All the Stars in the Sky: The Santa Fe Trail Diary of Florrie Mack Ryder (Dear America)
Megan Mcdonald
Arrow Rock, MissouriJune 1. 1848. Arrow Rock. Missouri
Jem says why would I be writing in my diary when I could be whittling a whistle out of willow wood. My little brother's all noise. He says, "Florrie, you should be looking at the world instead of some page." This is how I look at the world.
Take Arrow Rock. Now that we're leaving for New Mexico Territory, this town is just a story to me. And if you came near for any reason, you'd hear that story, too. It goes like this:
Two men were righting over an Indian chief's daughter. The chief said whosoever could shoot an arrow the farthest would marry her. One arrow never left the bow. Tell you why. The other man swam out to a sandbar plunk in the middle of the Missouri River. He stood on that sandbar and shot the arrow so's it sailed right across the water and through the sky and over the trees and there was nothing stopping it but a mountain of a stone boulder.
That arrow stuck there, and poof, now there's a
4
tiny town, where I live, under the scar in the heart of a giant rock.
Lived, I should say. Soon we'll be on our way, where home is out there with the prairie dogs. Nothing but a wagon and all the stars in the sky.
June 2, starting out
Our wagon's loaded to the gills with most things we'll be needing for making a home when we get to Santa Fe, and a few we just plain could not part with. What a tangle! Barrels and ropes and cooking pots, blankets and lanterns and sacks and sacks of foodstuffs, tabletops and bedposts -- even Mama's rosewood rocking chair tied to the back. One trunk holds all the medicines, a bottle of matches, and clean clothes we're saving for when we get to New Mexico, including hair ribbons for me and a comb Papa gave Mama before he died.
Mama could not let go of some of Papa's shirts, his Bible, a hat, his knife, or even his medical bag from when he was in the army, so she packed them in a small leather trunk and would not hear otherwise from Mr. Ryder, who is to be our father now that Mama has married again.
5
I am relieved Mama stood her ground, but I am sadder to leave behind Aunt Florence
(my father's sister -- I'm named after her) and Uncle Henry than all the belongings in the world. I can't bear the parting -- already had three teary good-byes with my dear friend Caroline.
The rest of our things we had to sell. Even my Sunday shoes! I went to pack them in a trunk when Aunt Florence stopped me. She took my shoes, saying, "No pair of shoes in the whole of Missouri's gonna fit by the time you get to New Mexico. You'll be walkin' a whole new path by then."
I fail to see how traveling to New Mexico is going to make my feet so much bigger! But it seemed mighty important to Aunt Florence, so I promised her I would keep it in mind.
One thing nobody knows, but I can tell you, Diary, is that I've hidden something in the barrel of corn-meal with Mama's china dishes. I cannot write it now -- Jem keeps lurking around pretending not to be peeking over my shoulder!
6
June 3, halfway to Independence
Our dog, Mr. Biscuit, seems happier than anyone to be on the trail.
Mr. Ryder saw me scribbling away and says I ought to be putting things down not just for myself but for posterity. I didn't have a single idea what he meant. But then he did explain he was talking about me writing things down for history and all time.
So I'm putting down for all time how Mr. Biscuit got his name. See, Mama makes the best biscuits in Missouri, and once when we were all awaiting to eat a fresh batch, Mama turned her back and our dog did snap up and eat a whole plate full of her biscuits, leaving none for us. Not a one! Ever since, he's been Mr. Biscuit. Before that he was just plain Shep.
The day before we left Arrow Rock, when Mama announced we were leaving Mr. Biscuit behind with the McAlisters, Jem sagged like an old shirt hung to dry. Mr. Biscuit looked at me with such sad hound dog eyes, it near broke my heart. I myself announced that if Mr. Biscuit could not go on the journey, neither would I!
Mama declared she did not know where I got such a stubborn streak. Then Mr. Ryder stepped in and took up the cause for bringing Mr. B with us. He
7
convinced Mama that a dog makes a good watch for the tent door. So here we are.
Poor dog! He was nearly white with light brown spots when we started, but now he is so dusty, he is mostly brown spots!
Later
Now that Jem is nowhere about, I can tell my secret. Directly before leaving, Aunt Florence handed me a jar of honey. Sweet, clear honey, so golden that when she held it up to the light, it glowed amber like a lantern. "Try to make it last" were her final words to me.
The way I figure, if it's hidden and I'm the only one knows about it, it'll last much longer. After all, that honey from home will have to last me all the way to New Mexico Territory.
June 4
Mama says we're Ryders now.
Me, I just can't help thinking of myself as Florrie Mack. Always have, always will. A new name pinches me worse than Sunday shoes.
Odd to try to call Mr. Ryder Papa now, when in
8
actuality he is not my real father. Feels strange and forced every time I try. I can say here that my own Papa died when I was still a wee thing and Jem only knee-high to a mosquito. I have little memory of him myself, while Jem has none, and Mama is closed-mouthed on the subject of his death. What I know is that he was an army surgeon in the Mexican War, killed in battle. It gives me some tiny happiness to imagine him saving lives of the wounded.
Mama keeps a picture of him inside the Bible. I have a faint remembrance of sitting on her lap in a dim room with curtains drawn when she sang to me and showed me the sturdy man that was my father. He had long dark hair, nearly always falling over his eyes, Mama said -- eyes with laughing lines around them like crow's feet.
I can't truly say I miss my father, gone so long. But I do miss the idea of him.
Mr. Ryder seems a good man most of the time. I'm trying to give him a chance, like Mama asked. He can even be jolly when his mind's not all business -- trading, the trip, the trail. Should do Mama good to have somebody nearby with such a cheerful countenance. She's been sad so long, and hasn't ever been keen on making this trip.
9
Were it not for Mr. Ryder being a trader, we would not be on this journey! He's part-owner of a general store in Santa Fe, where we're headed, which he says is quite the trading capital.
Here goes a list of things I like about Mr. Ryder so far:
He rides a horse well and fast. He has red hair.
He tells good stories, especially ones about giants.
He shows Jem how to fish and whittle.
He teaches me words in Spanish, like hola, adios, and
Qué pasa? He sings in spite of sounding like a crow. He does not call me Florence.
Things I dislike:
He is not my true father.
Later
I miss Caroline as much as I miss my own name! Will I ever have a friend so dear and sweet? It's lonely out here listening to the whispering of all this grass. If
10
only one of those whispers was a secret told to me by Caroline.
We've heard of hundreds of families heading west for Oregon. They even travel part of the same trail that we do. But Mr. Ryder says I most likely won't meet any other girls, since the Santa Fe is not really for families. It's the route for traders -- men like Mr. Ryder who are taking their wares to New Mexico
and beyond to sell their goods.
If this route is not for families, I dare say, why ever has he brought us here? I don't think I can stand not having a friend for this months-long journey.
June 5, Independence. Missouri
What a place! Never have I laid eyes on a real and actual city. The hustle-bustle! Noise in all directions. Excitement hangs in the air.
Thousands of oxen and mules graze in the fields, waiting, like us. I'm writing fast as I can so as not to miss one single thing. In the square, Mr. Ryder and many of the traders are packing boxes and bales, laying in stores for the long journey. Mexican traders in their wide-brimmed hats and bright sarapes are loading up, calling out buenos dias and Qué pasa?
11
Families bound for the Oregon and California Trails are readying themselves every which way.
I have just seen the town courthouse, which they say looks like Philadelphia's own Independence Hall. And Mr. Ryder has pointed to a hotel where he himself actually stayed the night! He calls it Uncle Wood's Hotel and told Mama and me that it has enough beds to sleep four hundred people!
How I should like to try sleeping on a fancy hotel feather bed. Mama says only, "Watch that your head doesn't swell too big thinking of feather beds. It'll be some long time until we see a bed again."
To think! This is only the beginning.
Late morning
Full half a day it has taken us to be ready to leave. Mr. Ryder has given Jem his own job. A pitcher of grease hangs under the wagon, and Jem's job is to see that the wheels turn smooth. Jem is puffed up as a rooster with his own importance.
I stepped right up to Mr. Ryder, hoping to be told my own duties. He gave me that look. Oh how it sets my blood to boil. I know I'll have to help Mama with the cooking and such, but why is that all I should get to do?
12
I stood up taller. Mr. Ryder looked around this way and that, then announced that I am to feed and brush the riding horses, Velvet and Rosie.
I could have kissed him on his red face!
Later
With a snap of the whip, we're on our way out of town. Finally moving. Every window sash is raised, and the faces of strangers watch our leaving. Do they wish they were going, too?
Mr. Ryder has met up with a short, stocky man they call Frenchie. He's to be head driver in addition to Mr. R. He stinks to high heaven of tobacco! Even so, I can't help but like him. The man sings to the mules in French!
Mr. R. told Mama he's quite reliable, despite the stench. They've traveled this route together any number of times. Frenchie will be in charge of the other wagons, the ones with all the trade goods, from calico cloth, tobacco, vinegar, and carpets to ox yokes and wagon covers. Also the teamsters, mules, and oxen, which Jem says number one hundred. (I doubt he actually counted them.)
We have uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis wagons
13
besides our own loaded with goods to trade, more money than I ever heard of! I can see the worry lines crease Mama's forehead, adding it all up. One wagon costs $90, and four yoke of oxen, $200. With the other traders, we are altogether thirty-two wagons!
Midday rest
I dare say we're in Kansas! K-A-N-S-A-S!
So far, there's not a tree, bush, or shrub in sight save for one elm, which stands like a lone soldier on a mound guarding a small creek. That all-alone tree makes me miss Caroline. Reminds me how lonesome I am without her.
I was sketching the lone elm when I heard a voice: "Shade only one side of the tree trunk. It will truly come to life."
I turned to find a skinny-looking man, a Mr. St. Clair. At first I was most put off, then soon came to find out he's an artist! A real artist! Caroline would not believe me for a second, but I've seen his drawings, and they are magnificent. Such feeling, with just a few simple lines. And he does it all left-handed. And fast!
This Mr. St. Clair journeys with the traders to make sketches of trail life. He especially hopes to see
14
Indians. I'm sure he's the only one, besides Jem. He claims he should like to sketch a buffalo hunt!!
Later again
Mama doesn't speak much, except to complain about the mosquitoes. I can tell by the set of her jaw she's not pleased with the trip. I overheard her telling Mr. Ryder this is no place for children.
Speaking of children, have I failed to mention, Diary, that Mama is with child? I see her pressing her belly in places which puts me in mind of testing a watermelon for ripeness. It'll be months till the wee babe is ripe!
I have begun a quilt for the baby, one with twelve patches and each block tells some part of our journey. I asked Mama, "How do you sew a mosquito?" and showed her what I had done. She said, "Can't you give it a long nose or something? You made that little devil look awfully pretty!" and we laughed.
I can see the laugh disappear and Mama's face pinch as the wagon hits ruts and bumps up and down or sways sideways back and forth. It's all she can do not to be ill.
I pray the baby is a girl. Jem prays for a brother.
15
(Jem often forgets to pray, so I hope more girl prayers ascend to Heaven!)
June 6
Prairie life begins, at last! I should have thought the prairie dead quiet, but there's noise all about. Not just Jem's constant pratter, but the cracking of whips, lowing of cattle, braying of mules, whooping and hollering of the men. It amuses me to see grown men behave like they're forever at a party, but Mama thinks it "disagreeable" to hear so much swearing!
I got Joe-cakes sizzling in the pan for breakfast by the time Mama woke. I think maybe she was a little proud of me. We call them Joe-cakes after Papa. His name was Joseph and Mama says he made the best cornmeal pancakes in the world. When I was little, Mama told me he would make them into shapes for me, like a mountain one time, or a butterfly.
Mr. Ryder insisted they're called johnnycakes. I explained the whole story, insisting back they're called Joe-cakes in this family. He complained that neither did they take so much salt, and we should be sparing
16
to make it last, so I sprinkled extra onto his when he wasn't looking.
Mama saw. She smiled, in the old way.
Noon
One of the mules broke away, chains, harness, and all, with three men chasing him. Not a one could stop him for half an hour! What a race. One of the men finally did catch the bridle, but the stubborn animal would not be led. So he walked backwards all the way to camp, with his capturer on the end of a tether. Jem had himself a good laugh, especially when Mr. Ryder said I'm as stubborn as that mule, and that I would have done the very same!
I like to think of it as strong-willed.
June 6, camp No. 1. Lone 'Elm
(35 Miles from Independence)
When night falls, we set up camp. Tonight is our first real camp, one of many along the trail! With each camp, I'll have a chance to write as supper's cooking. We formed two circles with our wagons. Inside the
17
circles, the mules were let to graze, and we started the cooking fires. Before dark, some boys Jem met played leapfrog and a ball game called dare base in the no-man's-land between the two circles. I was the only girl, and those boys thought I couldn't play any ball games. But I can hit as far as any trader's son, and run fast as greased lightning, especially with my skirts newly hemmed to make them a daring two inches shorter!
It almost felt like home. Except for no Caroline.
Suppertime
After the game, the boys were running around hooting and hollering when I spotted a patch of night poppies. Far as I can tell, these pretty little white flowers bloom at night, when the shadows start to fall. I looked up and saw two girls from the second circle of wagons gathering flowers, too, but just as I was about to say hello, someone called, "Eliza, Louisa!" and they went running.
Two girls! Perhaps my own age! I'll sure be on the lookout for them tomorrow.
Fried ham and eggs was our first dinner on the prairie. Breakf
ast at night, under the stars!
18
Bedtime
Mama and Mr. Ryder have pitched a tent. Jem and I have our own, a real tent like ones they use in the army, Jem says. It has a pole in the center with a table attached. Mama remarked, "It's a clever table that has only one leg!" She acts more satisfied with things when we stop being in motion.
Jem and I crawled inside. The tent was safe-feeling, spreading its dark wings over us. My bed is nothing but a blanket on the ground, and I can feel every rock and root making itself known.
Mostly it's quiet except for coyotes and Frenchie's snoring under the wagon next to ours. His snores are louder than his swearing!
I fall to sleep every night hearing Jem repeat the same prayer: "Please God, may I look upon your face one day. Amen."
I wrap myself in a buffalo hide, not because I'm cold but for the weight of it. One breath of the sleep-scented hide and I think I hear thunderous hooves, like those Mr. Ryder has told us about. I close my eyes and I am Buffalo Girl, amidst a magnificent herd in the heart of the prairie.
19
June 7, morning
Up by 7:00. So much bouncing in the wagon, I think all the bones in my body have been shuffled like a deck of cards and rearranged new.
Noon
Nooned at Big Bull Creek, where we ate crackers. That, Mama says, is supposed to be our whole meal! No sight of any Louisa or Eliza. Maybe it was one of those mirages they speak of out here on the prairie. Well, I'm not giving up hope. I know what I saw!
Night, Camp No. 2
I have seen my first shooting star!
June 8, 49 miles- From Independence
Mama usually rides in the spring seat, knitting as the wagon bumps along. I tried keeping her company, but it's near impossible to make neat stitches with the rocking of the wagon. Mama doesn't usually stray far
20
from her perch, but today we came to some rocky bluffs overlooking a river. She stood at the top to get a view of things, and surprised me by calling out, "Hellooo!" It came back,
Hel-lo,hel-lo,hel-lo, ringing around us like a church choir.
Mama said those rocks were called Maiden's Leap. Then she told me a most strange and haunting story:
"Once, an Indian girl wanted to marry a hunter. But her parents wanted her to marry another man, a warrior who had been brave at battle. On the day they were to be wed, the Indian girl came and stood on these very bluffs and raised her hands to the sky and sang a sad song to her beloved hunter. Then she threw herself off the cliff, into the river! But her song, it came echoing back off the cliffs to her loved one. He thought she was calling to him, and ran to meet her. Alas, he was too late."
All the stars in the sky: the Santa Fe trail diary of Florrie Mack Ryder Page 1
