Calamity

by Libbie Hawker

I tried to make out just who was in that wagon, whether my brothers and sisters was awake and listening. But I couldn’t see a thing, save for the solid black shapes of barrels and boxes, and the rhythmic sway of a brick of hard-packed cane sugar, swinging from a rope high in the canopy’s hoops.

  There was no getting around her question, so I answered. “Dead.”

  One half of her tight mouth smiled. “That’s no surprise to me. Your daddy wasn’t a good man, and now no doubt he’s gone down to Hell.”

  “You sure know how to comfort a body, Missuz.”

  It was impudence and I knew it. I also knew that I had neither mother nor father to smack me or scold me for it. My stomach felt light and fluttering, like a caged bird set free. I could say most anything, I reasoned, and get away with it. Who could stop me?

  “He wasn’t a good man,” the wife repeated. “But we’re about to stop for the night and your pack of brats is paid up through today. You’ll sleep with us, but in the morning you’re all out on your own.”

  I stared at her hard, trying to discern how serious she was. I thought perhaps I’d find some soft place at her edges, somewhere I could see pity and Christian charity crumbling the meanness of her soul. Some place I might work in my fingers and pry at her, and pick loose a little compassion. But there was nothing to her—only a flat, cold, uncaring glower, an impatience to be rid of the whole Canary mess.

  “You ain’t concerned at all with the plight of six orphan children alone in the world, exposed to wolves and Indians and God knows what else on the wide-open plain?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Reckon that makes you the one lacking in goodness, mam. Not my pa.”

  The fat man who drove the wagon heard my retort and he bellowed that he’d skin me alive himself, and by God no savior ever said good honest people had to care for the whelps of gamblers and thieves, and he’d stay awake all night to be sure I didn’t pinch any food or clothes or guns from his family. He said in the morning he would be glad to leave us all in his dust, for I was a poor hand at laundry and no use to him a-tall.

  When he pulled the wagon to a stop and the others in the party circled up and all the women set to making a cook fire, I tugged open the canvas to find my five brothers and sisters huddled close together, clinging with grubby hands to thin bodies, the lot of them tangled up into one mass like a ball of frayed, dirty rope. Tears streaked their cheeks and their eyes were red and swollen, but they wept without making a sound, even the baby.

  I woke the children when dawn was only a gray whisper, when the biggest and brightest of the stars was still clear in the bow-curve of the sky—before the camp began to stir. When the fat man and his hard-hearted wife and their stupid, laughing sons woke—when the whole uncaring family readied their wagons for the day’s long haul—I wanted them to see the Canary lot standing tall and proud, as tall as we could stand, six children that we were.

  We still had my horse and one saddle to our name, and that was something. Cilus also had a pocket knife among his belongings and little Lije had a length of fishing line with a metal hook, which he’d won off one of the wagon boys in a game of dares. I figured if we could scare up a piece of flint, we would have the means to make a fire, and we might leave the wagon trail and follow a stream down to a river, and fish for our sustenance as we crept along its bank. We’d follow the river wherever it flowed, and sooner or later we would come across a town, maybe even a city. Then all our troubles would be over.

  As a spot of pink light blushed the horizon, I told the children how it would be. Isabelle and Sara, being smallest, must ride all the time on the horse. Lena and Lije could take it in turns to sit up behind them and make sure Sara didn’t fall from the saddle. Cilus and I would walk the whole way, but that would give us plenty of opportunity to look for flints as well as snakes and prairie dogs, which maybe we could kill if we was fast enough and chucked rocks hard enough at their little heads. They all agreed it was a suitable plan, and I was proud that none of them cried as I hoisted the three girls up into the saddle and lined up the boys beside me.

  The Canarys stood arrayed in that stoic tableau as the wagon party packed up, as the fat man’s sons kicked out the ashes of the fire and collared the protesting oxen. None of those devils glanced at us once while they went about their business, and I swear I even heard that hatchet-faced blue-bonnet bitch singing when the first wagon bumped back onto the trail, just as if a burden had been lifted from her soul.

  My stomach was so empty, the pain of it made me sick, and as I watched the wagons depart all my bravery vanished like stars behind a cold, black cloud. A deep shiver of fear rattled inside me. It shook my feet loose from where I’d resolutely planted them in the earth.

  I forgot Canary pride and my show of stubbornness. I ran a few steps toward the wagons. The horse, unprepared for my sudden movement, threw up its head and the reins clutched in my fist arrested me. Tethered, I kicked at tufts of grass and cried out with rising desperation. “Wait! You can’t leave us. Wait!” But no one stopped, or even looked around.

  Cilus sucked on his lip a minute, and then he said real slow and thoughtful, “We—ll.” I looked at my brother and saw in his determined black eyes what we must do.

  “Come on,” I said to them all, including the horse, and set off in the wake of the wagons

  Unless there’s real danger—Indians or a flash flood or robbers on the road—a wagon train don’t move fast. Oxen are plodding creatures, and a few children on foot can keep pace with laden prairie schooners.

  Of course, none of us was used to so much walking. We must have covered twenty miles every day, and by the time the wagons pulled off the trail and their cook fires flared within the rampart of their circle, my whole body ached like an old woman’s—hips, knees, ankles, back, even my neck and shoulders felt worn away by fatigue.

  I had found a small flint half-buried in a wagon rut, and Lena had collected some dried dung which she kept tied up in her pinafore. We had a small cook fire of our own, over which we roasted the two bull snakes Cilus had ambushed and dispatched with his pocket knife, as well as a few fat, yellow grubs Lije dug out of the earth and skewered on long stems of grass. It wasn’t a filling supper, but we had scared it up on our own and it made me feel as if we could surely make do—providing I woke at all the next day and didn’t expire in my sleep from pure exhaustion.

  Again I arrayed the children well before dawn, resolved to show those heartless pioneers just who was strong and hardy. And again we followed the wagon train on foot, trailing some hundred yards to its rear. We barely spoke all that second day; even the baby Sara was too tired to fuss, though she did cough now and again. When merciful night came, we collapsed on the ground together, far beyond the circle of the wagon train, too footsore and weary to build a fire even though Lena had plenty of buffalo chips in her apron. We ate our supper of grubs and roots raw, and drank from a crick with our bare hands, and fell asleep in one another’s arms.

  I felt sure we would die that night. The two smallest, at least, for their eyes was so dull and their bodies drooping; their souls seemed already to have fled. Sara’s cough troubled me greatly; it was persistent and rattled some, and though I knew nothing of illness, still I didn’t like the sound of it. But wouldn’t you know, the smallest Canarys was the first to wake—up before the larks began to sing—and by the time our third day had well and truly begun, I felt a touch stronger.

  At mid-day, Cilus ran down a hawk that was struggling to rise with its prey, and he came bouncing back through the grass holding a kicking, bleeding jackrabbit up by one long hind leg. We ate like kings that night. The smell of our roasted rabbit drifted over to the wagon camp, where they supped on onion broth and gritty bread. Once their bellies was full, the boys occupied themselves with fleshing the rabbit skin in the purple twilight, and I could hear them laughing quietly over some private joke. The familiar sound mingled with the smoke of our fire and stung my eyes, and soon I was teary, recalling the war
m hearth of our cabin back in Missouri, thinking how many miles our old home lay to the east.

  In the midst of my sorrowing reverie, Lena tapped my wrist and whispered, “Look, Martha. Who’s that coming?”

  Three long, thin shadows had broken from the ring of wagons. They made their way across’t the empty space toward us. Lije stood up with the rabbit skin in his hand, stared at the approaching figures, then retreated into the swaying grass like some small and skittish critter going to ground. Long before those shadows reached our circle of firelight, I recognized them by their wiry frames and their dusty, mocking laughter. They was the sons of the fat man and the blue-bonnet bitch. One of them carried a flour sack in his hands; it swung around his knees as if it had some real weight to it. I tried to imagine what might be in that bag, but all I could think of was the brick of pressed sugar their mother kept tied up in her canopy, and my mouth filled suddenly with water.

  The boys stopped at the edge of the light and stared at me. I rose from my crouch and folded my arms, considering them, pleased my body was not near as tired as it had been, and feeling I must look something like a real woman after days of travail—strong and steady-eyed, not like a kid at all.

  “You been following us,” the tallest boy said.

  “We can go wherever we please. You ain’t got no claim to the trail. We’re heading to Montana to prospect for gold, so tend to your own party and leave us be.”

  The boy held out the flour sack. The weight of whatever it contained swung, tantalizing, above the fire. “Brought you something.”

  I stepped forward and reached for the sack, but he pulled it back again and his brothers gave an ugly unison snicker.

  “Ain’t a gift,” he said. “It’s for barter.”

  “You know we ain’t got nothing to trade. And you ain’t getting my horse, so…” I recalled the man with the rifle, his dangerous grin below the brim of his sugarloaf hat. “So fuck off out of here,” I finished, and Lena gasped.

  “You got something to trade all right, missy. Think about it; don’t be so stupid.”

  I paused, considering. There was no telling what might be in that sack, but whatever it was—flour, bacon fat, wool socks, even salt for curing the rabbit skin—we had sore need of it. I kicked my feet in the dust for a minute, more concerned with what my brothers and sisters might think than with any question of sin or morality. Finally I shrugged my shoulders and told the little girls to go off and find Lije in the grass and sit with him till I called.

  Cilus edged closer to me. I could see the tip of his pocket knife poking out between his knuckles. He held it low, along his leg, doing his best to conceal it. “Martha,” he began, but I pointed towards the wagons.

  “Stand over there and keep watch. If Fat Head comes looking for his dumb little whelps, he’ll scald us for sure if he sees what’s up.”

  Cilus hesitated. His eyes darted to the flour sack, then back to me, but they returned to the mysterious barter and lingered there. Then he nodded. “All right, if you think it’s best.” He strode off into the darkness.

  I drove a hard bargain that night. I knew what those boys wanted—no girl could grow to the age of almost-thirteen with Charlotte Burch Canary for a mother, and not get some inkling of what those boys wanted—what all men want. But recent events had made me patient and calculating, and I wasn’t fool enough to give up my best goods for an unknown trade. They had been on the trail a long time, under the eye of their stiff-necked parents, with little time to dart off for a fiddle alone in the grass. I had the upper hand, and I knew it. I resolved to use every speck of my advantage.

  It took only a moment to unbutton my dress from collar to waist. I slid my bony shoulders out of my sleeves and let them get a good long look at my chest. I didn’t have much in the way of taddies—not ever, but especially not then. Still, whatever meager charms I possessed enchanted those boys like no pretty face by moonlight ever could. One of them set to grabbing himself right then and there, and made a sound that was half grunt, half laugh, uh-huh-huh-huh, while he toiled away with his eyes popping. The other two stepped close and touched me—each one laid a hand on a side of my chest, and for a moment I had the dizzy feeling they was fixing to push me over, backwards, into the fire. My heart beat hard; I could feel it pounding against one boy’s palm. Then with a long, indrawn breath he stepped away, and so did his brother, and without a word he placed the flour sack at my feet.

  I was quick to snatch it up. I gripped it hard against my naked chest, and stood watching as the three of them hurried off into the night. They didn’t go back towards the wagons; I figured they would in time, when their personal business was concluded. I smiled to myself, right pleased that I’d outwitted those fools and got my trade for so little work. I pulled up my dress and worked the buttons with one hand, still unwilling to let that flour sack go. Then I called the children back to the fire with a note of glee in my voice that none of us had heard since the day our father was killed.

  Oh, the treasures that bag contained! I showed them all when they huddled around the flames, with the red light turning their faces to hungry, harried masks. Most of it was flour—a few measures left inside the sack. But sitting right on top was two chunks of smoked venison, each the size of my fist, and six pickled eggs sticky and clotted with flour.

  The wagon boys had gleaned a few scraps from their parents’ stores—no doubt pinched at great peril when the fat man’s back was turned, or his shrewish wife was napping. With such uncharitable parents, I figured the wagon boys ran a great risk by putting together their trade. They must be near enough desperate for what I had to barter.

  I passed out the eggs right then and there. After our feast of roasted rabbit, we would have been wiser to save the eggs for a hungrier night, but I sensed I had gained a great advantage over the wagon train, and I felt a celebration was in order. What satisfaction it gave me to watch as my brothers and sisters licked the flour from the eggs, from their thin, dirty fingers. And oh, the taste when I bit into my egg—they were beet-pickled, bright pink and pretty as Christmas. Vinegar-sharp, biting back with spice. Never in all my life had I tasted anything so good.

  That’s how we got by for three more weeks. Every few nights, one or two of the boys—sometimes all three—slipped away from the encampment and brought the provisions they had skimmed. At first, it was enough to undo my buttons and let them feel my chest. But soon they declared the top half of me old news and threatened to cut off the supply unless I offered more enticing wares.

  I figured they would tire of my chest soon enough, but I had already made up my mind to price every inch of my bare skin sky-high. Before too long, I made some demands of my own. We fell into a habit of trade—one that suited both parties so well that our partnership continued amiably enough.

  I got two extra sleeping mats and a ripped old blanket for a look at the backs of my knees. For the price of a slingshot—which Cilus used quite handily to kill us a bird or a rabbit almost every night—I let each of the wagon boys rub his little stick against my lower thigh. And for the sight and one touch apiece of my anatomy under my drawers—front and back—I got a slab of bacon so big it lasted five days, as well as a rag dolly for the girls to play with.

  My best victory of all came when I told them I wanted a horse and saddle—and not a lame horse, either; one capable of carrying weight for a full day, and gentle enough for the little ones to ride. I made the demand the way one asks for a castle in the sky or a pot of fairy gold. I didn’t think the boys would ever come through—how in Hell could they expect to get a horse away from the wagon train? But in the purpling dusk, I watched them lead a gray mare toward our tiny fire, and its stride was good and sound, and when they stood it for my inspection, I saw that its eye was soft and kind. The mare had no saddle, but it did have a bridle with a metal bit. I figured that was good enough.

  “How’d you get this horse away from your pa?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the oldest boy said. “
None of your business anyway.”

  I could tell by the way he shifted his feet and glanced down at the ground, then over his shoulder, that somebody in the wagon train knew exactly what those boys was up to. Maybe it was their fat pa, or maybe one of the uncles or cousins who inhabited the other schooners. Whoever it was, they consented to turn a blind eye to our bartering, and they surely thought me the cheapest of harlots. I got a knot in my stomach, wondering how long it’d be till grown men came in the night, too, bearing goods I’d be hard-pressed to resist.

  But that was a problem for another day. The wagon boys had come through on the deal; Martha Canary was an honest girl, and not one to skitter out of an agreement. I sent the little ones off into the grass so I could pay the price for our new horse. It wasn’t anything to me. I had certainly worked much harder in my young life, and had handled tasks far more disagreeable. While the boys went about their business, I looked up at the stars, at their sharp points and cold light, and I thought about the foothills of Montana where my dead pa said the earth gleamed so bright with gold you couldn’t look at it for fear of going blind.

  Many a person would call what I did then whoredom of the basest degree. I am guilty of that sin, more times over than I can ever count. But still to this day, I insist I was never a whore on the wagon trail. Whoring is an act done for one’s own gain. But all the shameful things I did on the edge of my thirteenth year of life, I did for the sake of the children. I’ll account myself no harlot for saving the lives of my brothers and sisters. And if God thinks otherwise, then God is a damn blind food, and you can quote me on that.

  The notorious free-and-easy waif of the rocky Western Country

  From the next day on, the world grew hotter and drier around us, and after a time the land turned from pale gold to red. Grassland gave way to bare earth between islands of sage, rough and dry with gnarled branches. The land smelled old and exposed; the scent of it left a tingle on your tongue like bicarbonate of soda. We followed the wagons for three days into the red waste, and I said very little to the children, for I could sense that something was wrong, but I didn’t know what, nor how to explain the wrongness to my brothers and sisters. I had done a passable job of keeping them alive; I had begun to feel somewhat accomplished—maybe even clever. I didn’t want to face the doubt that dragged at my spirit. But here’s what gnawed at me as the plains turned to desert: in all his talk of Montana and the glorious fields of gold, Pa had never mentioned no baked-dry land like this. I knew we wasn’t in Montana. We wasn’t even close.