I picked up the thread. “So she left everything behind. Her mother was on her knees, pleading, but her father was furious and slammed the door behind her, telling Esmeralda she could never come back again.”
“Worse than that.” Phoebe leaned closer. “He told her if she ever did come back, he would kill her rather than forgive her disobedience.”
“Oh, now Phoebe, no father would ever be that cruel. What happens is, she meets up with her lover only to find that he is gravely ill. Dying, in fact. Esmeralda walks into the darkened room where her beloved lies in bed, pale and feverish.”
“And coughing up blood.” Phoebe always wanted somebody coughing up blood in her stories.
“All right. Coughing up blood. She can see, in the dim light of the candle, his hand, thin and quivering, reaching for her. She grasps it in her own, and her heart breaks at how very cold it is.”
“I thought he had a fever,” Phoebe said.
“It didn’t reach to his hands,” I said. “Everybody knows dying people have cold hands. So with his last breath, he croaks out the name of his one true love.”
Phoebe assumed the posture of the romantic, dying abolitionist and reached out a pale, shaking hand. She transformed her voice into a barely audible whisper, saying, “Samanthaaaaa,” before slumping back into her deck chair, looking quite dead indeed.
“Samantha? You said her name was Esmeralda.”
“It is.” Phoebe opened one eye. “Samantha is her sister. The minister was in love with her all along.”
We burst into giggles loud enough to capture the attention of the tragic Esmeralda, who sent over a withering gaze before turning and walking further down the deck.
Because of moments such as this, I came to love my cousin as I never had before. True, she was still bossy enough that she always engineered the ending of the story, but it was during these interludes that I first shared with anybody the depths of my imagination. With Phoebe, the boat was full of romance and tragedy and hope. Our stories made our journey together seem utterly normal. Insulated and safe.
On the fourth day of our voyage, I awoke to the sound of my father’s voice seeping through the thin cabin walls. At first, I could barely make out the warbled notes, but after some intent listening, my memories filled in what my ears could not hear.
O! lady sweetest lady,
Soft slumbers round thee twine,
Sleep on for thou art dreaming
Of music that’s divine.
Then I remembered it was Mother’s birthday. She was forty years old. Back home, this day was always celebrated with as much fuss and fanfare as logic would allow, and Daddy was not about to let our present setting stop that tradition. I could see him now, half dressed and barefoot, his hair wet with combing and his face soft and smelling like shaving soap. He swore Mother could sleep through the grooming of an elephant, if such a thing happened before dawn, and most mornings he insisted we all go through our morning ministrations in near silence as she finished her sleep. But on special days he would woo her out of bed with a serenade. That’s what I—and probably every person within three cabins—heard now.
Thy father’s roof protects thee,
O! would that it were mine,
Sleep on for thou art dreaming
Of music that’s divine.
It must have been quite early, because our cabin was still dark, and for just a moment I thought I must still be back home, nestled down in my bed, eager for the special breakfast that Lorna, our housekeeper, would have prepared. But I felt an elbow lodge itself firmly in my side and heard a painful groan from somewhere above me, and there I was, crammed into a too-small bed with my cousin and with my late-night carousing brother thrashing in the upper bunk.
“What is that?” Phoebe’s voice was muffled as she spoke into her pillow.
“It’s Daddy,” I said, full of pride to be a product of such sweetness and romance.
“Well, he needs to stop it.” This weak protest came from Chester, who must have climbed into bed wearing his shoes, because there was a definite clump to the sound of his kicking the wall that separated our cabin from our parents’.
“Oh, you stop,” I said. “You’ll make more noise with your kicking than anything.”
No sound shall break thy slumbers,
But let my song be thine,
Sleep on for thou art dreaming
Of music that’s divine.
The final note was held longer than any composer could have intended, coming to an abrupt halt only, I’m sure, when Mother at last reached out from her slumber and offered Daddy a morning kiss. My parents had never been ones to hide their affection. I could picture this all so perfectly, and the image made me feel infinitely safe. My cabinmates, however, expressed nothing but relief at the silence, and after a time I joined them in a lazy, early morning doze.
The rest of the day was no less special than the morning. Mother and Daddy breakfasted together in their cabin. In fact, they spent most of the morning sequestered in there, and when they finally emerged for dinner, they were holding hands and smiling, often leaning over to whisper in each other’s ear.
I hadn’t been prepared to give Mother a gift, but she said having all of us gathered together was enough. At some point the previous day, Daddy must have sought out Chester on one of the lower decks and threatened something dire if he didn’t make himself available for this little family celebration. So it was that we were all sitting around the same table when a tiny parade of waiters emerged from the kitchen with a tall white cake balanced on a silver platter. This they brought to our table and served it with a flourish of snapping napkins.
“Oh, Robert,” Mother said, “so much fuss!”
“My darling Ellen, the day is yet young. Though not so young as my lovely bride.”
“Oh, Robert,” Mother said again, fanning herself with fluttering fingers.
“I’ll see you all at supper.” Chester pushed away from the table.
“Wait right there, Son,” Daddy said, his tone firm.
He reached for a small box that had been sitting on the table throughout the meal. Mother’s eyes grew wider the closer it was brought to her.
“Oh, Robert, you shouldn’t have.” Her fingers clutched at the pretty ribbon. She untied it with ladylike decorum and lifted the lid gracefully, breaking into a silent smile at what was hidden within.
“Let us see.” Phoebe leaned forward in her chair.
Out of the box Mother lifted a bracelet of dark amethyst stones set in gold, interspersed with gleaming jet beads. Daddy made a courtly gesture, offering to help Mother clasp it around her slim wrist.
“Robert, it’s beautiful.” Mother held her hand aloft as she gave him a soft kiss on his cheek.
“And that’s not all.” Daddy grinned. “When you go back to the cabin, you’ll find a new dress waiting there for you. Tonight’s supper will be a party. Champagne, dancing, everything your heart could want.”
“Is the champagne for us too?” Phoebe asked.
“Maybe just one glass.” Mother smiled warmly at my cousin. “I wouldn’t want you to get carried away.”
“Am I free to leave now?” Chester was already standing.
“Be back here promptly at seven,” Daddy said. “And clean yourself up first.”
Without another word, Chester turned and left the dining room. Phoebe excused herself too, saying she wanted to rest up for the party this evening, and I was left alone with my parents. I felt I should say something, but the way Mother and Daddy were looking at each other, I decided any attempt at conversation would be an intrusion. Instead, I used my fork to pick up every last crumb of cake, then reached over to nibble up those that Phoebe had left on her plate.
“Belinda,” Mother said, her birthday gift glistening just beyond her admonishing finger, “don’t be such a barbarian.”
“Let her be, Ellen.” Daddy picked up a morsel of cake with his fingers and popped it in his mouth.
Mother set her
mouth in disapproval, but I could tell by the glint in her eye that she was no more unhappy with Daddy’s manners than she was with mine. Jewels sparkled on her wrist, cake languished on her plate, and tonight there would be dancing.
7
We disembarked the Felicity in Independence, Missouri, and all semblance of luxurious travel ended. It seemed the same people who had crowded the docks in St. Louis were here as well, fiercely bargaining with riggers and merchants as they prepared for their westward migration. Each family looked to be a soiled, grimy replica of our own, with fathers’ faces flushed excitedly, and mothers’ set in grim resignation.
After one night in a hotel spent listening to drunken brawls that threatened to fly through our very windows, we walked to the station to board the stagecoach that would carry us halfway across the country. It was a magnificent vehicle, painted a deep red with bright yellow wheels. A team of six snorting horses stood impatient to tear into their journey. They were no more impatient than my father, however, who hoisted our baggage into the boot of the stagecoach himself, strapped it down, and handed Mother up to her seat with a gallant, “Your coach is here, m’lady.”
There was enough of the steamboat glow left for Mother to giggle in appreciation, and she settled herself grandly in her seat. Chester, Phoebe, and I followed, lining ourselves up on the bench facing her, and Daddy was the last one in, slamming the door behind him. Chester propped his feet up on the upholstered bench in the center of the cab and tilted his head back, intending to make up for many nights’ lost sleep. But then we heard the crack of the whip, and the horses took flight, knocking Chester’s hat off his head.
“Guess I’ll wait till the ride smoothes down a bit,” he said.
He’d have a long time to wait.
Riding in the stagecoach was like trading one boat for another that was jarring, cramped, and hot. The graceful strings of the small orchestra were traded for the endless jangling of the traces as we careened across the plains.
“This is what money can get you!” Daddy shouted over the constant noise of our travel. He’d lifted the window shade and gestured toward the blur of green grasses and wildflowers outside. “Only thing faster is a train!”
We had been warned about the discomfort of riding in a stagecoach, and it wasn’t the first time any of us had traveled in one. But the well-worn routes between Chicago and Belleville hadn’t prepared us for this ever-lurching battle. Mother complained that she couldn’t bear the thought of pinning a hat to her throbbing head—which was just as well, because no bonnet had the tenacity to withstand the constant bobbing and occasional collision with the back of the seat. Phoebe, however, never complained, as she spent the better part of each day smashed shoulder to shoulder with Chester, who remained his usual uncommunicative self.
We stopped every fifteen miles to hitch the coach to a fresh pair of horses.
“Think about it,” Daddy would say, marking the stop off on the little folded map he kept in his pocket. “That’s about how far we’d make in a day if we were going by wagon.”
“Yes, Robert,” Mother would say, rolling her shoulders. “But then we might actually have the capacity to sit in our seat, turn our heads, and observe the world around us.”
“Yes, but can you imagine? Some of them have their wagons so loaded, they end up walking for the entire trip.”
“I’d like to be able to walk again someday,” I’d say.
Most of our stops were just that. Stops. We would unfold our bodies and stumble into the sunlight as the dust settled around us. There would be a little shack—sometimes not more than a pile of sod—and a team of horses held by some wizened old man wearing a dirty shirt and offering a cup of questionable water. We might have enough time to visit an equally dilapidated outhouse, or just a quick trip to the tree line, before the new team was hitched, the driver seated, and we were off. Other times, the stops were actual homes with a man and a wife—sometimes children—where we could pay for a meal and a washup. Here, too, we might be offered a bed—for a price. Otherwise, we camped outside when the weather permitted or slept on our seats when it didn’t.
Our driver was a man known only as Whip. I would learn later that was a common nickname for any stagecoach driver, but it thoroughly suited him, as he was tall and thin. He was often accompanied by another man charged with keeping an ever-ready shotgun balanced across his bouncing knees. These shotgunners remained anonymous and faceless, with their hats pulled low over their eyes and wearing leather jacket and gloves. On the occasional leg that we didn’t have a man to ride shotgun, Daddy said not to worry, as he always had his trusty derringer at the ready.
“Let me see that thing,” Whip had said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
Daddy then, mustering all the style of his notion of a gunman, flipped his vest open to pull the weapon from its hidden holster.
Whip just laughed. “Well sir, if nothin’ else, you can throw that thing at anyone who comes at ya. It’ll leave a nasty bruise on somebody’s noggin.”
My father had paid for a private coach for the length of the journey, but there were occasions when it was necessary to wedge one or two other passengers in with us for a few miles. When that happened, Chester would often opt to ride on top and take a turn with the gun. Other times we might have huge sacks of mail and packages stuffed under and around our feet. All of this, according to Daddy, was a small inconvenience since we would be in the midst of a whole new life before winter.
We had been traveling on the stagecoach for two weeks. Our trunks were lashed to the boot of the coach, where the driver refused to access them. Here we were, in the middle of Nebraska, wearing the same clothes we’d worn since boarding the stagecoach in Independence. We’d been subjected to the hospitality of a woman named Mrs. Tosh, who lived with her husband in a long, low-ceilinged structure with canvas curtains that separated it into individual rooms. By all appearances, she had been wearing her dress at least as long as I had been wearing mine. After providing two beds for the five of us—Chester and Daddy in one, Phoebe, Mother and I in the other—she prepared a simple breakfast of biscuits, salt pork, and gravy, which under most circumstances I would have stepped away from immediately. Despite its unappetizing appearance, it was the first food we’d seen since breakfast the previous day (which had also been biscuits, salt pork, and gravy), and I found myself forking it into my mouth before I gave it much thought.
I was giving it much consideration now, though, as we lurched and swayed along, mostly in silence, listening to the sound of raindrops pelting the coach. Of course, we weren’t limited to just listening to the rain. We felt it too. Daddy had pulled down the leather window shades, which were efficient at blocking out the sunlight, but they proved no defense against any other force of nature. We continued along at a tumultuous pace—the horses’ gait unaffected by the inclement weather—and Mrs. Tosh’s morning meal began to take on new life within me.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said into the darkness.
“Don’t be silly,” Mother said. “You’re fine.”
“Maybe if I could sit next to the window.”
“I’m sitting next to the window,” Phoebe said in a tone that gave no indication she intended to move.
“Fine,” I said. “I can be sick all over your shoes if you prefer.”
“Come here, Lindy.”
I felt my brother’s hand clasp mine and pull me up from where I had been wedged between my parents. He gently guided me across to the other seat while he slid over, placing himself between Phoebe and me. I felt a little better the instant I sat down and turned my face toward the window. The midmorning breeze was quite cool, and the intermittent spray of raindrops refreshing. For a second I almost forgot about the gravy and salt pork sloshing around inside of me, but only for a second. After that, it all came back to me, then up and out of me as I hung my head out of the window, vomiting Mrs. Tosh’s breakfast out into the storm.
“Now really, Belinda,” Mother sa
id, and I was grateful that her own dishevelment made her incapable of any more admonition than that.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and the corner of a handkerchief grazed my cheek. I took it and wiped my mouth, but I continued to hang my head out of the window, relishing the rain against my face. I rose up to my knees and leaned further out, feeling the rain on the back of my neck, running down the collar of my dress.
“Belinda! Get back in here!”
Mother’s rebuke seemed far away, and it never crossed my mind to heed her. Instead, I rose still higher, and pulled my arms out through the window. I cupped my hands to let them fill with the cooling rain, brought it to my mouth, and let it wash away the breakfast bile.
“Belinda!”
It was a chorus of voices now, my father’s deep and authoritative among them, but still I ignored their heeding. I tore the ribbon that tied my hair and let the stringy mass of it fall free. It was soaked through now, and I raked my fingers across my scalp, using them to comb through the wet locks. Suddenly a pair of hands grabbed me around my waist and began to pull me back into the coach. I had no reason to continue hanging out the window, except that the tiny act of rebellion was invigorating in so many ways. It got me away from these people, muted their voices. Out here there was a breeze and cool, clean air. The colors were softened by the gray light, distorted by the rain, but no one behind me would appreciate that. Not even my mother, who refused to see this journey as anything but a means to an end. An inconvenient hurdle.
The hands that held me tightened their grip and pulled again, so I braced my elbows against the bottom of the window and held on. But my sleeves were wet and the side of the coach slick with rain. Despite my resolve, I lost my grip and was toppled inside, knocking one side of my head so hard against the window I feared my ear would be slashed off. Inside was a confusion of skirts and legs and Mother’s hysterical screeching. One minute I was on the floor, and the next I wasn’t. I don’t remember hitting the door’s latch, though I very well could have during the mad scramble to put everything back to right. Whatever the cause, I soon found myself back in my beloved rain, tossed down into the mud and rolling down a slick, wet hill.
With Endless Sight Page 6
