When Winter Comes
Page 7
10
After Mrs. Keyes’s funeral, we left the banks of the Big Blue heading for Fort Laramie, and Independence Rock after that. All through June we journeyed through the plains, dry, arid land that rolled away to the horizon unbroken by any treeline.
It was several weeks since we had left Independence, and all of us had bade our homes good-bye months before that. We had long since had our fill of novelty, and the early days of oohing and aahing about this thing and that were behind us. Folks wanted nothing more than to sleep in their own beds at night, to have four solid walls about them and their belongings unpacked. Our fresh food was gone, and we were living now on dried goods only, and the women spoke of the gardens they would plant up, and the vegetables they would grow.
The men complained about the heat and the animals and that they could not make repairs to the wagons and could not find the tools they needed, laying the blame on their wives’ untidy housekeeping. The women grumbled about their husbands’ ill humor, and having to juggle frying pans and coffeepots over a few sulking coals to produce a meal.
Those we had started off with as good friends had shown themselves as irritating or foolish. Mrs. Keseberg had fallen out with the Wolfingers over some trivial thing, so they were less at our wagon than before, and Mrs. Murphy’s two married daughters weren’t speaking over some imagined slight.
So we were all in need of some diversion and at long last it came. For July rolled around, and on the afternoon of July third we pulled into camp and started our preparations for the next day.
The morning of the Fourth dawned bright and clear, and we all were out of our wagons in an instant, with the little children screeching and running about and getting under everyone’s feet, as excited as if it had been Christmas.
All the men gathered together, and on the order given they fired their guns as the sun rose in the sky. I guess it was meant to be a salute, and perhaps the folks arranging it had imagined it to be something grand. But instead of one loud volley of shot, there were so many men and so haphazard were the arrangements that not all the shots went off at the same time; and this gave rise to much merriment and teasing.
All along this part of our journey we had been accompanied by great herds of buffalo; slow-moving, stupid animals that gave plenty meat. Now, some of the men went out after them, ready for the evening feast. And Mr. Reed went with them.
* * *
Mr. Reed being so very high and mighty and with such a fine opinion of himself, one way and another he had managed to offend many of our traveling companions from the get-go, and for every person that took him at his own valuation, there seemed to be another that looked at him with suspicion.
Most of the folks that set out to cross the Continent were the sober kind, leaving their homes for good reason. For some it was on account of their religious beliefs, and for others it was the thought of having land of their own and making something of themselves. But whatever their reason, from the minute they set foot on the plains, near enough all the men had come to imagine themselves brave frontiersmen and right heroes, and swaggered about fit to bust, with their thumbs stuck through their belt loops—though the truth was that if they’d been in a knuckle fight in the back streets with my pa, not one of them would have come out alive. Mr. Reed was no different.
Traveling with the wagon train was a band of men that called themselves the Old Grizzlies. They were mountain men, for the most part, squinting at the sun from under the brims of their hats, and spitting chewing tobacco into the dust. They were hunters, and all along our journey they went out after game, often bringing back so much meat that it would be shared out with all.
From the start, Mr. Reed had been dead set on being part of this fine band. But they had no time for the city swaggerers and he was never invited to join them. This aggravated Mr. Reed no end.
So, this morning, the Old Grizzlies set out after buffalo. And Mr. Reed went out after them, even though he wasn’t asked. Having the best and fastest horse in the entire company, or so Mr. Reed would have everyone believe, he overtook the Old Grizzlies and rode ahead of them, shooting and killing one buffalo after another. Then, leaving the rest of the men to collect up the carcasses and do the butchery work, he came trotting back into camp on his horse, smiling fit to bust and right proud of himself.
For myself, I had a thought of him careering along on his horse, and firing his gun wildly about him, scared half to death of the great beasts grazing placid enough and minding their own business. I thought he was lucky not to shoot himself or his own horse first of all, and if he did manage to kill some unlucky beast, it was because it had probably thought itself in no danger: “Here is a fool and I have nothing to fear from him!”
Of course, Mr. Reed did not see himself in quite this same light.
* * *
All this while the younger children had been out with pails, gathering as many buffalo chips as they could—for with no timber for fuel we had to make do with what we could find, and the buffalo droppings burned fair enough—and the younger fellows set to digging fire pits.
These were heaped with the chips and set alight, and the haunches of buffalo set over. The young fellows settled themselves down for the day to turn those spits, no doubt fueled here and there by a dip or two into the ale barrel.
From time to time Mr. Reed could be seen at one spit side or another, ordering the lads to turn the spit faster or slower, and reminding them that it was thanks to him that we would be feasting so well. That summed him up to be sure. That man just lived on praise and being patted on the back.
Most families had brought a couple of bales of cloth in their possessions. Over the last week the women had looked out any that could be turned into red, white, and blue rosettes. Now, those rosettes were used to decorate a platform of boxes set up in the center of the wagon circle. A couple of the men drove posts into the ground behind it, and fixed up a length of twine between them, and then everyone gathered round to watch the Flag being set in place. When it was done, the company bugler stepped up and played a salute, and everyone clapped.
We had made the Flag over at the school wagon. My stitchery left a great deal to be desired, so instead I had been given the task of cutting out the stars. I felt like I could near enough burst with the pride of seeing them up there; twenty-eight nice neat ones, one for each of the States.
Some of the men set out tables made up from planks laid over trestles. The women had been cooking all morning, and now we all crowded up to set out our plates and dishes. We laughed and chatted, and complimented one another—“My, but that pie looks good, Mrs. Eddy,” and, “Mrs. Russell, those popovers look light enough to fly away!” And at the same time each of us in the sure and certain knowledge that our own dish was the best.
Mrs. Keseberg had got up some pickled red cabbage, heaped with raisins and chopped onion, and I had made a molasses pudding, still warm and smelling of sugar and cinnamon. It was so mouthwatering that I longed to pick off a bit of the crust and have a taste. I guess little George Foster thought the same, for his hand reached out while he thought no one was looking. His ma slapped it away. Just as well; if she hadn’t, I sure would have.
When George had left off crying, and been consoled with a piece of candy, Sara Foster caught hold of me, and said to come over to the Murphy wagon with her.
Everyone was getting gussied up. As we walked past our wagon, Mrs. Keseberg came out of it. She was all in her best frock and finery, with a silk shawl pinned over to conceal her condition, and her hair up in some fancy arrangement and held in place with a tortoiseshell comb.
Ada was with her, her hair in its usual braids; but lo!—each caught up with a knot of tricolor ribbons, and she as proud as could be. Mr. Keseberg was waiting to escort them, wearing the blue shirt that matched his eyes. As Mrs. Keseberg stepped from the wagon, he fetched her a kiss, making her blush like a girl. Then he swung Ada up into the air, saying she looked a princess and making her laugh. Of course, he paid no mind to
me at all.
It was wrong of me to care, I guess, but I felt much cast down. I wished with all my heart that I had something better to wear than the hated yellow dress. But I had no time to dwell on it, for as Sara Foster and I got to the Murphy wagon, Meriam came running over to greet us, and pulled me by the hand.
“Quick, quick! We have a lovely surprise for you, come and see!”
Mrs. Murphy was waiting for me, a parcel in her hand.
“We don’t know when your birthday is, my dear, but today is the birthday of our Nation, and we want you to have this as a gift from us—” And I opened the parcel to find the prettiest dress, of a pale green ground patterned all over with little white flowers.
I looked from the dress to Mrs. Murphy and back again, hardly believing my eyes.
“It’s only an old one of mine”—Sara Foster’s eyes were sparkling—“I hope you don’t mind it. I thought it would fit you, as we are about the same size. And look—Mama has embroidered you a new collar, and Meriam has a ribbon for your hair.”
I scuttled into their wagon as quick as could be, and put on the dress. I tied my hair back with the ribbon, and came out feeling quite shy in my finery. The dress fit in places that the hated yellow dress didn’t, and the crisp white collar, embroidered with a border of daisies, framed a lowered neckline that showed my collarbones and a bit more besides. And it had a stiffened petticoat underneath that made the skirt sway a little as I walked.
Landrum Murphy was over to one side. He looked up as I came out of the wagon. He had pretty much ignored me up until now, but I saw that he gave me a second quick look. I stuck my chest out, put a big smile on my face, and walked past him as if I couldn’t see him, making that skirt rustle up some. After a couple steps I looked back over my shoulder. He was staring after me. When he saw me looking, he blushed up something remarkable, and turned away in a great hurry.
All dressed in our finest, we gathered together before the platform, and Colonel Russell climbed up. He started off with a fine speech, that our Nation was made up of the bravest of the brave; those that had first set out to find this New World, and after them, those that had fought for the right to govern themselves and not be beholden to anyone else. Then he said we ourselves should count ourselves part of this proud tradition.
“We might think of ourselves as no more than ordinary folks doing the best for our families,” he said, in a ringing voice. “But we are so much more than that! We are voyagers and pilgrims all, going boldly out to discover new lands and new lives, and leading the way for others to follow us!” and his words were greeted with whoops and cheers.
He raised his hand, and called for silence. When we had settled down, he read out the Declaration of Independence in a most solemn voice. Some folks looked up to the sky, and some stood with heads bent; and I saw more than a couple of folks wipe away a tear.
When he got to the closing words, “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor,” it seemed as if the words were meant just for us, our little band of brave folks setting out through the wilderness together. We each turned to our neighbor, and hugged them, or shook hands, most heartfelt.
* * *
After a deal of shuffling about and whispered direction from Mrs. Donner, the smaller children assembled in front of the platform, with much fidgeting and looking to see if Ma and Pa were watching, and waving at their brothers and sisters. One little lad burst into tears at the sight of everyone staring, and ran away to bury his head in his ma’s lap; but the rest of them stayed put. At a signal from Mrs. Donner they started up in the patriotic song that they had been rehearsing over and over again.
After the first few lines, we could not resist but join in, and finished all together at the tops of our voices:
“Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
Then the solemn part of the day was over and the feast begun. The joints of meat were carved and served out, and we helped ourselves to pickles and corn bread, and sat round in little groups, all chattering and laughing and eating like we were starved.
I made sure to get to my pudding before everyone else, and helped myself to a good big slice of it, and then watched to see who else wanted it. Landrum came up to me, and said, “Is this what you made?” And when I said it was, he asked me, quite the fine gentleman, if he could try it, and would I help him to a slice.
I looked at him like he was an idiot. “You can help yourself, Landrum Murphy—I am not your servant!”
The afternoon wore on, and the sun went down. We cleared away the dishes and the men brought lanterns out of the wagons and lit them. Then someone produced a fiddle, and jumped up on the platform with a loud swoop of his bow across the strings.
A cry went up—“The Cincinnati Reel!”—and everyone cheered. We formed ourselves into two great circles; the women on the outside and the men on the inside, facing them. Meriam seized my right hand and someone else my left, and pulled me into the circle.
In front of me was a fellow with bright red hair and freckles, grinning like a loon. He bowed to me with an exaggerated flourish that made me laugh, and I bobbed a curtsy to him. Then off we went, women circling one way and men the other, with another fellow up on the platform calling out the changes: “Doh-si-doh and swing your neighbor! Doh-si-doh and swing again!”
I danced every dance, one after another; not knowing at all what I was doing, but with fellows catching hold of me and whirling me one way and then another. My feet seemed to know what they were about, even if my head did not. I danced until I was giddy from the music and the warm feel of one fellow’s arm around my waist, or another’s hand in mine.
At last I had to stop. Breathless and hot, I crept away a little from the dancing, and found a quiet spot to sit on a wagon step, fanning myself with my hand and wishing I had a cool drink. My wish was granted. Up beside me came the lanky red-haired fellow I had danced with at the start. In his hand he held a cup, and offered it to me.
“Lemonade. Thought you might appreciate it. Thirsty work, this dancing!”
We all had brought lemons in our supplies, wrapped in sacking to preserve them on the long journey, because once we headed out into the territories, trading posts were few and far between, and the chance of buying fresh fruit or vegetables was remote. A slice or two of fresh lemon with a sprinkle of sugar was a treat, and thought to be good for the children.
But this was not just lemons and sugar and water. This had a smooth, dark taste beneath the sweetness. I recognized it at once. Try and fool me he might, but I knew the smell of rum, all right.
I said nothing, and took another mouthful. My head stopped spinning, and instead a warm feeling spread through me. I thought how lovely the evening was, and how lucky I was to be part of it, and how sweet this fellow was, to have thought of me and brought me a drink.
I drained the cup, smiling up into his face. His eyes were bright green, and his hair just the color of a kitten my brothers had brought home once, begging Ma if we could keep it. I wondered what it would feel like if I stroked it.
I guess he thought I was flirting with him some. Maybe I was. He smiled back, pretty pleased with himself.
I moved along on the step, and he squashed himself in beside me. Before I knew it his arm had slid round back of me. I leaned my head on his shoulder, dreamy and content, with the music and folks laughing but a few yards away, and me and this fellow sat here, quiet-like, in the darkness.
He hadn’t spoke to me at all. I didn’t even know his name. He pulled me in closer to him, his hand creeping more round my waist and then upward, stroking and squeezing. He leaned in to kiss me, and I turned my face up and closed my eyes.
I never had been kissed. I sure wanted to be. And if there was more to it, well, I guess I felt dreamy and happy enough to find out what that was.
I scrambled to my feet to see Mr. Keseberg towering over the red-haired fellow, flat out on the ground with his eyes rolled back in his head and a split lip dripping blood on his shirt.
Mr. Keseberg grabbed me and marched me off back to the wagon without a word or a backward look. And that ended my first dance; and my first kiss, too.
* * *
I guess I should have been mortified at the way my evening ended. Meriam and I had been trying to cultivate something we called the Sober Voice of Virtue, in order to make us sound more grown up. In my head it sounded something like Mrs. Donner’s voice, calm and quiet. Now, the Voice said that I was no better than I should be; it might be that the red-haired fellow was a scoundrel, but even so Mr. Keseberg was very wrong to have thumped him and any decent person would be ashamed of all three of us. But a voice that spoke louder was a voice that said it was thrilling to have some fellow want to kiss me, and to be saved from a fate worse than death by Mr. Keseberg’s heroic action.
Next morning I told Meriam of the night’s events, using the Sober Voice of Virtue again. But she gave me such a look that in an instant we were giggling, and vowing to look out for Mr. Red Hair and see if he had a black eye.
11
Next morning, with many of our company no doubt as heavy-headed and sore-footed as I was myself, we set off once more, heading toward Independence Rock, a great gray boulder looming out of the plain. We made camp nearby, and folks went off in little groups here and there to look at where previous travelers had scratched their names on the stone, and to scratch their own.
Meriam and I went with Sara and Hattie and their families, taking a blanket to sit on and some food to have our supper as a picnic. When we had walked round the rock some, and looked at what was there, and Bill Pike and Will Foster had scrambled themselves up onto the top of the rock and halloed! down at us, Hattie sat herself down with her back to the rock to nurse baby Catherine, and Meriam and I set out our picnic.