American Challenge
Page 26
“I’m not afraid of anything,” George said. “I want to walk, so we can look in the storefronts and see everything. Besides, Jefferson can’t ride.”
“Oh,” Betsy said. “Well, come talk to the stableboy.”
“No, you want to ride, you talk to him.”
Betsy took a deep breath. She couldn’t talk to a complete stranger, could she? She heard Silverstreak’s neigh from inside the stable, and her desire to exercise the horse and make Father think she was useful was stronger than her fear.
Please, God, give me courage, she silently prayed as she pivoted and marched back into the stable. She explained to the boy, who was probably only a year or so older than she.
“I can see the horse knows you,” he said and helped her saddle the horse with a saddle that rested over a rail. It wasn’t a sidesaddle like she was used to, but that was okay. She’d ridden on Father’s saddle once and had found it gave her better control of the horse.
The next time she exited the stable, it was atop the mare.
“Ready, George?” She didn’t mind being high above him this time. From her perch on the mare she could see him scurrying ahead, pulling Jefferson behind him.
He darted down Market Street for a block and then turned immediately onto Water Street. There was the Monongahela River.
Children played among the wooden shacks. Clotheslines sagging with laundry were strung between the shanties. Someone yelled, “Tomorrow’s the day. It’s thawing.” Men scurried about carrying crates to the flatboats that lined the banks. Boys threw rocks at the thin ice that hugged the shoreline.
All this activity caused Silverstreak to neigh and rear. Betsy held on and reined her in, but the boys and girls stopped their play and ran over to see the horse. “Is it yours?” a bold boy asked.
Betsy didn’t answer. George had sidestepped away from the horse, but now he drew a bit closer.
“It’s her father’s horse, but she gets to ride it sometimes,” he said.
“Can I ride it?” the boy asked.
“Sure,” George said. “Can’t he, Betsy?”
The cold of the March day didn’t bother Betsy anymore. She felt her cheeks flush. “George,” she hissed in a low voice. “You know I can’t let anyone else ride her without Father’s permission.”
He shrugged his shoulders as if saying that was her problem, not his. Like always he was trying to be the good guy, be liked by everyone, be the center of attention.
“I have to get her back to the stable,” she said. “George, come on.”
“I’ll stay here,” he said and squinted at the sun that struggled to burn a hole through the hazy air. “It’s not noon yet.”
“Let us ride the horse,” the boy spoke up again. Betsy didn’t answer.
“Ah, she’s the only one with legs long enough to reach the stirrups,” George said. “Let’s do something else.”
Betsy glanced down to see that a length of leg was showing below her dress on both sides of the man’s saddle.
Mortified, she pulled the reins to the left and turned Silverstreak. She dug her heels into the horse’s sides, and the mare cantered away from the group of children.
CHAPTER 6
A Muddy Mess
Betsy stood at the edge of the group of crude dwellings and watched George in action. She’d groomed Silverstreak after she’d returned the mare to the stable then trudged to the river. She wished Aunt Eleanor hadn’t asked her to keep an eye on George. If Aunt Eleanor hadn’t actually said the words, Betsy would have left him and returned alone to the inn.
George fit right in with the other boys. He didn’t tower over them like she did. He had their attention, too, like always.
“Toss it in here, Johnny,” he directed one of the boys. So he already knew them by name.
Johnny dropped a wooden contraption, which Betsy guessed was supposed to be a miniature flatboat, into the river. The boys ran along the side, tracking its progress.
“Look at it go now,” George shouted. “The current’s got it.”
“It’s gone,” Johnny called. “Long gone.” A bulky-looking man strode quickly to the boys. “Did you use my good lumber for that toy? And my nails?”
“We thought we could catch it,” Johnny explained. “George thought it up.”
“Get back to the hut,” the man ordered. “You boys find something else to do.”
The boys dispersed in different directions. George glanced around then headed for Betsy.
“Hey, it’s the girl who wouldn’t let us ride the horse,” a boy said in a loud voice.
“We’d better get back,” George said, as if he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Betsy stared at him then walked away from the river without saying a word.
As soon as they’d eaten the noon meal, Betsy asked her mother for paper and a quill pen.
“I thought you’d be wanting to write,” Mother said as she rummaged in the trunk for the items. “I’ll post a letter to your uncle Charles and aunt Martha and tell them of our progress. Perhaps they’ve heard from Richard by now.” Betsy sat at the small table in their room and wrote:
Dear Mary,
How I miss you. Have you gone to the wharf to look for Richard? I miss him, too. And I miss the ocean.
George is worse than ever. He talks to every stranger we see, desperate to get attention, even from those he doesn’t know. The Limburger cheese got all over me instead of George. It was awful. I had to ride with the driver of the stage instead of out of the wind inside the cab.
Today George made fun of me in front of some strange children by the river here in Pittsburgh. I was on
Silverstreak and my legs were showing below my dress. That is the worst thing he’s done.
I have to think of ways to get him back. I’m out of room on this sheet, but I’ll write again when we get to Cincinnati.
All my love,
Betsy
“I’m finished, Mother,” Betsy said.
Her mother took the page and folded it once and once again then wet a wafer and glued the edge. “Write Mary’s name and Boston on here. As soon as I write my letter, we’ll find the post office. I want to send these postpaid. We don’t want to force a hardship on Mary when she picks up the mail.”
Betsy nodded. If the embargo had affected Mary’s family as she’d hinted, she might not have an extra twenty-five cents to pay for the letter. She wrote the address and then let her mother have the table as a writing surface. Betsy sat on the bed and read from her book of poetry until her mother was finished. Mother asked the innkeeper about the post office, then the two set out the few blocks to post their letters.
“Betsy, is something wrong?” Mother asked as they walked along. “You’re even quieter than ever. Is it George? You didn’t say a word to him over our meal.”
“George delights in embarrassing me. He made fun of me when we were at the river.” Betsy told her mother about the incident.
“I don’t think George intends you any harm. He’s high-spirited, and he doesn’t think before he says things.”
“He’s mean, and I want to embarrass him.”
“Hmm. So that’s why you put the Limburger cheese on his valise. Betsy, do you think God wants you to get even with George?”
Betsy hesitated, then said slowly, “I think He wants George to learn to respect other people.”
“Yes, I believe that’s true. But do you think it’s up to you to teach George? Wouldn’t that be his parents’ job?”
“I don’t see them doing anything about it. George doesn’t say bad things when they’re around except, ‘How’s the weather up there?’”
Mother smiled. “I’m sure that can get irritating. We have opposite problems. When I was your age, I was the shortest person in my class in school. The other girls and boys used me as a measuring stick. Each time someone passed my height, he bragged about it to the others. It wasn’t long until the only ones who were shorter than me were those several years younger.”
“Did you ever want to get even with those children who made fun of you?”
“At first I did. But through the years I learned to accept myself as I was. And my mother talked to me about our Lord wanting us to turn the other cheek. He wants us to forgive those who trespass against us rather than get even with them.”
“But, Mother, that’s easy for you because you’re so beautiful. Others want to be like you. Nobody wants to be like me.” Betsy blinked back tears.
“That’s not true, dear. You’re so pretty with those blue eyes. When you’re excited about something, they sparkle so. And your hair—all those curls and that rich brown color. Aunt Eleanor’s commented on how lucky you are to have such curly hair. Your height should be an asset. You should stand tall and regally. You’re growing into a real beauty, Betsy.”
“You’re my mother. Of course, you would think so,” Betsy said, but she felt better.
“Just wait. In a few years you’ll have lines of suitors waiting to have you notice them. And you must be kind to each of them, just like you must be kind to George now. He’s impetuous and doesn’t always think before he blurts out something. Forgive him and forget it.”
Betsy mulled over her mother’s words that afternoon as she walked to the shops again with the women. At least George had convinced his mother to let him go to the river on his own. Later that evening the Lankfords joined the Millers in their room to discuss the next phase of the journey.
“Then we’re going to build?” George asked.
“Yes,” George’s father said with a grin. “We’ve ordered lumber delivered to a site where we can work on it. The flatboats we saw aren’t sturdy enough, and the lumber isn’t the quality we want in our houses.”
Betsy thought that was an established fact from the way Father and Uncle Paul had talked that morning. Father always wanted to check every option, but Uncle Paul had pushed for building the flatboat since before they had left Boston.
“I saw lots of flatboats at the river today,” George said. “They said the wind shifted, and the thaw is here. Can I help build our boat?”
“Of course,” Uncle Paul said. “We’re going to need all the help we can get, so we can build it quickly. We can use your help, too, Betsy.”
Everyone turned to look at her, and she tried to shrink further into the bed where she was sitting. She didn’t know what she could do to help, and she sure didn’t want to be around George day after day. Even though she was going to try to forgive and forget like Mother had suggested, staying away from George would be the easiest way to do that. On the other hand, this might be her chance to show Father that she was as good as a boy. He’d seemed pleased about her exercising Silverstreak and had said that working with her horse could be her daily chore.
“Eleanor and I have started a list of supplies we’d like to take with us,” Mother said. “We’ll start shopping tomorrow. When will our movings arrive, Thomas?”
“Not for another couple weeks,” Father said. “Freight travels slowly. Even though the teams of oxen are strong, pulling loads up those mountains will take some time. If we’re going to get an early start on the flatboat tomorrow, we’d better turn in.”
George’s family left for their own room, and after everyone got ready for bed and Father said the nightly prayer, he blew out the lantern. Betsy lay on her pallet on the floor and stared through the darkness toward the ceiling. What was she doing in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania? What sort of life waited for her in Cincinnati? Would the air be foul like here? Would there be a lot of children like the ones who lived in the shacks by the river? Those were travelers waiting for the thaw, so they would be moving on. But would there be a lot of children in her new town? Would there be someone like Mary? And someday would there be lines of suitors wanting to meet her like Mother said?
The next morning at breakfast, the inn vibrated with activity. Travelers, who had lived at the inn instead of in the huts by the river, bustled about preparing to leave.
“The thaw’s here. We’re shoving off,” one man said. “The river rose ten feet last night.”
“Can I go watch?” George asked. “Can I?”
“I suppose,” his mother answered, “if Betsy will go with you. There’s too much activity for you to go alone today.”
“She’ll go. Won’t you, Betsy?” George said. Betsy glanced at her mother, who had raised her eyebrows as if to tell her this was her chance to forgive and forget.
“All right,” she said and nodded.
“Stay out of the way of the travelers,” Mother said.
George raced outside to get Jefferson, and Betsy followed more slowly. She had changed from her too-short traveling dress. She wanted to present as respectable a picture of herself as possible.
“Come on,” George shouted. “We’ll miss them leaving.”
Highly unlikely, Betsy thought and was stunned when they arrived at the river to find half the flatboats already gone. Unlike the waiting attitude of yesterday, today the air was filled with excitement. People on board the boats called good-byes to those still on shore, and polemen called orders from one side of the boats to the other. Betsy lifted her long skirt and stepped gingerly to avoid soft ground and mud holes created by earlier melting snows.
“Stay back here,” she told George as she watched men trying to coax livestock on board. Horses neighed and cows mooed as men led them onto flatboats. Jefferson barked. Some boys were chasing chickens and putting them in a coop when they caught them.
“Hold Jefferson,” George said and thrust the dog’s rope into Betsy’s hand. George jumped in the fray and chased the chickens toward the boys, although he didn’t make any move to catch any of the hens.
“Fresh eggs for the journey,” a girl said who opened and shut the coop’s door as the boys stuffed the fowl inside.
“Maybe fried chicken would be better,” George said.
Jefferson yelped and ran around and around Betsy, twisting the lead rope.
“Stop that,” she ordered and took a few steps forward trying to get the dog under control. He was headed straight for a muddy area. Too late. The dog circled her again and the rope bound her legs together. She tottered, unable to catch her balance, and plopped backward on the muddy ground.
Jefferson barked and jumped on her with his muddy paws, and Betsy stuck her hands in the soft ground to lever herself up. It was no use. She’d only succeeded in getting her hands covered with muck. She pushed the dog away, but he barked and howled and jumped back on her, trying to free himself from the tangled rope that still bound Betsy.
“What are you doing?” she heard George shout.
She glanced up and saw George and the other boys running toward her.
“It’s all right, Jefferson. I’ll free you,” George cooed to his dog.
“Jefferson! What about me?” Betsy exclaimed. The boys were laughing now, and she felt that familiar heated flush creep up her cheeks. Forgive and forget. That’s what her mother had said. But her mother didn’t spend time around George and his smelly dog. Her mother wasn’t the one who now sat in a mud hole with her dress wet and filthy and at least seven boys laughing at her.
“Johnny, come load,” a voice called, and the boys dispersed, leaving George wrestling with the rope.
“Lift your feet,” he said, and Betsy struggled to get the rope untangled.
Finally it was unwound from her legs, and George held the lead rope in his hands. Jefferson no longer danced around and yelped. He sat quietly beside his master.
Betsy pushed herself to her feet.
“We are going back,” she said. “Come, now.”
“But I’m helping them load and everything,” George said.
“I said now and I mean it.” With all the aplomb she had, a muddy Betsy walked tall and re
gally toward the street that lined the river. George and his dog followed.
CHAPTER 7
Building the Flatboat
By late afternoon, Betsy returned to the river’s edge with Mother and Aunt Eleanor and George. Betsy wasn’t about to take George down there by herself, and Mother had agreed with her after she’d helped Betsy clean up and wash out her dress. So they all set out for a walk. Jefferson was tied to a post behind the inn.
The riverfront village was deserted. Flatboats that had lined the river had cast off from the landings and were already on their way to points west. Although the din of hammering and sawing from factories still reached Betsy’s ears, they were sounds she was becoming used to. Now the silence of the riverfront was eerie. No children’s shouts and laughter split the air. The bustle of the morning could have been in her imagination. “We missed it,” George said, as if it were Betsy’s fault. “There will be more travelers through here,” Mother said. “I heard talk at the inn about this being a late start for the first leaving. It’s usually in February, but this year winter stayed longer. We’ll still have high water when we can start our journey again, with no chance of ice chunks to harm our boat.”
“Who told you that?” George asked. “Maybe I can talk to him.”
“For what reason?” Aunt Eleanor asked her son.
“To find out more about the travelers. Maybe more boys will live here for a while. Somebody to play with,” he said with a sideways glance at Betsy.
He’d better look for someone else to play with, Betsy thought, because it sure wasn’t going to be her.
“There won’t be much time for play,” Aunt Eleanor said to her son. “If the men get their lumber delivered today, they’ll be ready to begin on the flatboat tomorrow. Your father drew up plans for it before we left Boston. He’s anxious to get started, and he’s counting on you for help.”
“Oh, I want to help,” George said. “I like building things.”