There were stones of every size, which the smaller children were set to pick into pails and tip aside. We older girls and the women heaved away the bigger rocks, and then there were boulders so enormous that they were higher than a man’s head. To move them out of our way the men roped up the beeves, or set themselves to them and pulled, like animals in harness, or set up levers, with four or five of them bearing down, and the rest of us pushing and rocking the stones from side to side, until they finally went careering down the hill, crashing their way through the undergrowth.
Here and there were stands of trees. The men sawed them through, and hauled them aside, and dug out the roots, and we filled the holes where the roots had been with the stones and rocks we’d moved earlier. In this way we made a path that the wagons could travel over.
Once the path was cleared the men roped each wagon and manhandled it down the slope. We all held our breaths, fearing each minute to see a wagon break free and go careering down the hillside to smash itself to smithereens at the bottom—or worse, to take off and drag the men along with it. And the hundred or more head of cattle that were traveling with us had to be harnessed up over and over again in teams of four, and the men pull at them from behind to slow their progress down the hill; we did not want them to break free with the chance of them falling and breaking their necks in their headlong rush.
By the time we had fought our way down that slope to the valley below, we felt like we could die from the efforts we had made. Two days it took us, working from dawn until dusk. Even then we were not done. The last task of the day was to bring Mrs. Keseberg and Ada, and the other little children she had been minding, down to the valley floor to join the rest of us.
That final journey up the hill again near enough finished me. My legs trembled, and every muscle in my arms and back was a fiery throb of agony. As I caught hold of tree roots and rocks to pull myself upward, the blisters on my hands burst open, stinging and oozing pus, and sweat streamed down my face and into my eyes, blinding me.
We got the children, and Mr. Keseberg his wife, and set off for the last time down the hill. I had Ada by the hand, and picked my way down the slope with her, my heart jumping in my chest every time my feet slipped some, or a loose stone went tumbling away down the hill below me.
Some ways behind me I could hear Mr. Keseberg with his wife, he encouraging her, step by step, and she fussing and weeping her way along and accusing him of cruelty in bringing her here and saying she regretted it and wished they had stayed with the main train, and how it was all his fault.
Why was it that even in the direst of circumstance I could still find myself paying attention to a conversation that did not concern me? Being so intent on listening to Mrs. Keseberg’s complaining I missed my footing altogether. Next thing I was gone sliding away on my backside, screaming for someone to help me, thinking that I would catch on some rocks and be tipped into the air to go bouncing down the rest of the slope, smashing myself to bits as I fell.
There was a ripping noise, and I lurched to a halt. Without a second’s thought I reached out and grabbed on to the person next to me—Landrum Murphy, carrying one of his little brothers pig-a-back. It was Landrum who had grabbed my skirt as I went skidding past. I lay on my back for a moment, half-sobbing and half-laughing, clutching his hand for dear life.
Landrum helped me to my feet. I could hardly stand, I was trembling so, and he put his arm around me and I leaned on his shoulder. After a moment I pulled away from him, and brushed down my dress some; why, I could not imagine, for we all of us were covered in dust and dirt from head to foot.
When we got down to the bottom of the hill Mrs. Keseberg disappeared into our wagon without a word to any. With my hands shaking from tiredness and fright, I made up the fire and got the coffeepot set over, with corn bread baking in the Dutch oven, and I made some salt pork and applesauce with raisins.
No meal could have been more welcome. Mr. Keseberg and Mr. Hardkoop and I ate in silence, so exhausted we could hardly lift fork to mouth. Mrs. Keseberg did not join us, and when I had eaten I took a dish of food into the wagon for her. She took it from me with poor grace, and turned her face away, dabbing at her eyes with the hem of her skirt.
I went across to the Donners, pulled up a hundred yards away. Elitha and Leanna had a length of wool that they were twisting between their fingers in a cat’s cradle, and showed me how to play.
The two Mr. Donners were deep in conversation with a couple of the other men.
“I do not understand this route. I have looked once more at Mr. Hastings’s instructions and it says nothing of crossing these mountains—that is, it shows a pass through them. This cannot be it.” Mr. George Donner spoke in a low voice.
Walter Herron—one of the teamsters—spoke up.
“Mr. Reed says he spoke to Mr. Hastings and this is the route that was pointed out to him.”
There was a silence. I guess everyone was thinking as I was—remembering how confident Mr. Reed was at locating the Great Divide, and how we missed it. Our thoughts were given voice by Mr. Jacob Donner.
“Once we left Fort Bridger I expected we would follow the route of the party ahead of us, the one being led by Mr. Hastings. I’d have thought to see their wagon ruts, at least. There’s been nothing—not the remains of a fire, not a dropped horseshoe. Did anyone else see anything, I wonder?”
Mr. Graves was sitting with them, and he shook his head, no; Mr. Herron the same, with a mighty sober look upon his face.
After a moment or two, Mr. Jacob Donner said, “Well, we can’t turn back. Say nothing to the rest. Once we are through these mountains I will call a meeting, and perhaps Mr. Reed can explain the route to us in more detail.”
Nothing more was said. I bade good night to my friends, and took myself off to sleep.
No bed, no matter how thick with feathers the mattress might have been, could have been more comfortable that night than the ground beneath the wagon, where I slept wrapped in a quilt. I guess we all felt the same. Something woke me in the night—some raised voices maybe—but it was nothing more than a moment and then I was as deep asleep as before.
The next morning dawned gray and humid. I made the coffee and the breakfast, and got Ada ready for the day. Mrs. Keseberg was nowhere to be seen and Mr. Keseberg—grim-faced—told me that she was gone across to the Eddys’ wagon to keep company with Mrs. Eddy.
I guess they had fallen out, but that was nothing new. And she was at our fireside that evening, the same as ever.
That day was just as hard as the previous. We fought our way across the valley floor, and the day after that we climbed up the other side, double-teaming the beeves to pull up the wagons, with the men pushing from the back, and the women setting rocks behind the wagon wheels at every turn, to stop them rolling backward. Down the next slope, and up the next hill, and on and on the same.
We had thought to travel twenty or so miles a day. Crossing those mountains, we didn’t get more than a couple of miles a day at most. One day it took from dawn until dusk to travel a hundred yards.
It seemed that every time we reached the crest of what we thought must surely be the last great climb, another came into view before us. Hour by hour our hearts grew heavier, and our spirits sank lower. Our thoughts of arriving in California early in September vanished. July turned into August and we were still battling our way onward, hardly any distance from where we had split off from the original train, and nowhere near the end of our journey.
All were concerned about their livestock. Despite our best efforts, beasts fell and broke their legs and had to be shot, and the milk cows dried up from fear, as they were roped and swung down the mountainside, and their calves died. The Graveses had a crate of chickens with them. The crate fell from their wagon and smashed, and the chickens scattered, clucking and squawking as they fled. And the beeves, double-teamed over and over again to pull the heavy wagons up the steep hillsides, began to groan and pant at the slightest thing, exhausted from thei
r efforts.
* * *
When we crested the last rise of the last mountain, and finally made our slow and weary way down to the flat valley floor beyond, it was with a sense of great relief. It was very late in the evening, and full dark; cloudy and with no moon. We could hardly make out what lay ahead of us, although we could see that the land spread before us flat to the horizon and we thanked God for it.
After supper was done, Mr. and Mrs. Keseberg, she still something quiet, and Mr. Hardkoop and me—for I had begun to think I had as much right as anyone to know what was going on—crossed over to the center of the camp circle where a fire had been lit for the evening’s meeting.
Mr. Jacob Donner stepped up, and said that he had some questions to ask Mr. Reed about the route, but that Mr. Reed wanted to make an announcement first.
Mr. Reed stepped forward, and cleared his throat.
“It has come to my attention that there is someone among us who had behaved right badly. As leader of the company—”
Someone behind me muttered that they had no recollection of a vote being taken to appoint Mr. Reed as leader. Mr. Reed ignored this, other than to speak louder.
“—as leader of the company, I am responsible for administering justice, and I will do so.”
There was a shocked silence, and we all looked round to try and find a guilty face. I caught a sight of Mr. and Mrs. Eddy, looking nowhere but straight in front of them. My heart sank, wondering what mischief they had been up to.
Mr. Reed continued that he had been told previous of this person’s bad character, and that he had already caused an upset along our journey, at the July Fourth dance when he had beat up on a fellow half his size and half his age, who was doing no harm.
My mouth dropped open. I had no idea that anyone knew of the ruckus at the dance, it seemed to be over so very quick, and felt like it was so very long ago. I looked at Meriam, and she looked a bit red at me, and whispered, “Sorry”—for she had told her sister, Sara Foster, and perhaps Sara had told her husband. Mr. Foster and Mr. Eddy were friends, so I could see how Mr. Eddy had got hold of this juicy little nugget of gossip, and how much he would have enjoyed the taste of it, and want to share it with others—Mr. Reed, evidently.
Then Mr. Reed said, “The person—I cannot call him a man—the person that I speak of has a wife in a particular condition. He is known to have beat her. We might be in the wilderness, but we are civilized folks, and this behavior cannot be tolerated!” Mr. Reed had talked himself up into a right passion, and banged one fist into the other.
“Mr. Keseberg! I call upon you, to come out front of this company and explain to us all what reason you can have for your intolerable behavior, and why we should maintain you in this company with us! I vow, if I had my way, I would send you out of this train this very instant!”
There was a shocked intake of breath. All heads turned to stare at us. And I turned mine to stare at Mrs. Keseberg.
Into my head flashed a picture of her, sat in our wagon with the dish of food untouched on the floor in front of her. I knew in an instant what had happened, and what it was that had woke me in the night.
In my own dealings with Mrs. Keseberg, I had learned that she never came right out and said if a thing had displeased her. She would sit with her face turned away and her mouth turned down, giving out a little sigh from time to time, until she was asked, “What is the matter?” And then she would give a pretty laugh, and say, “Oh, nothing! Nothing is the matter at all, don’t worry about me. I’m just being silly.”
To begin with I took her at her word, and let her alone. But then the sighs would grow more, and if I let those sighs alone, too, why, she would start to talk in a high, fast voice, trembling on the edge of tears, about something I had quite forgot, that had happened maybe a week or so previous. She would rouse herself more and more until I hardly knew how to speak or what to say, and would continue in this vein until in the end she would burst out crying.
Once she’d had her cry out, all around would have to pet her and stroke her and fetch and carry for her, until she was quite calm again. Then she’d give out a little trembling smile and say what a silly thing she was, and we would have to smile, too, and say no, no, not at all, and pet her all over again.
She was sharp as a lemon one minute and sweet as lemonade the next; a most wearing sort of woman. I would be glad enough, when our journey ended, to see the last of her.
At the end of an hour’s weeping and carrying on about some trifling matter, a look I was supposed to have given her or a dish that I hadn’t cleaned well enough, my fist trembled to give her a slap across the head and bring the conversation to an end. And now it occurred to me that, weary to death from the struggle down the mountainside, too late to turn back and frightened of what he had brought his family to; desperate for a night’s sleep but faced instead with the prospect of hour after hour of this same carry-on, Mr. Keseberg had come to the same conclusion as me. It seemed his hand had said what his mouth could not.
Mr. Keseberg rose to his feet, his face still but his eyes blazing. He looked first at his wife, who had the grace to blush and look away. He glanced at me, my mouth agape and looking as astonished as he felt, I am sure. He turned his gaze on Mr. Reed, looking him up and down like Mr. Reed had been nothing to him. Then he turned his back and walked off to our wagon without a word.
Mr. Reed could sure make a rousing speech. It did him a favor, too. In the hubbub of conversation that followed Mr. Keseberg’s departure, the awkward questions about our route and Mr. Reed’s meeting with Mr. Hastings were quite forgot.
I guess Mr. Reed had got wind of the mutterings in that regard, and he tackled them full-on with his closing words.
“We have some hard travel behind us. There is some hard travel ahead of us still—for tomorrow we will be journeying through arid desert land. But that will be one day, no more. Then it will be the easy life for us! I say Ho! for California!—just a few weeks away!” And everyone cheered.
“Ho! For California!” How we were deceived by that thought! For when the sun come up next morning, it was to show us that what lay ahead was worse by far than what had gone before. For now we entered into the Great Salt Desert.
16
A day to cross the Great Salt Desert; just a day. What a lie that was.
Five days it took us to cross that wasteland in the high heat of late August. No shade. No water. Nothing to see but bone-colored earth to the horizon, every way we looked, and our black shadows stretched out before us in the mornings and behind us in the evenings. We traveled with the flat blue sky pressing down on us and the boiling white ball of the sun beating on us, hour after endless hour. A hot wind whipped the dust into the air and filled our mouths and noses, and our eyes and lips stung and blistered with the salt. And all the time the fear grew in us that there would be no end to it. The desert we thought to cross in a matter of hours seemed to stretch on and on, and we began to think we would perish there.
Until now we had traveled close together. By the end of the first hour of this torment, our comradeship was gone. Desperate to get out of the sun, it became every fellow for himself. Our companions pulled ahead or fell behind, we cared not how they fared. They were but distant dots on the landscape, one minute seeming near and the next, vanished altogether, for the desert played cruel tricks with our eyes. We saw pools of delicious water that were not there at all, and stands of shady trees that did not exist. And over all the wind moaned, bringing with it the powerful belief that in the distance a voice was calling your name, begging for help or crying out for loneliness.
It was a thought that was like to drive you mad if you let it, but what else was there to listen to? Just the endless creak of the wagon wheels, the desperate snort of the beeves staggering wearily onward, and the last rattling breaths of those animals that had given up and been left to die alongside the trail.
On the afternoon of the fourth day we caught up with the Reeds’ family wagon. Being such a
monstrous big affair, near twice the size of ours, the weight of it had broken through the crusted soil so it was axle deep in the sour gray mud beneath.
Their beeves were heads down, grunting with their desperate efforts, sinking to their knees and being whipped to their feet by Mrs. Reed, screaming at them all the while. But it was no use. The wheels would not turn and the animals were doing no more than dragging the great wagon along. The Reeds’ cook, Eliza Williams, and her brother Baylis, who was as hard in muscle as he was soft in the head, were behind the wagon, pushing with all their might to help the poor beasts in their endeavors. All four of the Reed children, even the two smallest, were doing their best to help.
Their other two wagons had been unhitched, and it looked as if they were to be abandoned. As we came up to them, Mr. Keseberg called to Mrs. Reed.
“Where are your other beeves?” he asked. “Are you leaving your wagons?”
She stared ahead, pretending not to hear him. I stole a look at Virginia, expecting her to behave the same. So I was most surprised when she came over to join us, and gave Mr. Keseberg an answer.
“We must leave the wagons, because the beeves are so nearly dead from the thirst that they can’t pull more. Father and the hired hands have taken them ahead in the hope of finding water.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then she burst out, “I am so sorry for the poor animals! And we are all so thirsty as well! I can hardly bear it!”
At that, Mrs. Reed called her back, sharpish-like. Virginia hung her head some and wouldn’t look at us again.
Our thirst was beyond endurance. All the same we took but one dipperful of water between us at a time—a sip or two, only. We needed the water for the animals; the beeves were our only hope of getting through this wasteland and reaching salvation, and we were doing everything in our power to save them.
When Winter Comes Page 10
