CHAPTER 21
APRIL 19, 1855
CONFESSION
Squatting next to the riverbank, Sarah swished a chemise in the clear waters, pausing for a moment to look upriver where the flow of the North Fork of the Big Nemahaw River was obscured by the next bend. An assortment of garments lay on top of a canvas bag that sat beside her. Next to her, on either side, Inga and Margaret were engaged in the same ritual. After more than four weeks on the trail, the women felt like well-seasoned, though cautious, travelers. Only a few feet from them, Margaret’s Enfield musket leaned against a thick alder tree.
The current chugged here and there around boulders. The deep, ice-blue of the water was enhanced by the dark, grey-brown bark of the stands of oaks and elm that intermittently lined the bank, here and there mingling with alder, willows, and wild rose. Several thick trunks had toppled from age or wind into the river, their roots exposed like gnarled fingers. The flow swirled and gurgled around the thick, round obstructions. Streaks of riffling gold shimmered, appearing and disappearing, as the water facets caught, and then lost, the afternoon sun.
“This water is the coldest yet!” Sarah exclaimed, extracting her hands from the river and briskly rubbing them together, then snatching the chemise as it began to drift away.
“It will get colder before it gets warmer,” said Margaret. “Snowmelt hasn’t started to the west yet. Mac says by the time we get to the other side of the Nebraska Territory and peel off south to Cherry Creek, those rivers will be two or three times as high from all that spring melt comin’ off the Rockies.”
“I like it,” interjected Inga, her eyes focused on the legs of a pair of Johannes’ britches she was vigorously scrubbing together. A smile was visible between the strands of blond hair, which hung from her head almost to the surface of the river. “Reminds me of the water in the fjord in Norway when I was a little girl.”
Margaret rose heavily from her squatting position, wrung out a garment and tossed it on a wide, flat rock. She put one chubby hand behind her and rubbed her lower back. “I wish Harris and I had decided to do this ten years ago,” she smiled. “I would have been only a bit older than you young ladies.”
“There are times when I don’t feel so young,” Sarah said, looking up at her.
Margaret gave her a sharp glance, but Sarah had returned to the chemise in her hands and did not notice. Squeezing the delicate undergarment, she asked, “Do you mind if I share that rock with you, Margaret?”
“It’s a good one, isn’t it? Wide, flat, dark, and warm. Help yourself, Sarah.”
Sarah stood and looked down at her pleated skirt. Uneven fingers of wetness worked their way up the calico fabric and extended more than a foot above the hem. She sighed, “I will have to change, or put up with being damp all evening. But, it’s good to be back on a river. Mac says taking this trail rather than the main track will save a week or more, and I know he wanted to avoid Kansas City, and by-pass Independence, but those few days through the corner of the Kansas Territory before we turned north again—they were desolate and dusty.”
“Yeah, that stretch of country didn’t excite us much either.” Margaret shook her head in agreement. “Did you notice how careful Mac was to not show the wagons anywhere near Kansas City? He seems very concerned about this slavery violence, though personally, I don’t see the fuss. The government ought to stay out of folk’s business. He has made sure we don’t get within seventy miles of Independence or St. Joseph, either, and we got cousins there we was hopin’ on seeing. Been fifteen years since they moved there. Got a good farm and five darkies judgin’ from their letters.”
Sarah felt her brow furrow. She did not yet understand the slavery issue everyone talked about enough to say anything, but something about Margaret’s words struck her wrong. Aren’t negroes people, too?
Inga threw Johannes’ pants on a rock near her, then cupped her hands in the river and splashed herself in the face. “Refreshing!” She looked up at Sarah and Margaret, and all three women burst out laughing.
“Margaret, you, Harris and the girls should really come down and have supper with us one night,” said Inga. “We had a lovely get-together with Sarah, Zeb and Mac last Saturday.” She paused and her brow furrowed. “Was it last Saturday? I am beginning to lose track with the ever-changing countryside and the surprises that seem to come with every turn. It has certainly been exciting.” She caught Sarah’s eye and the two exchanged a knowing smile.
“It might seem like a short time to you two young women, but this old body is quickly getting weary of the bouncing on that wagon seat. You’d think whoever designed those wagons could have thought of more than one front wheel spring.” Sarah felt a twinge of compassion as the older woman moved one thick arm behind her and massaged her back again. “I am sure glad Mac stopped early today to inspect and repair all the wagons,” Margaret continued. “Harris discovered one of our wheels was working loose, and I sure needed a break.”
“I’ve heard several people in the Conestogas complaining about how rough the ride is,” Inga said, drying her face. “Not that the journey in the prairie schooner is much smoother.” She turned to Sarah. “Did you overhear that discussion between Rebecca and Reuben after supper that night?”
“About the Jewish holidays? Or about whether or not Rebecca should be on a horse once in a while, rather than sitting in the wagon for the whole trip?”
Inga giggled. “I heard both. Honestly, I don’t know from day-to-day if they will ever speak to one another again, or if I might find them embracing behind the wagon.”
Sarah’s lips drew taut at the thought of any embrace between Rebecca and Reuben. Inga quickly realized she had said the wrong thing and cast an apologetic look. Sarah grabbed the next article of clothing, squatted down again in the river, and busied herself with washing.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. Really. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all right, Inga. Things are the way they are.” She looked up at Inga and smiled. “But, it is still a long way to Cherry Creek.”
Inga chuckled and shook her head.
“I take it,” Margaret said, standing with hands on hips, and a puzzled but bemused look on her face, “that there’s two women who set their caps for Mr. Frank? He is a handsome fellow. If I was twenty years younger, and not married, and without children…,” she laughed heartily. “I might throw my hat in that ring, and that would be ‘woe’ to any other woman.”
The three women broke into gales of laughter, and Sarah almost fell as the clothing she was washing once again drifted just beyond her reach and she had to lunge for it.
“Did you mention something about Jewish? Mr. Frank is Jewish?” Margaret asked Inga.
“He is indeed. I haven’t talked to him directly about it but from what I’ve heard from Johannes, or overheard, his family back in Prussia is rather devout.”
Sarah watched Margaret closely. The heavy older woman hid it quickly but a definite look of surprise, and something else, flitted across her face.
“And Lady Marx is Jewish, too?”
Sarah stopped washing and looked over at Inga. She appeared uncomfortable. “I’ve never talked to the Milady Marx about the subject, but it would seem so. I was not sure until their discussion about some holiday that had just passed, or was coming up—I’m not sure which. Purim, I think it’s called.”
“Well, I’ll be danged. That explains it,” Margaret shook her head knowingly.
“Explains what, Margaret?”
“Well, we invited Reuben down for supper. He was interested in that old Betsy Ross circular flag that we fly, and he is certainly Becky and Eleanor’s most favorite person on the wagon train. They just think he’s wonderful. He will make a great father one day.”
Sarah felt a sharp twist in her chest, but kept her eyes fixed on the garment in her hands.
“We was saying grace over the meal,” continued Margaret, “and Mr. Frank didn’t join in. He said, ‘Amen’ afterwards like he meant it, but
Harris and I talked later about why he didn’t say the prayer with us. That’s what it explains. I’ve never known no Jewish folk before, have either of you?”
“I met many people of the Jewish faith when I worked for the mayor at his mansion back in New York,” replied Inga.
Sarah nodded. “There were several customers who were Jewish at our shop in Liverpool. Those women were among our best customers, although I must say their attitudes were not very dissimilar from Rebecca’s.”
“Certainly can’t be too many Jews this far west or headin’ west either. I’ve always thought they liked the cities and such.”
Sarah looked up at her. “Actually, I did not know this either… not so much in England, but over on the Continent many of the largest cattle farms are owned by Jewish families. Reuben told me just a bit about his family’s farm, which was outside a little town. I believe the name is Villmar. He named his horse after the river that flows through their property, the Lahn.”
She lowered her head and went back to her scrubbing, missing the quick look Margaret flashed at her, as if something had been confirmed in her mind. “If Lady Marx is Jewish, and Mr. Frank is Jewish, that might help explain whatever it is between them.”
Sarah looked up. Margaret’s eyes were fixed on her and she decided not to respond, but simply nod.
There was a splashing downstream and the distinct muffled clunk of horse hooves on rocks in water. Margaret hurriedly darted over to the alder and grabbed the musket. Sarah quickly wiped her hands and reached into the pocket of her skirt for her Deringer.
Fifty yards downstream where the river wound its way out of view, the shoulders of a brown and white mustang appeared, then the rider. Zeb’s tall, lanky form, coonskin hat, and well-worn, fringed leather attire, with his Enfield musket comfortably cradled in the nook of one arm, could not be mistaken.
Margaret relaxed and leaned the musket back against the tree as Buck splashed toward them, sending sparkling droplets arcing over the water each time the horse pushed forward. He climbed out on the bank ten feet away. Zeb gave a friendly but somber nod to Margaret and Inga. “Afternoon, Miss Margaret. Afternoon, Miss Inga.” His eyes moved to Sarah and he smiled. “And, Miss Sarah.”
Inga and Margaret looked at her, and she could feel a slight heat rise in her cheeks. Zeb had not taken his eyes from hers. “Zeb, what a pleasant surprise,” she said. “Do you have laundry you want us to do?”
They all chuckled. “No, these clothes just get better with use. Once in a while if they get too gamey I will tidy them up some. When they get too old and ragged, I just make me a new set.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out a tobacco pouch and began to roll a smoke. Sarah felt Margaret and Inga exchange glances behind her back.
Margaret cleared her throat, stooped down, and began to pick her laundry off the rock. “I’m about done here. Can’t get ’em any cleaner, so Harris and the girls will just have to put up with it.”
Inga caught on quickly. “I just finished my last piece of clothing, too,” she replied. “Shall we go back to the wagons, Margaret?”
Margaret had already risen, her laundry draped over one arm. “Let’s do,” she said, picking the musket back up with the easy grace of someone familiar with the weapon.
Inga smiled up at Zeb and then over to Sarah. “Would either of you like to join us for supper tonight? Johannes and Reuben said they would be done with the work on the wagons before dark.”
More time around Reuben! The thought made Sarah smile. “I would love to. Jacob has thankfully found several men who play poker, so he is around very little. Not that it matters. Something other than my own cooking would be a delight.”
Zeb shook his head. “Thank you kindly, Miss Inga, but Buck and I killed a rabbit this morning, I’m not ambitious enough to salt it, and if we don’t eat it tonight, it’ll spoil. Another upcoming evening, maybe.”
Inga nodded and trailed Margaret into the trees, toward the distinct sounds of camp.
Zeb dismounted and knelt down on the riverbank a few feet from Sarah, leaning slightly on the Enfield, stock down on a lonely area of sand. The musket had not left his hand. “How are you today, Miss Sarah?”
“I’m just fine, Zeb. I’m so glad we ran into one another. We haven’t talked for several days. Sometimes I look out from the camp at night, and I can see your fire far in the distance.” A sudden shot echoed from up-river, followed by five very quick rounds. Sarah jerked in surprise, and she felt her heart jump.
“No need to be alarmed Miss Sarah. That’s Reuben practicing with that Colt of his. I ’spect you have heard it several times over the past weeks, just further out.”
“Oh my, that did startle me,” Sarah could feel the rapid beat of her heart beneath the hand she had raised to her chest. “I didn’t realize that was Reuben.” She shook her head and took a deep breath. “I was about to ask you, Zeb, why don’t you spend the nights with the wagons?”
Zeb chuckled. “Truth is, I’m not partial to being around people.” He paused and a strange look passed over his face. The purple scars on his jaw seemed to twitch. “With very few exceptions, you being one of them. I…,” his voice broke off and he looked down at the gravel at the edge of the river. He picked up a small, flat rock, turned it over in his hand and threw it sidearm. It skipped six times across the surface of the water before disappearing.
“Why, thank you, Zeb. That means a great deal to me. And though I said nothing at the time, when you told me the story about your farm being burned and your parents murdered by that evil halfbreed, I knew how horrible it must have been for you, and surely not a story you shared often, if at all.” She reached out a hand and lightly rested it on the mountain man’s forearm.
He looked up, his stare penetrating her eyes, and smiled a resigned half-smile. “Well, I know you’re young enough to be my daughter, but…,” he broke off again, and stared down at the gravel.
“And what, Zeb?” asked Sarah, unable to overcome her curiosity.
Zeb raised his head. “And, and, I made you a pair of moccasins. Tough, good hide off a big bull elk I killed last year. Them boots of yours...” he nodded down to the round toed, heavy brown leather boots visible below the wet hem of her skirt, “are going to get mighty uncomfortable as we get further west, the weather warms up, and the going gets tougher.”
Before Sarah could respond, he rose quickly, and walked over to Buck who had been standing patiently, watching them. Perhaps with an air of amusement, Sarah thought.
Zeb reached into one of the saddlebags and took out a pair of moccasins, the leggin‘ type that would rise to just below her knee. He shyly handed them to her. Her seamstress eye appreciated the work. They were beautifully, if roughly stitched, patterns of leather overlapped with rolled edges, the heavy diagonal rawhide threads more or less evenly spaced. A bit like their maker, she mused. Durable, yet soft, supple and smooth in her hands.
She was surprised, and knew she was blushing. “Why, why, thank you, Zeb,” she stammered. “Do you think they will fit?”
Zeb nodded. “I ’spect they will. Hope you don’t mind, but I had Reuben bring me one of your boots. I measured the leather off it.”
Sarah felt a sudden flood of warmth toward the weathered, scarred, loner. “Zeb, I…”
He interrupted her. “You feeling okay?”
A small bolt of trepidation coursed through her. “Why, yes, Zeb, why would you ask?”
“I have seen you leave camp several mornings and come to talk to you, but it seems you’ve been sick.” His concerned gaze was piercing.
She felt her blush heighten and her heart rate quicken again. She looked down, playing her thumbs across the dark, gold leather of the moccasins. “I think the food doesn’t agree with me. It’s a much different diet than I’m used to.”
“Well, I didn’t want to disturb you. Bein‘ sick is a private thing, I think.”
He looked away and squinted at the sun. “If your c
hores is done, let me bring you back to the wagons.”
Sarah decided saying nothing was best and simply nodded. She gathered up the laundry and stuffed it back into the canvas bag. The clangs and bangs of the maintenance on the wagons had ceased some time ago.
They silently made their way back to the edge of camp, Sarah walking slightly ahead of Zeb, who led Buck. As she stepped out of the trees, a pace in front, she turned around to say thank you, but the mountain man was gone. All she caught was a glimpse through the trees of Buck’s brown and white rump and the swish of his tail, already many yards from her. She sighed. Then she looked down at the moccasins in her hands and smiled. The warm feeling toward Zeb stole over her again. I can’t wait to try these on.
CHAPTER 22
APRIL 19, 1855
REVELATIONS
Sarah began to walk back to her wagon with the moccasins then stopped. I really have no cause to hurry to the wagon. The later I get back, the better the chances are that Jacob will be out playing poker. She did an about-face and ambled absent-mindedly toward Inga and Rebecca’s prairie schooner, a number of wagons further up in the night circle.
Admiring Zeb’s handiwork as she walked, she remembered his bashful bestowment of the gift. What could he have been trying to say? she wondered. It was evident that he was attracted to her and just as apparent that those kinds of feelings didn’t overtake Zeb often, if ever. She had instinctively liked him since they first met under the unusual conditions on the barge. It began as gratitude for his coming to her rescue, then graduated to respect for the way he had faced down Jacob. Finally, when he held her gently as she retched over the side of the barge, she recognized a tenderness that she was sure he did not display often. Up until today she had thought of him as a guardian angel, perhaps a father figure and certainly a friend. She mused, but yet…. She shook her head at the thought.
Maps of Fate Page 19
