Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  Michael Chessor had been on scout. He came riding past the Baldwyn wagon looking for Colonel Dotson.

  Abigail was sitting on the wagon seat darning socks next to Jacob when she heard Chessor tell Dotson, “Creek’s pretty swollen up ahead.”

  Colonel Dotson, the company leaders, and several other men rode out to see. Abigail watched them go with a twisted brow and laid her sewing aside.

  Sure enough, the creek had reached the top of its bank. Hoke didn’t like the look of it.

  “That was a shallow stream when I rode scout yesterday,” said Gerald Jenkins. “We might ought to lay by for a day.”

  “Lay by?” Rudy Schroeder spat. “That’s not too deep to cross. I say we go on. We already lay by every Sunday. And we’ve only covered a few miles today.”

  John Sutler looked from Rudy to the colonel. “We’re already wet from the storm. If we wait and dry out, we’ll get wet again when we do cross.”

  “I say we cross now before it gets any worse,” old Tim Peters said, looking up. They all inspected the sky. “Could be more rain on the way.”

  “Peters, you’re the only one that’s been over this route,” said Colonel Dotson. “You have any trouble at this creek before?”

  “No. But I wasn’t in a wagon and it wasn’t up. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though.”

  Dotson turned to Hoke. “You don’t think that’s too deep to cross?”

  Hoke watched the creek a minute, its water curling and spilling over the jagged edges of the bank. “One way to check.” He dismounted, pulled off his boots and socks, and waded into the water. At midpoint, it hit his upper chest. He nudged around the banks, measuring the depths with his feet.

  When he sloshed back to the others he said, “Current’s pretty strong, but it won’t cover the tops of the wagon wheels.” He pointed at the bank. “That’s probably the best spot. Not too much drop-off, and the bank’s low on the other side.”

  They voted to cross.

  When the men got back to camp, Hoke went straight to Abigail’s wagon. She was with Jacob, who was driving the team in front. Hoke insisted she let him and James drive the Baldwyn wagons through the swollen waters.

  She looked down to his dry boots and back up his wet clothes. “Did you swim the creek?”

  He didn’t answer, just reached up to help her down. Jacob had already hopped off the seat.

  “No, we’ll be fine. You go on.” Abigail took up the reins Jacob had let drop.

  Hoke scowled. “Don’t argue with me.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have your hands full helping others. We’re fine.”

  He bit his temper and walked away. Dotson and Jenkins were crossing now. They didn’t seem to be having any problems.

  Hoke drove his and James’s wagon through the restless current, then stayed on the opposite bank to help as others crossed.

  The thunder of the water mixed with the bleating of the livestock was so loud no one heard the axle break or Nelda Peters’s initial yell. But from the south side of the creek, as they waited their turn to cross, the Baldwyns saw it all—how the wagon dipped down and Nelda fell off the seat. How her husband Timmy jumped in to save her. How they flailed the first few seconds, fighting the current, their heads bobbing up near the oxen. How Timmy pushed Nelda out of the water and back up on the wagon seat just as Orin Peters, Timmy’s younger brother, who was driving the rig in front of them, pulled his team up the bank.

  Then, as Abigail was letting her breath out, believing Timmy and Nelda were going to be fine, Timmy was sucked back under the water.

  Charlie, who had been driving the mule team behind her and Jacob, charged past them on foot and into the creek behind Harry Sims before Abigail could call out and try to stop him. Hoke was there, too, and Bart Peters, coming from the other side, all racing to get to Timmy Peters in the water.

  Harry pulled Timmy’s body to the surface first. It took all four men to get him to the opposite bank. Abigail and several others, including the McConnelly sisters, had climbed from their wagons and now stood frozen on the south bank watching.

  “Doc!” called Colonel Dotson from the far side of the creek. Doc Isaacs came running with his bag, jumped into the current, and swam to get to Timmy, now stretched out on the opposite bank.

  Time slowed as the men got Nelda, who was screaming and flailing, off the stalled wagon, the wheel investigated, and the broken axle repaired. It took a long time as some of the men, including Charlie, used wood planks to help lift the wagon, while others dove under the current to find and solve the problem.

  Abigail stood on the bank feeling helpless, her eyes glued on Charlie, willing him to be okay, hating that he was so close to tragedy.

  If there was any boy left in Charlie prior to this trip, he was quickly disappearing. Abigail was proud of the man Charlie was becoming, but her heart pined for the innocent youth she’d left in Marston.

  She didn’t need anyone to wade back over the creek and tell her what was happening. It was clear enough from Nelda’s wailing that Timmy hadn’t made it.

  Irene McConnelly looked at her darkly, as if Abigail were somehow to blame. “What did I ever do to her?” Abigail whispered to Melinda Austelle.

  Melinda shook her head. “Her face is just set like that.”

  When Hoke finally sloshed back through the creek to the south side of the bank, the Baldwyns, minus Charlie, were a somber group, sitting huddled on the sodden grass.

  “You going to let me take you over now?” he asked, his voice husky.

  Abigail nodded.

  Charlie came back over to lead the Baldwyns’ first wagon over, Corrine holding things steady in the back. Hoke led the second team. When he yawed their mules up the mud-slick bank, Abigail sat in the back holding on to Lina with one hand and her lockstitch sewing machine with the other. Jacob held Rascal.

  Abigail could see Nelda still sitting with her head buried in Christine Dotson’s lap. Old Tim Peters stood with glassy eyes, his arms folded tight as he watched the men get the rest of the wagons across.

  As the Baldwyns climbed out, Harry Sims approached Colonel Dotson, who stood nearby. “There were a lot of rocks where he was standing. One he was on must’ve rolled. The wagon wheel hit against one of the bigger rocks. That’s what caused the axle to break.”

  Colonel Dotson swore. “Damn the luck! Sorry, Preacher. But . . . damn the luck! That poor girl.”

  Nelda clung to Doc Isaacs, who looked up at Abigail with helpless eyes.

  Tam Woodford brought Harry a blanket. “Wrap up now, before you catch a cold. You’re soaked through.”

  When Abigail turned back to her children, they were standing together staring at Timmy Peters’s limp body on the bank. She picked Lina up. “Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t stand here and stare. Let’s look around and see if there’s anything we can do to help. But don’t stand here and stare.”

  “Let’s build a fire and get Nelda some dry clothes,” said Melinda.

  Sue Vandergelden stood near them with her hands on her hips looking toward Nelda and Doc Isaacs. “Can’t he do something about her squallin’?”

  Abigail and Melinda looked at one another. “She’s grieving, Mrs. Vandergelden.”

  Mrs. Vandergelden looked at Abigail like she’d slapped her. “Well, I don’t know why she’s got to throw it off on the rest of us!” She turned and stormed back to her wagon.

  Rudy Schroeder walked up to Colonel Dotson and said in a low voice, “We ought not to have crossed. That was a bad decision.”

  Every man within earshot turned on Rudy Schroeder.

  “You voted on it, Rudy,” snapped the normally jovial Gerald Jenkins, “as did Tim Peters himself. Nobody wanted this to happen, but it did. It doesn’t help anything for you to go pointing fingers.”

  It was as forceful as Abigail had ever heard mild Gerald Jenkins speak, but then . . . all their nerves had been set on edge from the sudden turn of misfortune.

  That night there was no singing in the
camp. Abigail got through supper and cleanup. But later, long after dark, she slipped out of the wagon to check on her sleeping boys.

  She saw Hoke lying under his wagon only a short distance away, his eyes open and watching her. Her body longed to crawl into his bedroll and be held. She wanted someone to promise her that she and her children would finish this journey alive.

  One of our men was drowned, Mimi. Some of the women were badly affected.

  Abigail laid down the quill and pushed back the letter. She didn’t want the ink to spatter or Mimi would guess how badly she herself had been affected.

  Days before, they had crossed the Kansas River on a ferry. Men had built ferries and bridges at the major river crossings on the trail and charged a toll for the use of them. Mrs. Vandergelden said it was robbery to charge settlers to cross a bridge or use a ferry. Abigail now felt the charges were justified. There had been no ferry or bridge here, and she would have gladly paid every coin in the blue crocheted bag to use one.

  Harry Sims conducted a memorial service just after breakfast. Timmy was buried in a lovely spot under an oak tree as the early-morning sunlight winked through new green leaves.

  “I fear Nelda will have a hard time of it,” said Melinda as they went back to their wagons.

  They had passed several graves on the journey and now left one of their own.

  After this, Abigail began to read all the markers more closely and wondered at the lives behind the words. Skeletal remains of many animals also lined the trails, picked clean by wolves and vultures, the bones bleached white by the merciless sun.

  In the ramshackle cabin a dozen miles from Fort Hall, Bonnie reached over and stroked his red beard as they lay once again under the horsehair blanket.

  “How do you keep this trimmed so neat?”

  “I have my methods.” He swatted her hand away, not liking to have his face touched.

  “I can trim it if you need me to. Since your fingers are missing.”

  “Somehow I’ve managed.” He threw back the blanket and stood, reaching for his clothes. “I won’t be back for a while. I need to go to Laramie.”

  He had been mulling over the best solution after Abigail’s first letter arrived. He wouldn’t tell Bonnie. If the Piute woman knew Abigail was headed this way, she would do worse than pout. He didn’t need two upset women on his hands.

  No . . . there was no need for Bonnie to ever know the difference. Soon enough, Abigail would be nothing more than a bittersweet memory, tucked safely away with the letters in the box.

  When the second letter came—the one telling him about Cecil Ryman—the sweetness of her effort to warn him almost made him change his mind. But then she mentioned she was bringing the children. That wasn’t what he’d told her to do . . . bringing the children just complicated everything.

  Bonnie pouted. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Long as it takes.”

  “To do what?”

  “None of your business.”

  Bonnie crossed her arms and huffed. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone to Laramie?”

  “Girl like you? You’ll be fine.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Life’s pilgrim journey

  They arrived at Alcove Springs midday on a warm Saturday. Several members of the wagon party spent the afternoon at a nearby settlement conducting trade negotiations. This proved to be a popular event whenever they came to settlements.

  Jacob came running back to camp proudly holding a pair of moccasins. “Charlie got your molasses.”

  “The people in these towns must be making a fortune,” Melinda said, as she, Abigail, and Caroline Atwood all worked on supper.

  Abigail smiled as Charlie walked up carrying the molasses and a dozen eggs packed in salt. She wasn’t doing badly herself. Charlie had traded two of her needlework hand towels for the items.

  The Baldwyns might not starve after all.

  “How come you never eat with us, Tam?” called James over to Tam’s wagon. Most of Company C had started eating together in the evenings. But Tam never joined them. She ate with two men in Company D.

  “Because Harry Sims is a bad cook,” she called back. “And Michael Chessor ain’t no better. They’d starve if I didn’t feed ’em.”

  “That sounds like me and Hoke.” James winked at Corrine. “’Cept that I’m a great cook.”

  “What are you cooking for us tonight, Mr. Parker?” asked Corrine, holding baby Will on her hip.

  “You ladies appear to have it covered. Say, how old are you again?”

  “She and Charlie have birthdays in another week,” announced Jacob.

  “Will that make her old enough to get married?”

  “Some girls do get married at sixteen,” said Emma, looking at Charlie. “I’ll be sixteen in August.”

  James grinned at Charlie, but Charlie acted like he hadn’t heard.

  Cold water bubbled into several deep pools at Alcove Springs, a stop on the trail that was a short walk from camp. Abigail rushed through supper so she and the other ladies from Company C could slip back down to the water and bathe before sunset. Since the mud that had been caused by the heavy rains had dried, the dust seemed thicker than ever. A month of travel and they hadn’t bathed once! Water was shared with livestock that needed it for drinking, and there had been little privacy with them passing so many settlements and Indian villages. She had tried to wash as best she could with a cloth and the water basin each night but longed to submerge her body in a clean pool of water.

  Abigail wasn’t alone; soon there was a large group of women at the springs.

  Tam Woodford ran off boys who tried to spy. When Tam felt the risk was over, she too ran down to the springs, stripped to her underclothes, and jumped in the water. Lina and Deena Sutler had a grand time splashing on the banks with her. When Prissy Schroeder challenged her to a swimming race, Tam beat her without mercy.

  “I believe every female from the wagon train is here.” Melinda twisted water out of her hair as she and Abigail sat on the water’s edge, their feet dangling in the clear, cold pool.

  “I don’t see Sue Vandergelden. Or the McConnelly sisters,” said Abigail.

  “And let us be thankful for it.”

  Josephine Jenkins approached Audrey Beckett, who was expecting and had waddled down to the springs to sit nearby, resting her legs in the water. “Let me and Chris do that washing for you.” Abigail smiled to see Josephine and Christine giggling like schoolgirls as they helped Audrey with her basket of clothes.

  “My feet feel like they’re going to crack right open,” said Audrey.

  “Marc has a plaster you should try,” said Caroline, who was watching Will splash in the water with Corrine and Emma. “I used it when I was expecting Will and it helped. I can’t imagine doing all this walking in that condition.”

  “Poor Nelda,” said Melinda. Nelda had not joined them at the springs, either. No one had known Nelda was expecting until after Timmy died.

  Katrina Schroeder walked up to them. “Have any of you had items go missing from your wagons? We’re missing a silver spoon and dish I use to feed the twins.”

  “That’s funny,” said Tam, who had just finished swimming and had come to sit on the bank. “I’m missing a brass telescope. It was right next to an ivory box that’s worth a lot more. It didn’t make sense to me that someone would take the telescope and not the box. So I thought I might have misplaced it, but I’ve been through the wagon half a dozen times and it never has turned up.”

  Abigail told about her gold coins that were taken in Independence. “Since no one else reported stolen money, I thought it must have been taken by someone from the town.”

  “I’ll talk to George about it,” said Christine.

  As the evening sun began to sink full and orange on the tree-lined horizon, the women walked slowly back to camp.

  Abigail linked her arm through Melinda’s. “I feel more like myself. It’s been impossible to keep those wagons or any
piece of clothing clean.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? Now if I could only get Mr. Austelle and my boys to scrub.”

  Just then a herd of boys ran past them on their way to the springs. Mr. Austelle and several of the men, including James Parker and Hoke, were right behind them.

  Melinda looked at Abigail and giggled. “That’ll make the wagon smell nicer.”

  By the time the men returned the whole camp buzzed with renewed energy, the result of everyone feeling rested and festive.

  “You know what we need?” said Tam. “A dance!” She turned to Harry Sims with a mischievous grin. “If you don’t ask me to dance, I’ll be hoppin’ mad.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to ask you.” He grinned shyly. Harry had a long handlebar mustache and his hair was thinning on top. He was of only average height but was strong and stocky.

  Josephine clapped her hands. “Let’s do have a dance! Or is it too soon after Timmy’s death?” She asked Orin and Bart Peters how they felt about it and whether they thought it would hurt poor Nelda. Mrs. Josephine had held off singing with the children ever since the accident out of respect for her.

  “Timmy wouldn’t want people to stop having fun on his account,” said Bart.

  “Have the dance. Refusin’ to live isn’t going to bring him back,” said old Tim Peters.

  Josephine begged the Vandergeldens to let Ned come, and they relented. The smile that appeared on his face was the first one any of the party had seen the boy wear.

  James got his guitar, Alec Douglas his fiddle, Harry his harmonica, and Nichodemus Jasper his dulcimer. They practiced while everyone else went to their wagons to spruce up.

  Corrine and Lina donned the best dresses they’d brought. “Mama, you should wear your pretty blue dress,” said Lina.

  “No, she shouldn’t,” corrected Corrine. “It will be fancier than any of the other ladies’ dresses.”

  “You’re wearing your prettiest dress, Corrine. Why can’t Mama?”