The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  Now the silence stretched long. She finally squeezed his hand. “There’s not much glory in the cook tent, is there?”

  He turned to her. “Do you think that’s what is bothering me, Caroline? glory?”

  “No, of course not. I think what is bothering you is that you think your Commander in Chief—and I’m talking about someone in addition to President Young—doesn’t think you are worthy to carry His banner.”

  “And you think I am?”

  “Yes, but more important, I think Hethinks you are.”

  “I am going with you.”

  Derek stopped in the middle of removing his trousers, one leg poised in the air. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m going to volunteer as a laundress, Derek.”

  His foot clunked to the ground. “No, Rebecca. Don’t even think about it. I thought the whole idea was crazy when Jenny brought it up.”

  “If Matthew were going, I’d tell him to let Jenny go too, Derek. Think about it. It would be five less people for the family here to worry about. Our family is small enough that we can travel easily. Christopher is seven now. Little Benjamin just turned four.”

  “And Leah is just barely a year.”

  “She’s almost sixteen months now, Derek. And she’s such a good baby. She’s handled this last three months without any problems. She hasn’t even been sick once.”

  He blew out the lamp, then climbed into the bedroll beside her. “No, Rebecca,” he said when he got settled. “It’s too hard. It’s too dangerous for a woman.”

  She leaned up and kissed him gently in the darkness. “We shall see,” she said sweetly.

  In Nathan and Lydia’s tent, the two of them lay quietly. Lydia knew that Nathan was harboring some feelings of guilt that he would be allowed to stay with his family, while Derek was asked to leave. She also knew that having the call come directly and pointedly from Brother Brigham helped mitigate those feelings immensely. As for her, she was so filled with relief that it was hard to stop from being euphoric around Rebecca.

  “Pa?”

  Nathan turned his head. The tent was too dark for him to see the blanket that hung from a rope and separated their sleeping quarters from that of the children. “Yes, Josh?” he whispered.

  “Is it settled, then?” he asked in a low voice. “You won’t be going?”

  “No, son. If President Young wants me to stay, then I’ll stay.”

  Lydia smiled, guessing how all this talk of a vanguard company and volunteers for the army must have affected the children. If she was relieved, so must they be as well.

  “I’m glad for Mama, Pa.”

  “I’m glad for all of us,” Lydia said.

  She heard Josh stir in his blankets and thought he was settling back down again. But when he spoke, it brought her up with a start.

  “Pa, I want to volunteer.”

  “What?” they burst out together.

  “I want to volunteer in your place, Pa. I want to go with Uncle Derek.”

  Lydia was up on one elbow, shaking her head fiercely at Nathan. It was too dark to see, so she grabbed his hand and placed it against her cheek, then shook her head vigorously again.

  “You have to be sixteen, son,” Nathan said, still a little dazed from what he had heard.

  “Pa, I’ll be sixteen in a little while, before the expedition ends.”

  “No, Josh!” Lydia said firmly. “I won’t hear of it. You’re not old enough.”

  “Pa?” It was plaintive and soft.

  “Your mother’s right, son. But thank you for even thinking about it.”

  This time they heard him lie back, and finally they did the same. No one said anything more, and in about five minutes Lydia listened to Nathan slip off to sleep. But she did not. For a long, long time, Lydia Steed lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the top of the tent, trying to push away the horrible feeling that had come over her.

  Peter rolled over, kicking aside the light sheet. Through the tent’s canvas he could already feel the warmth from the first rays of the morning sun that painted their tent now. He stretched, yawned, then lifted his head enough to look at his wife.

  He shook his head. Her breathing was steady and deep, and there was no question but what she was in a very different world than he was. Her hair was splayed out on the pillow, as though she had deliberately arranged it that way to make herself look particularly alluring. For a moment, as he looked at her, he was tempted to reach across and kiss her, but then he gave in to his nobler self, which prodded him to let her sleep.

  He yawned again, listening for any sounds outside the tent. After a moment, he heard the stamp of a horse’s hoof, and then one low bellow from an ox that sounded farther away, but no human sounds as yet. Everyone was taking this rare opportunity to sleep in beyond sunrise. Last night the decision had been made to lay over here for the holiday. In the five days since they had left Fort Laramie, the temperature had turned hot, usually tipping beyond the one-hundred-degree mark each day. With that and the increased roughness of the road, they had averaged only fourteen or fifteen miles each day. The teams were in serious need of a rest.

  Without being conscious of it, Peter’s face pulled into a deep frown. Five days out from Fort Laramie and they were barely seventy-five miles farther west. They were in what was known as the Black Hills now. The North Platte River had turned to the northwest—occasionally almost due north—to skirt around the range that paralleled it on the south. The mountains were beautiful—the highest were still crowned with snow—but left many in the company filled with a quiet foreboding. Was this the kind of country that lay ahead of them?

  He leaned forward, arms on his knees. Today was the Fourth of July. That was the main reason for their decision to lay over. The previous evening they had caught up with the pack train of William Bryant and Colonel Russell again and by mutual agreement decided they would celebrate Independence Day together before moving on. It was also important that they recruit their teams.

  Peter did some mental figuring. They were still about twelve hundred miles from California. At fifteen miles per day—he shook his head. You couldn’t travel every day. Both people and animals had to rest. Figure sixty miles per week, he decided. He drew with his finger, using his palm as a writing tablet to do the arithmetic. He shook his head, not believing his answer, then figured again. Now his mouth turned down distinctly. Twelve hundred miles at sixty miles a week was twenty weeks, or about five months. No cause for worry, he thought bitterly. That would only put them in the Sierra Nevada sometime in mid-December.

  “My goodness, what is wrong, Peter?”

  He turned, surprised to see Kathryn watching him. She hadn’t stirred, but she was wide awake and looking at him curiously.

  “The furrows in your forehead are deep enough to plant corn in. What is wrong?”

  He lay back down, turning on his side to look at her. “Nothing. I was just thinking. How did you sleep?”

  “Oh, no. Tell me what you were thinking and what you were writing on your palm.”

  He surrendered, knowing she wouldn’t let it be until he told her. “You know me. I was just being gloomy.”

  She leaned her head in closer to him until their foreheads touched. “There really has been something bothering you lately, Peter. What is it?”

  He considered that, not wanting to depress her but at the same time feeling a need to try and put it into words for his own sake. “I don’t know, Kathryn. Ever since we arrived at Fort Laramie, I haven’t been able to shake off this worry.”

  “Worry about what?”

  “That’s just it. That’s what is so stupid. I don’t know, at least not in specific terms.” He shrugged, deciding not to share his calculations. “One thing is the spirit of the company. Like the drinking.”

  She frowned at that. She hated it even more than he did. It was as if the company had been wandering in a trackless desert, perishing of thirst, then unexpectedly had come upon a spring—only in this case the spring
was Fort Laramie and the water was whiskey. And at a dollar a pint! The cost had made no difference to the travelers. With the holiday, everyone seemed to feel like drinking at the spring. By dark the previous night when she and Peter had tried to sleep, it had been impossible. A man passed by, ranting and raving, his mouth as foul as anything Kathryn had ever heard. In a nearby tent another man raged at his children because they refused to stop crying. There was hooting and hollering; drunken brawls; a knife fight when one man, still carrying a bottle in his hand, grabbed for his best friend’s wife. His folly cost him a five-inch gash in his upper arm. About midnight someone tripped over a tent rope in the darkness and crashed into it, pulling it down on its inhabitants. Men of normal reserve and decency howled like savages. They made the most inane comments and thought themselves hilarious.

  “But it’s more than that too,” he went on. “It’s the bickering, fighting, racing ahead to see who can grab the best campsite or turn their stock out on the richest grass or pitch their tent nearest to the stream. There’s no spirit of cooperation, no caring about others. How can the Lord bless our endeavors if that’s how we act?”

  Before she could answer, a rifle shot rang through the camp. “Happy birthday, America!” someone shouted. Then a pistol started firing one explosive round after another. Kathryn laughed. “Someone is starting the celebration a little early.”

  He smiled, then nodded. “Happy Independence Day, Kathryn McIntire.”

  “The same to you, Peter Ingalls. Do you think they’ll let an Irish lass and an English lad join their American party?”

  He made a face, looking fierce. “They’d better. I’d dare say we love America as much or more than anyone else in the group.”

  Chapter Notes

  The Black Hills referred to in the journals of those who passed along the Oregon Trail are not the present-day Black Hills of South Dakota. They are a range of mountains that stretch from west of Fort Laramie all the way to present-day Casper, Wyoming. They likely got their name from the pine forests that cover the lower slopes and look quite black from a distance.

  Other terms often found in the journals need some explanation. To “noon” meant to make a midday stop during which teams were rested and the emigrants usually ate a cold lunch. “Baiting” the teams meant to feed and water them. When teams were “recruited” it meant that they were allowed to rest and recuperate for a time.

  Chapter 9

  Colonel William Russell and Edwin Bryant and the mule pack train were still traveling in proximity to their original company. The night before, they had come together and camped at the same site. Though Russell was no longer captain— ex-Governor Boggs was—many still looked on him as their leader. Therefore, Russell and Boggs decided to work together so as to give a united voice to all those present.

  They called for an assembly at nine o’clock that morning. The various camps collected at a grove of trees a short distance upstream on La Prele Creek, or Beaver Creek, as some preferred to call it. Wagons were backed up to form a half circle beneath the trees; then the tailgates were lowered to provide makeshift tables. Almost as if by magic a feast appeared. There were baskets of bread, bricks of cheese, sliced ham, mutton, roast beef, boiled potatoes, fried carrots, broiled turnips, stewed tomatoes, boiled eggs, and fresh greens that someone had found along the creek. For being seven hundred miles into the wilderness it was a sumptuous spread. Sprinkled throughout were dozens of jugs of lemonade, milk, and tea that had been placed in the creek overnight to get them cold. As the women laid everything out, the children moved in with longing eyes, only to be waved away or, where necessary, slapped gently to ensure their patience. More than one husband had his hands slapped as well.

  When the last of the people had gathered, Lilburn W. Boggs pushed to the front of the group and climbed up on a fallen log. He raised his hands and called for attention. When the group finally quieted he called out. In the hush of the grove his voice carried clearly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, today marks the seventieth anniversary of our country’s independence. Though we are far from our native United States, our love of country has not dimmed, our patriotism has not waned. Therefore, by mutual agreement, we gather together to celebrate our independence from tyranny and oppression.”

  “Hear! Hear!” someone cried. Others applauded enthusiastically.

  He turned to a small group of men who stood behind him. “Gentlemen!”

  To Kathryn’s surprise, they turned and walked a few feet away to where a long pole lay on the ground. Made from what looked like some form of aspen or birch tree, it was about fifteen feet long and had all its limbs neatly trimmed off. A hole had been dug, and the pole was dropped into it so that it stood vertically. There was a rope rigged to it, and then Kathryn understood. To everyone’s delight, and to the accompaniment of much cheering, whistling, and clapping, an American flag was produced and run up the pole.

  Now Colonel Russell gave a signal. Men all around the company lifted rifles and pistols. “Ready. Aim. Fire!”

  With a tremendous roar, a hundred or so weapons blasted off into the air. In the distance a flock of crows burst skyward, cawing raucously at being disturbed.

  “Again!” Russell bellowed. Again there was a tremendous blast of sound.

  “All right,” Boggs shouted. “Let’s form a parade line. We don’t have a Main Street, so let’s go down around the wagons and the temporary stock corral and back.” He bent down and lifted a crude drum. He had a knobbed tree limb for a drumstick. “We have a dog drum here”—he grinned wickedly—“contributed by Pete Peterson’s mangy dog that chased his milk cow one time too often.” The crowd roared with laughter. The dog had been an annoyance for the last two months.

  Boggs gave it a few experimental thumps. “Okay, line up. Children first. Here we go.”

  What followed was pure chaos, but chaos bred of joy. Whooping and hollering, the children raced to get into position at the first of the line. Women and the older girls, many of them wearing Sunday dresses, lined up immediately behind the children. The men—weapons over their shoulders like soldiers marching to battle—brought up the rear.

  Kathryn turned to Peter. “Come on, Peter. Let’s go.”

  He gave her a quick look. The land was thick with sagebrush and not very level. It would be a challenge for crutches. “Are you sure? We can just wait here.”

  Suddenly her eyes were shining. The thrill of the moment and the sight of Old Glory, with its red and white stripes and twenty-eight white stars on a field of blue, had deeply stirred her. Memories of celebrations past with family and friends and far finer circumstances than they now enjoyed flooded her mind. “We’re Americans now, Peter,” she whispered fiercely. “And this is our birthday. You bet I’m sure.”

  Back at camp, shortly before noon, the Reeds and the Donners were putting things away. To their surprise, Edwin Bryant and William Russell came over to join them.

  Russell was weaving a little and it was evident his celebration had been enthusiastic. “Well, Reed,” he boomed, shaking the other’s hand, “we’re going to pack up and head out.”

  Reed nodded. “Heard that was the case. Good luck to you. I think we’re going to lay over here for another day, recruit the teams and do some repairs. That means this will likely be the last we see you until we all reach California.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Bryant said fervently. “We’ve delayed long enough. But now that Hiram Miller has agreed to accompany us, we’re going to push ahead with all dispatch.”

  George Donner frowned in mock dismay. “You stole our journal keeper right out from under us, you know, not to say anything about one of my teamsters.”

  Bryant laughed. “I’ve seen Miller’s journal.” He nodded to-ward Reed. “Giving it to James here will be a definite improve-ment.”

  “We’ll miss you,” Margret Reed spoke up, a touch of sadness in her voice. “It has been a pleasure for us to get to know each of you.”

  Russell touched
the brim of his hat. “And for us too, ma’am.”

  Reed stood up. “Stay here for one moment. I have something I want to show you.” He turned and walked swiftly to the back of the big wagon. He went inside and they could hear him fumbling around for a moment. When he returned he was holding up a bottle of brandy. “Gentlemen, look what I have here,” he crowed.

  Kathryn shot Peter a look of dismay. He frowned. That had been their one comfort at Fort Laramie. Even the Donner brothers had bought a pint or two, but their drinking had been quiet and subdued. Reed had stayed away from it entirely as far as Peter knew.

  Reed set the bottle down on the small table in front of the wagon. It was corked and had an expensive-looking label. “When we left Springfield, some of my gentlemen friends gave me this as a send-off present,” he explained proudly. “They gave me specific instructions that it was not to be opened until the Fourth of July.”

  He turned to his daughters. “Virginia. Patty. Get some glasses, please.”

  Peter moved over to stand beside Kathryn and take her hand, but there was no way they could comfortably leave now.

  In a moment glasses were produced. Reed uncorked the bottle with some flourish and splashed the liquor into them. Very solemnly now he handed them around to the men present. To Peter’s surprise, Mr. Reed handed one to his wife. She smiled at him and took it without comment. Then suddenly Reed was holding out a glass toward Peter.

  His eyes widened. “Uh, no, thank you, Mr. Reed.”

  Colonel Russell turned sharply. “What’s the matter, boy? This is a celebration. We’re about to make a toast.”

  “I . . . The Lord gave a revelation on not using alcohol, and Kathryn and I have committed ourselves to honor that.”

  Reed was watching him, his eyes showing open disappointment. The glass was still extended in invitation. “It’s just a toast, Peter. No more.”

  “I . . . thank you, Mr. Reed, but I can’t.”

  “Ingalls here is a Mormon,” Bryant explained to his partner.