Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  “When you get them tied, come in here,” yelled Abigail, scrambling to get her balance. “I’ll bring Jacob and Lina to you. Stay in here with them—no matter what happens.” She climbed over the back and dropped to the ground.

  Jacob was just pulling their second wagon into formation. Abigail reached for him as James took the reins to tie. The mules were wild with fear and hard to handle, but Jacob had done it. His face was white from the effort.

  “You did so well!” Abigail gave him a squeeze. “Get inside with Corrine. I’m going to get Lina.”

  Abigail spun around, taking stock and counting. Company A would be about fifteen wagons back. The attack was coming from the northwest, at the front. Her children were on the southeast side. Thank God! She could see Colonel Dotson stationed at the center of the circle, directing the men.

  “Beckett, get over here,” he yelled. “Put your gun away; get your notepad and pencil. Charlie here is a marksman with a .44 Henry. I’m sending him to the far right front by Sutler. Write that down. Listen for his shots and when he gets to six, let me know.”

  He turned to Paddy Douglas. Paddy had stuck pretty close to the colonel since the children had played games at the river’s split. Paddy had followed Colonel Dotson to the center when the attack started. “You know where we put that ammunition in my wagon? It’s the one Baird’s driving today. Run and get as much as you can carry in your shirtfront. Hold your shirt up like this and cradle it—your pockets won’t be big enough. Don’t worry about your coon, he’ll hold on. Bring that ammunition right back here to us—powder, balls, grease, and some paper cartridges. Secure ’em good. Don’t drop ’em. You’re a fast runner—don’t think I forgot.”

  “Son!” said Dotson, as one of the Sutler boys ran up, “go find Harry Sims and relieve him of his wagon. He’ll be at the back of Company D, over there. Tell him I need him on the front.”

  Everyone appeared relatively calm, but Abigail’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would rip from her chest. She saw Jacob climbing in the back of their first wagon with Corrine like she’d told him to do. Good. She didn’t need him trying to be a man right now. It was enough to have Charlie to worry about. Where had Charlie gone? She looked around and found him: there he was with John Sutler, in a firing position behind one of the Sutlers’ wagons.

  Emma Austelle ran past her with one of the Schroeder twins on her hip. “Get in the wagon with Corrine and Jacob,” instructed Abigail, pointing to it. She tried to count the moving wagons again to locate the front of Company A.

  Where was Lina?

  Shots rang out and the whoops grew closer. Her heart was gripped with fear for her youngest daughter.

  Hoke had needed only a moment to take it all in. He’d counted fifteen Indians but didn’t trust his number; they darted in and out of the brush so fast. It was smart of them to attack just as the train hit a steep part of the ascent. The Indians were on foot, so they probably just wanted horses. But it didn’t make sense for them to attack in the daytime like this—they’d have had a better chance at the horses after dark. Who had been on scout duty? Why hadn’t he noticed any sign of the imminent attack? Hoke blamed himself for not having been more vigilant.

  Everyone had been quick to respond to the crisis, he noted with pride, and was staying pretty calm—at least for now.

  Rudy Schroeder yawed his team to the left and swung around in formation. His wagon was on the outside, the first of Company B to get in place. As soon as the team halted, Rudy grabbed his shotgun and jumped from the seat, handing the reins to his wife. Then he began making his way down the line, instructing and lending a hand to each of the Schroeder wagons as they pulled up, helping the men restrain the livestock and getting the women to inner-circle wagons, telling them to hunker down.

  Few of them did. They were rummaging for guns and extra ammunition and poking children’s heads down when they bobbed up, the children’s eyes filled with wonder.

  “Faramond!” barked the colonel. “You got that repeating rifle ready? Send your nephew there and run it over to James Parker. Bring back his Winchester and reload it for him. Duncan, you keep track of Michael Chessor.”

  Hoke smiled at the colonel. He’d been paying attention and was putting each man on a task he was well suited for. The Schroeders weren’t marksmen, but they were cool under pressure, so he’d put Schroeders on reloading and restocking from the middle. Where was Gerald Jenkins? he wondered, and then realized he’d be back with Company A, still getting them into formation. Hoke knew the colonel would want Jenkins in the middle.

  “I count fifteen! All on that northwest slope!” yelled Hoke to Dotson as he charged past on his way to get Jenkins.

  Someone yelled, “Women and children to the inside!”

  Men continued running toward Colonel Dotson as soon as they got their teams tied, then running off to wherever he’d directed them. The men with guns threw their shoulders against the wagon wheels and fired at the elusive attackers who kept leaping out, then disappearing again into the brush.

  Hoke spotted Nichodemus Jasper. “Come help these sisters in the back. They’re last in line and need to close the gap.” Then he swung back up the line, continuing to shout instructions and oversee the train. He really needed to get off the filly.

  Doc Isaacs ran to the colonel. “What can I do?”

  “Get over to the Sutler wagon. One of their boys was hit. Stay there so we’ll know where to find you if anyone else goes down.”

  Hoke saw Abigail standing between the outer and inner circle with a Navy Colt in her hand. She was turning from side to side, counting wagons. He’d seen Emma Austelle climbing into the back of the Baldwyn wagon, one of the Schroeder babies in her arms. Corrine and Jacob had been pulling her in. But where was Lina?

  Hoke swung wide, drawing some fire away from the train. When a brown shoulder poked up from behind a rock, he lifted his Winchester and squeezed off a shot, then pulled on his horse, zigzagged wildly, and galloped to the back of the train as he worked the lever to fill the chamber, his eyes scanning for the snowy-white hair of Lina Baldwyn.

  And then he found her, running with Josephine Jenkins, her eyes wide and frightened.

  Company A was just pulling into formation. Everything was chaos—the attack was coming from the other end of the train, and the folks down here were still trying to process what was happening. The men were still tying the teams and grabbing their guns. Nichodemus Jasper was seeing to the Kensington sisters’ wagon now. Tam Woodford had come back to help, too. She was herding the sisters to a wagon on the inside of the circle.

  Nelda Peters, who was on Doc’s orders for bed rest, poked her head out of the canvas while Orin jumped from the wagon seat to restrain his team. Josephine had Lina by the hand and appeared to be looking for Abigail.

  “Hand her to me,” yelled Hoke.

  Josephine lifted Lina up.

  “Jump on, angel,” he instructed, scooping her up with his arm that held the rifle, reins in his other hand. Lina linked her arms and legs around him and buried her face in his chest, frightened by the noise and the shooting. He couldn’t have lost her in an avalanche.

  “Tam!” called Hoke. “Take Gerald’s job so he can get to the middle!”

  When Hoke rode up with Lina, Abigail’s whole body sagged with relief. Stretching out her arms, she pried her daughter off and looked up at him with large, grateful eyes.

  “Get in your wagon,” he said gruffly.

  Abigail ran to the wagon and lifted Lina up to Corrine. Katrina Schroeder ran by with one of the twins. “Your other one’s in here!” shouted Abigail, waving her over.

  Hoke cursed when he saw Abigail run away from her wagon again. He wheeled to the back to check on Jasper, then rode back up to Dotson. “We’re closing the gap now!”

  “Good man,” returned Dotson as he charged by. “You! Austelle! Run these over to your pa yonder, and keep your head down.”

  Baird and Alec Douglas were fast, so when they ran up,
Dotson kept them working the line with fresh guns. “Gerald, go plug that hole in the middle there, by Austelle. You’re the next best shooter I got. Good to see you. Rudy. You be Gerald’s loader. He’s got a .44 rimfire.”

  “Where’s he going?” said Rudy, watching Hoke ride off.

  “Everywhere, that’s where,” said Dotson smiling. “God’s providence he’s mounted today, but damn the luck of it being the white horse.”

  “Get in here, Abigail Baldwyn!” yelled Bridgette Schroeder as Abigail ran past.

  Ignoring her, Abigail ran for the northwest line, then stopped suddenly. A few of the Indians were starting to circle around. It was hard to tell how many, they were so quick to dart from tree to rock to bush.

  Abigail had never seen men so naked before. Feathers stuck out of their hair and paint covered their faces and chests. These were nothing like the docile Indians they had encountered during their first month on the journey. These men were fierce and terrifying.

  Once during the war, she and the children had traveled to see her sick mother in Franklin. The fighting had come within a few miles of her father’s land. Early that morning they heard scattered shots. At midday Abigail had climbed a hill on the edge of the land with Mimi and Arlon. She would never forget the scene she’d spied two miles in the distance: neat lines of blue soldiers stood on one side, and neat lines of gray stood on the other. Later, after Abigail and the others had left, the real fighting had begun, but at that moment, from the hill’s vantage point, it had reminded her of a patchwork quilt.

  This was nothing like a patchwork quilt. This was brutal and steady. The Indians came in waves, patient as the sea slapping at a man-made vessel.

  Abigail raised her pistol and aimed at one of the Indians as he stepped from behind a cedar and came into full view.

  She couldn’t shoot. It felt wrong.

  But when the Indian raised his bow and pointed an arrow at Jocelyn Schroeder, who was turning around in a daze, Abigail didn’t even think about it. She pulled the trigger.

  In horror she watched his body jerk backward.

  “Get to the inside, Jocelyn!” Abigail’s voice came out like a stranger’s—hoarse and raw.

  Jocelyn looked at her in horror and did as she was told.

  Abigail’s hand shook so badly she could hardly hold the gun. She had only wanted to see Charlie—to know that he was safe. But now she was caught in a dilemma: the men didn’t seem to notice that some of the Indians were circling around. Should she run to tell Dotson, she wondered?

  Abigail heard someone yell in pain to her left. She didn’t turn to look; she kept her eyes on those three—no four!—Indians she saw circling and moving closer.

  Hoke was suddenly beside her, off his horse now that all the wagons were set. “Dammit, Abigail, get to the inside!”

  Just then an Indian slipped past the outer ring of wagons. Hoke shot him, then swatted at Abigail with the butt end of his rifle, trying to move her back toward the inner ring. Bullets were flying everywhere—Abigail saw one rip through the canvas of a wagon close by, one that she hoped was unoccupied. Nearby a dog yelped, having been stepped on by a nervous mule.

  “Abby!” Hoke was shouting at her. She turned to look at him, then craned her neck as she looked past him at an Indian raising his rifle.

  Taking the pistol in both hands to steady it, Abigail stepped to the right and shot.

  Hoke wheeled around as the Indian fell, part of his head blown off, the bullet having caught it at an upward angle.

  After that there was a sudden whoop followed by the sound of horses stampeding on the other side of the ring. Then abruptly the shots and shouting stopped, and there was only the lingering pound of the horses’ hooves as they topped the rise and flew over the hill.

  Abigail shook all over, her eyes fixated on the part of the Indian’s head that lay glistening on the ground. She still held the pistol in both hands, though they were shaking violently. Her legs were shaking, too, and her arms . . . her heart was even shaking, as if her whole body were freezing.

  Hoke took the Colt from her hands, shoved it in the back of his waistband, set his rifle on the ground beside Rascal, who was still barking, and lowered her arms to her sides.

  “Hush now,” he scolded the dog, touching him briefly on the head. Rascal quieted but paced around nervously.

  “I—can’t—stop—shaking,” she whispered, the words ragged and jerky. It surprised her she could speak at all. Her whole body felt jumpy and her gaze was frozen to the Indian’s head—a pool of pink-and-white liquid mixing with red blood on the grass. It was much more awful than the sight of bloody slabs of meat. She was responsible for it. She had caused it.

  Hoke took her by the shoulders and turned her around so her back was to the Indian and to him. Then he slid his hands down her arms and held her tight. “It’s all right,” he crooned, the same way he talked to his horses. “It’s over. They’re gone. You did good. Everybody’s all right. You’re all right.”

  Abigail breathed deep, in and out, her body pulsating, her ear on fire from the closeness of his mouth. She relaxed and laid her head back, loving how good it felt to be held by this strong, capable man she had grown to trust. He had brought Lina to her. He was always watching out for her and her children. She was so grateful for his strength. She didn’t want to have to be strong. She didn’t want to have to be both father and mother to her children.

  Her eyes rolled back.

  Abigail went limp. Hoke nearly dropped her. He scooped an arm under her legs to lift her up.

  That was when he saw the blood on her blouse and skirt.

  CHAPTER 23

  Purple flowers and the smell of lavender

  Hoke set her down and tore the clothes at her side to get a better look. Rascal was barking again. A bullet had passed through the fleshy part of Abigail’s right side, below the rib cage and above the hip bone.

  It was a lucky spot and he didn’t think anything vital had been hit, but blood was pouring out. Had that caused her to faint? Or was it just nerves catching up with her?

  He pulled off a long, wide section of her skirt, ripped two pieces from it, plugged a wad of fabric in each hole in her side, then wrapped another piece around her body to tie them in place. He lifted her up and carried her to her wagon.

  “Go get the doc!” he told Emma Austelle, who was the first to poke her head out as he approached. “He’s at the Sutler wagon.”

  Women who had been hiding inside the Baldwyns’ wagon spilled out to make room. Corrine’s eyes were wide. Jacob put his arm around Lina, who looked like she was going to cry.

  “Is Mama dead?” Lina asked Hoke in a high-pitched voice, fear on her golden face.

  It broke his heart.

  “No, baby doll, your mama’s going to be just fine. She lost some blood and had a fright is all. Bullet came clean out the back, so it can’t hurt her anymore. Doc’ll tell us if anything vital was hit, but I don’t think it was. She had a scare . . . we’ve all had a scare . . . but your mother’s tough. You know that, right?” He smiled to reassure her—and to reassure himself—petting Lina’s golden ringlets with his blood-free hand.

  Lina nodded as tears pooled in her eyes.

  “You know if Mr. Hoke says it, it’s true, Lina.” Jacob squeezed his sister’s shoulders. “He’s not the kind to go soft on you just ’cause you’re young.”

  Hoke put his hand on Jacob’s head. God, he loved these kids.

  Charlie appeared at the back of the wagon. “I heard Mama was hurt!”

  Hoke took Corrine’s hand and put it on Abigail’s side. “Put pressure on it until Doc Isaacs gets here. Mrs. Schroeder, will you get some water? Jacob, start a fire out here in case Doc needs the water boiled. There’ll be others wounded. It might take him a while to get here. Charlie, help me out here.”

  When he climbed down from the wagon, he took Charlie aside. “Your mother’s goin’ to be all right.” He nodded toward one of the fallen Indians. “We need to ge
t these bodies cleared out of the way.” The dogs were already starting to sniff and lick at the blood. “The women and children are going to be upset enough without seeing all this.”

  Charlie swallowed hard. He was pleased Mr. Hoke treated him like a man and not one of the children, and he didn’t want to show how rattled and upset he felt. But if anything should happen to his mama, he would never forgive himself for suggesting they come west.

  He had shot at several Indians—just like Mr. Hoke had told him to, putting the sight in the notch and squeezing off at six o’clock on the target—but hadn’t hit any. He also watched John Sutler kill one of the attackers. Mr. Sutler was very cool about it.

  It all happened so fast—arrows whizzing, bullets flying. Charlie started to shoot at one Indian even before getting into position, overeager to impress because the colonel had showed faith in him. But Mr. Sutler put a hand on his rifle barrel. “Careful,” was all he said. Charlie looked past the end of his rifle then and saw Jocelyn Schroeder run by. He might have hit her! What a fool he would have been. He was grateful Mr. Sutler had been there and hoped the man didn’t think him an idiot.

  To Charlie, everything had seemed like chaos. On his right, Harry Sims fought hand-to-hand with an Indian. Charlie watched him stab the Indian in the neck and twist the handle.

  Mr. Sims carried a bowie knife—thicker than Mr. Hoke’s and ten inches long. He kept it sharp, too. Charlie had seen him sharpen it lots of times when they sat around the campfire. It was great for tanning a hide. An animal’s flesh peeled off like butter under the influence of that knife, just like the buffalo’s flesh had when they used Mr. Hoke’s to tan the hide on the one they killed. But Charlie had never thought about what that blade could do to a man’s neck before he saw it firsthand.

  He felt sick now remembering it.

  Clyde Austelle, who had been standing behind him after bringing Mr. Sutler a gun, had doubled over and retched at the sight. And Mr. Sims was a preacher! Toughest preacher Charlie had ever known.