knew exhaustion it had never known before? Could a magical landscape bring sustenance?
No one had ever been in this valley staring at this lake in the winter with wagons. She lumbered toward the water’s edge and picked up a rock. She’d make it a keepsake. It was black as a moonless night and smooth. She turned it over in her palm, rubbed its rounded edges. Then, changing her mind, she skipped it across the ice, something she’d done as a child on Lac Saint-Jean. Her husband called her a proper housewife, but that didn’t preclude skipping a few stones now and then.
Horseback Party
They lifted Beth from Spotty, the servants carrying her to a place they’d cleared as best they could, settling her on the blanket-covered snowpack. Ellen was already there. Daniel had started a fire. Thank goodness he was good at that. Ellen had packed snow inside the kettle to melt and heat for tea and coffee. Chica leapt like a cat, hopping up with her middle arching higher than her feet, then bounding down as her way to make it through the snow. The dog had brought them to laughter more than once, the sun highlighting her black hair like little strings of silk. The dog knew tricks, or at least Ellen thought she did. After they had a meal that first night, the dog had sat in front of her and stared, tongue hanging out until Ellen put her hand out like she wanted to shake it. The dog spun around in a circle, then sat and plopped a paw into Ellen’s hand. She shook it and the dog put her paw on the ground, staring. Ellen did it again and the dog spun around, plopped her bottom on the ground and gave up her paw. It could go on all night, Ellen suspected. She’d have to find some new tricks to teach her—or wait for the dog to tell her what else Moses had taught her.
“How are you feeling?” Ellen asked. Beth stayed silent. “Beth?” She turned to look at the older woman.
“I’m assessing. It seems to me I have to find a more particular answer to that never-ending question besides ‘Not so strong.’ After all, I’ve made it this far.” She coughed. “How are you feeling?”
“No one ever asks me that. Let me pause too.” She closed her eyes and imagined a light flowing down her body to her toes. No spots needing special reflection. “I’m good too. But let’s not ask my feet.” The women laughed.
Daniel came from hobbling the horses. He’d hung feed bags over their heads and put grain into them. “Don’t you have something hot yet? The men are exhausted and hungry.”
“Water’s hot. I’ll put the peas in. There’s jerked venison and some pemmican. The bacon is frozen so I’ve got to chop at the slab. Unless you want to as you’re in a hurry.”
“That’s woman’s work.”
“Yes, it is and we do a fine job of it, don’t we, Beth. You boys would starve without us.”
Daniel scowled while John put his hand out for the knife. “I’ll chop off the bacon. I rather like cooking. In case someday I don’t have a good sister cooking for me. Or a wife.”
Daniel gave a disgusted gesture, pushing away the air, and sat against one of the saddles he’d pulled from the horses. Ellen was grateful to have astride saddles like the men’s. Still, Ellen rode in the line behind Beth each day to watch and make sure she didn’t slip or fall.
The men had used their axes several times to knock away tall shrubs and small trees in their way. They were riding up, following the river that wasn’t as wide here. They camped at the side of what appeared to be a good-sized hill, maybe a mountain. Trees of various sizes had marked their ascent and glistened with snow. Daniel thought they would reach the summit in the morning, given the stream’s narrowing. “Whatever feeds this river has to be springs in the mountain or maybe that big lake Truckee drew in the sand.”
“Does it mean we’re going to be able to go—gasp—down after this?” Beth asked him.
He nodded. “I’d like to think so. This is grueling, but at least we’re not hauling wagons.”
“I appreciate your coming with us, Mr. Murphy.” Beth was so kind.
“Wasn’t my choice but turns out it’s not so bad.”
Ellen smelled the cooked peas. Along with the bacon John had carved off the slab, they’d have a hearty meal, if not varied. Daniel and John and the servants ate. Oliver had offered to cook and she’d let him on a later day when she was even more fatigued. Everyone ate, content. Even Daniel hadn’t insulted her efforts.
She dreamed about her father that night. He walked in a meadow. A lake lay beyond. He looked contented. The good feeling stayed with her in the morning, perfuming her day so that she whistled as she fixed their biscuits.
They rode to the top of the ridge, Joker lunging the last few feet. Before them lay a wide, glistening lake with blue-green water sparkling, a jewel set in alabaster. “It must be very deep to not be frozen,” Ellen said.
“It’s . . . breathtaking,” Beth said. The altitude affected her. She struggled with her breathing. Had she yesterday? They needed to find their route around this lake and descend quickly or who knew how Beth would answer her question that evening of “How are you feeling?” Or if she even could.
Snow started to fall from a gray sky as they began their ride around the rim. Ellen thought it was telling her to hurry up. She was listening.
8
Assessments
It was as though the elements stalked them, Capt thought, giving just enough time to catch their breaths, only to be thwarted into a profound discouragement.
“Gather them all, Joe.” Captain Stephens sent his driver to the wagons to give the men the grim truth: The more heavily loaded wagons had to be abandoned. The animals couldn’t pull them through the deep snow above the tree line toward the summit. That meant his wagons, Townsend’s, and Montgomery’s two carrying the rifles and ammunition must remain. Five wagons filled with people—women and children—would summit. Those vehicles would be needed for shelter and to carry essentials. Townsend and Moses were alone now and each had a horse. Though Moses had loaned his to Ellen Murphy, he had an Indian pony as a back-up. A generous kid. Those bolts of material Townsend had hauled west were pretty to look at and pleasant to touch, but together they were rocks of weight for the oxen. Capt had his own riding horse and pack animal and another for Joe. He’d put the freed-up oxen onto the other wagons to help pull. The Montgomerys had neither riding animals nor pack animals, so they’d have to be accommodated by other families. That’s why he’d told Joe to invite everyone to the gathering, women included. He figured Sarah Montgomery would be his biggest headache.
“We weren’t surprised by your summons,” Isabella Patterson said. She stomped her feet on the tarp they’d laid down. Her father stood beside her, a quiet man. Capt wondered how it was that quiet begat chatty in offspring. Not having any children, he couldn’t imagine how those generational differences worked their way out. Old Greenwood, Caleb, was taciturn and tough while his boys were slick and sly. He shook his head, welcomed the others without really addressing Mrs. Patterson’s comment. Time enough to hear her opinion.
“I’ve been thinking,” Capt said, looking about at the tired faces. “We’re here beside this lake—”
“Stephens Lake,” Joe said.
“But the sun continues to elude us and we stand again with snow falling on our shoulders and snow at our feet and snow over the wheel hubs and snow, well, everywhere. We’ve made little gains. Frankly, it’s my assessment that we need to consolidate—unless you can come up with other solutions.”
“What do you mean by consolidate?” This was Sarah Montgomery.
“He means put some things in other wagons so we can leave a wagon or two behind,” Allen told her.
“That’s right, Montgomery. Your wagon, I suspect.”
He lifted his chin as though to acknowledge Capt’s statement. Capt waited for his wife to blow up, but she kept her tongue. Thinking about it, he supposed.
“My wagon, too. One has the anvil and a knife sharpener, all heavy. The other carries my blacksmith tools and traps. Too much for the oxen now, we’ll need animals to pull to get the remaining wagons to the summit.”
“I thought there was only one more pass to go over. Wasn’t this it?” Mary Sullivan spoke up now. “I thought when we saw the lake we’d see California.”
“Then I’ve misled you,” Capt said. “A major pass is made up of many ups and downs before we howdy that granite tower. We’ll have to go around, if the Greenwoods find us a cleft. Once on the other side there’ll be a few more ridges, but each will be of lower altitude and we’ll eventually be down out of the snow.”
“As long as you can see higher ridges in the west, we ain’t yet at the pass,” Hitchcock said. He’d trapped in the Shining Mountains, so he knew about demanding landscapes.
“But we’re in Alta California?” Mary Sullivan asked.
“Probably.” Capt waited, hoping Townsend would see that his rigs were an issue as well. The good doctor didn’t, so Capt added, “I also think, Dr. John, that your wagon will need to stay behind.”
“Mine? But it has my medical equipment and treatments. We’ll continue to need those all the way to the sea.”
“It’s more the fabrics, those heavy satins and silks—”
“Silks weigh nothing.”
“Your oxen would disagree if they could speak. And we need those animals to team up with others to bring the true valuables of this journey forward—the people, women and children.”
“And those not yet arrived,” Maolisa Murphy said.
“I . . . I can’t see my way to abandon all my valuables.”
“We could come back in the spring and get them, couldn’t we, Capt?” Moses’s voice cracked as he said that. The boy swallowed. “No one’s going to come by and take anything. Only crazy people are out in this snow anyway.”
“You can examine our heads without your doctor equipment,” Martin Murphy Sr. quipped. A few of the men chuckled. “Capt’s right. The rest of us can consolidate.”
“Sullivan, Patterson, Martin, and Murphy’s two, those’ll be the wagons we summit.” Capt pointed toward each name spoken, the fringe of buckskin hanging off his leather gloves.
“And where will we go?” Sarah said. “Every other wagon is already full and now you’re asking people to make room for more?”
“You can come in ours,” Mary Sullivan offered. That little mouse of a woman who looked older than Mrs. Patterson with all her kids had a generous heart. Or maybe she was lonely. It didn’t matter. The offer had been made. “John and the boys, we can make room for two more.”
“Joe and I will simply pack from here on,” Capt said. “A pack animal can be yours to ride, Mrs. Montgomery.” He was grateful now that they’d bought extra ponies back at Fort Hall.
“Moses and Townsend, maybe you can split up, go to different wagons. Or just pack like Joe and me here, like the Greenwoods.” The boy looked so frail he hoped he’d get an offer for a wagon and not just have to rough it with a horse camp. Still, he was a good hunter. Maybe he was just wiry and not frail at all. He wasn’t sure who would want Townsend. The man had healing skills, but he also saw himself as the center of the sun, never seemed to realize he burned as well as illuminated—now and then.
“Moses, you’re welcome to come under my clucking,” Mrs. Patterson said.
“Maybe a Murphy could take on Dr. John. You ox men, Bray, Calvin, Flomboy, Harbin, you’ll all keep on as you are.” Those men were spread throughout the wagons but slept mostly under their tents near the stock until this deep snow threatened their natural bedding spots. Capt had not anticipated such deep snow.
“We’ll invite you to our victuals such as they are, Doc,” James Miller said. “With a new baby at hand, one can always use a doctor close by.”
