by John Babb
Candle Mold Tallow Awl
Ball of Twine Spare shirt / pants Coat
Wide-Brim Hat Blankets (2) Rope—200 foot
Lanterns (2) Axe Saw
Hammer Nails 20 pounds Wood File
Whet Stone Wood Chisel Wood Plane
Draw Knife Level Curry Comb
Bullwhip Coffee Pot Coffee Grinder
Buckets (2) Canning Jars (24) Paper
Lead Pencils Fish Hooks /Lines Veterinary Liniment
Castor Oil Sulfur Whale Oil
Soap Books Alcohol (Medicinal)
Molasses Saleratus Rice
Vinegar Tobacco Pipe Bowls / Stems
Flour 125 pounds a man Corn Meal 25 pounds a man
Taters 50 pounds a man Beans 50 pounds a man
Bacon 50 pounds a man Sugar 10 pounds a man
Lard 10 pounds a man Coffee 10 pounds a man
Dried peaces 10 pound a man Salt 10 pounds a man
Dried apples 10 pounds a man
MINERS FARMERS
Pans—2 Hoe Squash seed
Pickaxe Plough Beet seed
Shovel Rake Carrot seed
Buckets—4 Bridle / Traces Cabbage seed
Scale / Weights Corn Sheller Turnip seed
Lanterns—4 Seed Corn 20 pounds/5 Acres
Candle Holder—4 Potatoes 10 extra pounds
Meal sieve, brass Wheat, Red 50 pounds/5 Acres
Candles—24 Beans, White 5 pounds
Beans, Green 5 pounds
Beans, Brown 5 pounds
How would he afford all that? And worse, how would he carry it? He waited until an old, grizzled storekeeper was free. “Sir, I’d like to sell my horse. He’s well broke and easy-tempered. What kind of price can you give me?”
The man looked at B. F. over the top of his glasses. One lens was completely missing. He had a nasty looking, half-dollar sized sore on his forehead. “Where is this hoss?”
“She’s tied out front—the black one.”
He shoved the glasses back on his nose and looked out the door. “That’s just a pony. Not interested.”
“She might look young, but she’s a stout horse.”
“Not interested.” He turned away.
“Sir, Just one more question. Have you seen a man named Daniel Windes?”
He didn’t even turn around. “Never heard of him.”
B. F. headed for the door. As he went out, a man in rough clothes tapped him on the shoulder. “How much might you want for that animal?”
“Twelve dollars for the horse. I’m keeping the saddle and bridle.”
“That would be too much. I’d be lookin’ for a horse for my daughter.” He nodded toward a girl a bit taller than B. F., standing on the sidewalk. Her hair was so blond it was almost white.
She smiled at B. F. and he felt himself reddening. She had eyes that were two colors of blue—pale as a coneflower on the inside and indigo on the edges. But he had no idea why he had even noticed that. All he could get out was “Hello.” He wondered why he couldn’t talk normally. After all, it was just a girl.
The man cut in. “We’ll be heading for Oregon, and Janie wants to ride all the way.”
B. F. could see that the girl wanted the horse and knew he could make a deal here, but he had to stop himself. For some reason, he kept looking at the girl when he spoke. “Much as I need to sell my horse, I have to tell you the truth. Last night a man who’s been over the Trail four times told me horses couldn’t live through the trip. He says they can’t seem to eat the grass in the mountains, and they don’t make it. He told me to trade for a mule. That’s why I came here today.” He looked at the girl again, and she looked back.
“What might be your name, son?”
“B. F. Windes, sir.”
“Name’s George Fitzwater, and this would be my daughter, Jane. Until this very minute, an honest man I’ve not seen since we left Tennessee four months ago.”
B. F. smiled, but he was not happy. “I guess I need to try and find someone who’s headed back east, or maybe going to Santa Fe. This man said the grass was better on the south trail. Have you signed up for a train yet, Mr. Fitzwater?”
“Indeed—this very morning. It’s Del Coggins we’ll be going with on April 10.”
B. F. smiled for sure. “Then we’ll be traveling together. I’m going with Del too. Fact, he’s the one who told me about my horse.”
Mr. Fitzwater looked again at B. F. “Now that’s lovely. I appreciate you being honest with me. But it’s a favor I’d like to ask of ye. I saw you looking at that paper in there. I know it tells what a man needs to cross that desert out there. But I can’t decipher some of the words. Might you recollect what it says?”
“I can remember most of it.” B. F. recited a goodly part of the list. “Tell you the truth, I’m worried about how much it’s gonna cost and doubt I could ever get it all on a mule.”
Fitzwater whistled through his teeth. “’Tis many of those things we have already, but I didn’t expect all of that.” He turned to his daughter. “Janie, me lovely, a mule we won’t be buying. I doubt we can pay for all that they figger we need.”
She looked at her pa. “I know it pa. I don’t need no mule. They’re too mean anyway.”
B. F. liked the fact that the girl could see the problem and didn’t act foolish. What a difference between her and his stepsisters back in Indiana—they would already have been acting out. He also appreciated the basic honesty of the man. Then he had an idea—one that might solve several problems at once. “Mr. Fitzwater, you said you had lots of this gear already. Tell me, do you have a wash tub, a cooking pot, and some buckets?”
“Why, sure. My Mary would rather leave me behind as her wash tub. I might not look like I deserve it, but I do indeed have a quality wife!”
Twelve
Travel At Your Own Risk
West Port, Missouri 1849
B. F. explained his plan and told Mr. Fitzwater he’d meet him at the plank bridge over the public spring in a half hour. Then he went back in McCoy’s and bought six bars of soap, two woolen blankets, and a piece of chalk for a dollar and seventy-seven cents.
They made a strange looking pair, leaving West Port on the Trail—the young boy on the pony, holding blankets and empty buckets, and the man walking alongside with a big wash tub and a cook pot. Within less than a mile they came upon OK Creek that flowed north to south through a narrow valley. Nailed to a tree on the other side of the stream was a sign.
You Are Now Leaving the United States
Travel At Your Own Risk
And the rutted wagon tracks—the Oregon, California, and Santa Fe Trails—collectively responsible for the greatest geographic displacement of people in history—climbed up and over the nondescript hill beyond, headed for who knows what.
They found a grassy spot near the water and while Mr. Fitzwater started a good fire, B. F. hauled water in the buckets, filled up the cook pot to heat the water, and retrieved two more bucketsful. He cut the blankets into equal parts, then found a cast-off board and drew up their own sign, facing toward anyone arriving from the west.
Haircut—50 cents Hot Bath with Soap—50 cents
West Port—Dead Ahead
Before the second cook pot started boiling, eight men came over the hill—some on horses, the rest on mules. One of them was so tall that he looked like his feet could almost touch the ground while he was in the saddle. Mr. Fitzwater met them as they crossed the creek. “Say there gents. Might you be interested in a good haircut and a hot bath afore you arrive in West Port? Same thing will cost you double in town.”
“Been waitin’ on this town for a thousand miles. I don’t think I can wait no longer.”
“The grog shops and parlor houses won’t be opening their doors for another two hours. You might as well get all spruced up now.”
The first of a parade of very scroungy looking men dismounted and walked over. One with an eye patch spoke up. “Wilbur, get yer hair cut whilst I have me a bath.”
“Hell Josiah, I want the water fust.”
But Josiah already had his boots off and was pulling down his pants. “I’ll be in this here tub afore you get one of them boots off.” True to his word, Josiah stepped in the tub, or at least almost did. He howled and hopped backward. “Cool that water down some. Ya figger on cookin’ me fer supper?”
Mr. Fitzwater poured in a bucket of cool water then refilled the bucket with hot water from the cook pot. The man called Josiah slowly stuck his foot in and stirred the water around, motioned for more hot, stirred again, and held up his hand. He then took his shirt off, as well as the top half of an extremely grimy set of long underwear, and eased himself into the tub. Mr. Fitzwater handed him a bar of soap, and the man worked himself over thoroughly then settled in to soak as best he could, given that his legs were so long that his knees stuck almost straight up in the air.
B. F. worked on his partner’s hair for about twenty minutes until he pronounced the job done. After some complaining, Josiah got out of the tub, dried off with a half-blanket, and sat down in front of B. F. Wilbur wanted more hot water. In fact, it got so hot that his skin turned as pink as a rare steak, despite a significant, crusty covering of gray dust.
Two of their fellow travelers took the places of the first pair of men, but the others in their party were impatient for the town and went on in to West Port. Mr. Fitzwater stayed busy, running buckets back and forth to the creek, keeping the fire, and continually adjusting and readjusting the temperature. The blankets were hung on tree limbs to dry in between customers.
Before the second pair was finished, four men crossed the creek on bedraggled looking mules. Like other men B. F. had seen in the town the day before, these four had very dark complexions and almost shiny black hair. They all had on pantaloons with a slash cut in the cuff and a couple had the same kind of small silver-colored bells sewn along the legs that he had seen the evening before. The men studied what was going on for a few minutes, until finally one came over to Mr. Fitzwater. Through broken English and some sign language, they seemed to agree to the deal.
B. F. couldn’t help but notice how much easier their hair was to cut. Although long, all four men had hair that was completely straight. He was able to finish each of them in less than fifteen minutes. When it came time to settle up, Mr. Fitzwater held up a silver dollar that one of the first customers had given them, and then four fingers, and pointed at each one of the men. He said, “Four dollars” very slowly and loudly.
One of the men said, “Cuánto dinero?” and pulled some strange coins from a purse.
Mr. Fitzwater looked at B. F. They traded shrugs. “No, no. Four dollars.”
The men put their heads together, and one went to the saddlebags on his horse. Fleetingly, the thought went through B. F.’s mind that he was going after a gun. But the man turned around with nothing more threatening than a cloth bag, walked over and placed four small rocks in Mr. Fitzwater’s hand that were each no bigger than a kernel of corn. He pointed to his new haircut and to those of his three friends, and said simply, “Gold.”
B. F. and his partner looked at the rocks. Mr. Fitzwater held it up to the sunlight, as though the heavens would advise him. It certainly looked like gold. At least, it was gold-colored. Neither of them had ever seen real gold nuggets before. B. F. looked at the man and turned to Mr. Fitzwater, “I think we better take it—they’re not trying to beat us.” They said thank you and waved goodbye as six more customers came down the trail.
“Say there, we’ll make yore deal. But you gonna have to dump out that wash tub them Mexicans was in and start fresh. We don’t want to sit in no freeholey water.”
It was almost dark when they got back to town. They had ten dollars and four rocks, which they hoped were worth at least four more dollars. The scale at the first store they could find ran their way, and they received seven dollars and eighty cents for their gold.
Mr. Fitzwater and his family were camped in the tent city just east of the vineyard, so they headed that way together. “B. F., come to my wagon for supper. We need to talk about this new business. Besides, my Mary will want to see you for herself.”
Mary Fitzwater’s dress was of faded gingham and fastened high around her neck. Her bonnet was grey with the ribbons dangling untied beside her face. And her apron was blue and white of a checkerboard pattern. She probably had hair as blond as her daughter’s when she was a girl, but at thirty years old, it had now begun to darken with streaks of light brown. Her eyes, however, were as blue as a robin’s egg. She was a tiny woman and couldn’t possibly be much over four feet ten inches tall. There were too many lines on her face for her age. But when she laughed—and she laughed quite a bit—it sounded as though it was coming from someone twice her size, and the lines seemed to disappear.
She had put together a tasty dinner of potatoes, bacon, and gravy, with biscuits on the side. Mr. Fitzwater put one arm around Mary’s waist and a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “B. F., these are my favorite darlin’s in all the world. And I’m thankful that they can serve a far better meal than me own mother ever could. For sure, the Irish excel in many things—doing the hardest labor that no one else wants to do, racing the finest horses for a wee profit, making lovely music to set a heart on fire, and enjoying a good toddy—but unfortunately, they are not even average when it comes to good food. Thank goodness for our appetite, Mary’s mother was Flemish.” He told them all about their day, the men they had dealt with, and the money they had made. Mary made a joke about their unfamiliarity with gold, calling her husband Mr. Astor.
But the king of the castle was their little boy Ethan. He was just as blond as his big sister but for some unknown reason had brown eyes. He was three years old, but talked like he was twelve, carrying on conversations with everybody in every campsite within sight. And when the little boy started talking, all three of his family members seemed to have a little glow in their eyes as they watched over him.
The Fitzwaters had come all the way from the little town of Cookeville, Tennessee. Selling their farm late the previous fall, they had put their belongings in a wagon and rode to the Tennessee River, where they loaded the wagon on a barge and floated down to the Ohio, then on to the Mississippi. They put ashore on the west bank of the big river at Cape Girardeau and spent most of the last two months traversing the state of Missouri.
Mr. Fitzwater had traded his mules and wagon for a Conestoga and two yoke of oxen in Independence, and after comparing schedules, B. F. decided they had been in the town not more than two days before he was. He also gathered that the funds from the barber and bath business were necessary if this little family was to get to Oregon. Over a final biscuit, they decided they had five more days to make money before having to get their supplies in order and be ready to leave on the tenth of the month. If everything went their way, they might have fifty dollars apiece to complete the outfitting shortages they had.
B. F. talked to them about another way to make a little money. He told about his aunt making mattresses out of canvas and hay, and asked whether Missus Fitzwater and Jane might want to use wagon canvas to sew mattresses, and stuff them with hay they could purchase at the stable? If they made six mattresses out of a wagon canvas and sold them for a dollar apiece, would it make sense?
Mary and Jane looked at one another. Could they make that much money just with a little sewing? Jane gestured toward the tent city behind them—just barely discernible in the distance—where there were at least a hundred campfires burning. “There’s no shortage of customers here. And I know I’m sick of sleepin’ on the ground. Maybe our neighbors are too.”
Mary had been rummaging in their wagon and finally emerged with a creamy white root, which she placed in a pot of hot water to steep over the fire. “George, you best have a cup of ’sang tea this evenin’. Yer lookin’ a bit peaked.”
“I hate the taste of that stuff.”
“Makes no never mind. Cain’t have you gettin’ sick.”
B.
F. turned to Jane. “What’s ‘sang tea?”
“It’s some o’ ma’s ginseng root brewed up in a tea. She says I’m too young for it.”
Satisfied that her husband was sipping on the bitter brew, Mary came over to B. F. and sat down cross-legged in front of him. “B. F., where do your people come from?”
“Indiana.”
“No, I mean where did they come from before they came to America? You don’t have no Scots-Irish blood do you?” She said it almost as an accusation.
“I don’t know. My aunt always said they all came over from England.”
She was obviously displeased with his answer but nonetheless nodded her head knowingly. “When were you born?”
It seemed an odd question, but he replied, “January, 1841.”
“Exactly when in January?”
“The eighth.”
She paused for a minute, apparently digesting the ramifications of his answer, before she got to the heart of the matter. “Have the people close to you suffered terrible sickness or death?”
What could this woman know about him? He lowered his eves, and replied in a low voice, “I guess some have.”
“I thought so.” She then stood up, looked hard at her husband, and walked back to their wagon without even saying goodnight.
Thirteen
Happy To Have You
West Port, Missouri 1849
Early the next morning, B. F. rode back to McCoy’s and bought three pieces of canvas and two spools of stout thread. At the same time, Mr. Fitzwater found a wagon making a delivery of hay to the stockade and convinced the driver to make a stop at his campsite. As the two departed for another day at OK Creek, Mary and Jane had already started marking and cutting the canvas, with Ethan right in the middle of their work.
The day at the creek went pretty well. By four o’clock they had earned sixteen dollars, and with no arrivals in the last hour, had decided to extinguish the fire and start on their way back. No sooner had they made the decision, two men came riding over the hill on what appeared to be Indian ponies. They both rode well. In fact, it looked like they were almost glued to their saddles, and B. F. guessed they had been riding for a very long time. As they got closer, Mr. Fitzwater first thought they were Indians. B. F. was relieved to see that they were just tanned as cow leather.
