I catch my breath as the raft is unloaded, the nervous mules being brought off and lashed quickly to a tree. On the opposite shore, the Irish boys begin reloading the wagon until it’s time to take up the ferry lines again for another crossin’. Mr. Hardwick comes to the water to board, bringing Big Neb along.
“He be comin’ back again,” Essie Jane whispers, and before I know what I’m about, I’m running down the hill waving my arms, yelling for Mr. Hardwick to leave Big Neb on the other side. He’s made the crossin’ once, and once should do. If the mules had pushed him in just now, he’d be dead surely enough. A man of his size and weight wouldn’t have a chance of surviving this river, unable to swim.
Captain Engle put Big Neb and Essie Jane in my charge upon our leavin’ the New Ila, and I feel that I’m responsible for them. I cannot help but think, were the captain here, he wouldn’t force a man onto the ferry repeatedly, knowing the man is only inches from death. The animals and supplies are of importance, but are nothin’ compared to a man’s life.
Mr. Hardwick looks my way a moment, but goes on with his plan. He and Big Neb come ’cross with the empty raft again. I find myself thinking of Captain Engle—James—and wishing once again that he were here to look after us. Many times I’ve thought of that last moment I saw him on the deck of the New Ila. What if I’d made the other choice and stayed behind when the supply train struck off for Wildwood?
As the ferryboat makes shore, there’s a fire in me, and I’m storming toward the river, words spillin’ out of my mouth. Mr. Hardwick has barely a foot on land before I’ve set upon him. “I’ll not have Big Neb brought across again. Did you not see me asking you to leave him on the other side? The man can’t swim. If he falls from the raft, it’ll be to his death.”
The men managing the loads stop to look at me, as do the half-grown children of the ferryman, who’ve been scurrying about, each with a job to be done here. Down the way, I see Maggie May watching, wide-eyed. Essie Jane is beside her now. They’re drop-mouthed at my ranting. I feel my hair pulling loose from its ribbon. In the excitement this mornin’, I’ve forgotten to re-bind it. Red curls fly around me like licks of fire. I imagine I’m making quite a spectacle of myself. Nothing a proper lady would do.
Mr. Hardwick’s narrow face says as much. The faint scar beneath his eye twitches. I wonder how it came to be there, and then I’m afraid of knowin’. His lashes flare over angry gray eyes and his fists clench, and I’m wonderin’ if he might strike me. He’s a rough sort, this man. The sort to have lived a life on the frontier and done what was needed for surviving.
“You’ll mind yourself, Miss Rose. And I’ll run my supply train my own way.” The scar beneath his eye twitches again, and he leans close to me, adding in a whisper, “Cross me one more time, and you’ll find yourself in the river.”
But words have come in my mouth, and they fly out wild as the whips of hair slashing across my skin. “Big Neb and Essie Jane were left in my charge by Captain Engle upon our leaving the New Ila. I’ll see them brought safely to Wildwood, and if not, I will be certain that Mr. Delevan is made well aware of the reasons.”
Anger and fear mix a strange brew inside me. Mr. Hardwick’s eyes search my own. I haven’t an inklin’ what he’s looking for—my resolve, perhaps? I keep my gaze steady. He’ll not see me waver. Truth be told, I’ve no way of knowing if my words would hold any sway with Mr. Delevan. For the most part, it is only my hoping that makes him into a decent man. My hoping, and the fact that he would take me into the teaching position at all, knowin’ my story as he does. Who but a good man would go to such trouble and expense to bring me so far and provide a new life for Maggie May and me?
Mr. Hardwick blinks once, slow. He shakes his head the slightest bit, and I think I’ve bluffed him in this game of cards we’re playing.
“Then pray the raft doesn’t turn,” he says, and walks away. Below, they’re loading the ferry again. A team of oxen this time and several packets, but no wagon. Three more men will cross on the raft. One of them kisses his rosary, holding it up to the light before he tucks it away. Big Neb is again put in front to hold the oxen steady.
They make the crossin’ without incident, and then Mr. Hardwick returns on the raft with Big Neb again, as I feared he would. There’s no profit in confronting him, so I keep silent.
Supplies and wagons and livestock move across, raft by raft, and I’m holdin’ my breath each time. The current pulls the raft sideward, playing with it like a naughty little boy handling a toy made from sticks and string. An ox team pins Big Neb hard against the railing, and his deep voice cries out, the rail looking as if it might break and spill him into the water with the animals atop him. Beside me, Essie Jane gasps, and Maggie May throws her hands over her eyes. She knows the power of the river. When the Indians were moving their encampment, we saw the drownin’ of a girl and her baby brother. The horse slipped from under them, and there was naught could be done about it. Afterwards the keenin’ and cuttin’ of hair and skin was terrible to behold.
Mr. Hardwick manages to move the oxen off, and I close my eyes and wipe the moisture from my hair, pushing away the memory of the Comanche children drownin’ in the river. I cannot let myself relive that time. Bonnie Rose O’Brien is gone now, and her memories must go with her.
Overhead, the sky darkens. Thunder rumbles, and a mist of water spits down, threatenin’ to bring rain and leave us trapped, half on each side of the river. The men heighten their speed, and the boat crosses even more heavily laden.
It returns again, and it’s the sorrel mules, along with whiskey boxes and kegs of gunpowder next to go. Mr. Hardwick decides it is time for Essie Jane, Maggie, and me to make the trip. We walk down the shore like prisoners heading to the gallows. Essie Jane is frightened beyond her wits and snivelin’, poor thing. Her whole body trembles. I sit her next to a barrel that isn’t heavy, and pull her hands to the ropes lashed ’round it. “If anything should happen, you hold to this. It will float in the water. Kick your feet hard like you’re chasing at flies, and try to make shore.”
“Yes’m,” she whispers, leaning against the barrel and closing her eyes. Tears seep under her dark lashes.
“Don’t worry, now,” I tell her. “We’ll be landin’ on the other side before you know it.” I move to Maggie then, and do the same with her, settling her in next to three barrels that have been bound together.
The wind comes up, whistlin’ over the water, rocking the raft hard as we set off. Maggie sits upon her knees and casts a worried look my way, and Essie Jane tucks her head low, whimpering into the shoulder of her dress. Nearby, Big Neb holds the mules. They are an older pair that has made this trip many a time. They’re not expected to offer trouble.
Beneath us, the decking of the raft rocks and sways as we leave the landin’ behind. The wind pulls crests from the waves, splashing over the boat, and the mules stagger on the water-soaked logs. Their small, sharp hooves clatter and slide as the boat rocks and sways. I stretch my arms ’round the barrel, gripping Maggie May’s hands on the other side. Her fingers, in turn, clutch my sleeves, and we hold on. Maggie whispers the Lord’s Prayer. Is our Lord hearing it now? I wonder. Is He watchin’ over the river?
A wave shoves hard against the raft. The mules stagger back left. “Hold them steady!” Mr. Hardwick yells above the wind and the storm. “Hold them steady, or I will split your worthless hide!” At the rail, Big Neb struggles to keep the mules from bolting forward. The storm’s got them sorely frightened. Mr. Hardwick attempts to brace his feet and lean against the reins, but his boots only slide. He slips on the deck as if it were ice, and he hits hard against the railing, off his feet. The mules sit back on their haunches, giving to the sudden weight of a man against the bridle reins. They throw their heads, the iron bits cutting into their mouths. One goes down on his haunches, and the harness pulls the other mule so he’s scrambling wild as Mr. Hardwick tries to get his own feet.
“Turn ’em loose!” Big Neb yells above the
din. “Turn ’em loose, sah. I holds ’em!” His groan splits the air as he struggles to pull the mule back to its feet again. The side rail cracks and bows against the burden. The heavens open overhead, and rain rushes down, so thick I can’t see. Of a sudden, the load begins shifting, tipping the boat into the current. The water grabs it, and I feel the logs rise beneath me.
“Hold tight, Maggie May!” I dig my fingers in, determined that I won’t let her go. Our bundle slides, then stops, hanging by a rope tied fast. The raft tips far enough that I feel the bottom of the keg lifting off the floor.
I wonder, After everything, this is the way we die? Never havin’ reached Wildwood at all? Our bodies down below with the bones of men and animals whose crossin’s were upended? Who never saw the other shore?
Essie Jane’s scream rends the air. I feel something slide past, catching my dress a moment, pullin’ hard, then tearin’ loose. Through the downpour, I’ve a glimpse of the girl’s face—a single, frozen moment—all eyes and open mouth, terror-filled. I turn loose of Maggie and reach for Essie’s Jane’s hand, but she’s too far. All I can catch is the end of the rope trailin’ by, and it slips through my fingers, wet and slick. Essie Jane is scramblin’ now, trying to get loose of the barrel. She slips sideways ’neath the railing and goes off into the water, screamin’ out the death wail.
“No!” The wind cuts my voice away. Something strikes the raft. I see it dark against the rain, an upended tree, the roots sticking out like fingers. It pushes the boat up, forces the low end above the water. Big Neb pulls the mules to their feet in the instant it gives us.
The ferry rights itself, and the ferryman yells, “Hold them mules still!”
Through the rain, I see Mr. Hardwick over the railing, in the water, clinging to the barrel and Essie Jane.
Next I know I’m scramblin’ across the deck, my skirt catching under my knees, splinters of wet wood pushing through my gloves. I hook the toes of my boots between logs, and stretch until I’m lying on my belly across the raft, trying to grab for Mr. Hardwick. In the water, Essie Jane is flailin’ all over him, panicked to keep her head above water.
Mr. Hardwick struggles to cut the barrel free of her, and when he finally slices it loose, he brings his hand back and strikes her hard across the face, and then she’s limp. I grab for her as he struggles to hand her up, and I pull her back across the deck. Mr. Hardwick drags himself from the water and falls on board, coughing up the contents of the river.
The water quiets as we’re nearing the shore. The mules tremble where they stand, and overhead the wind retreats into the trees. But for the look of us—and the barrel floating off down the river—no one would know we’d struggled with the crossin’.
When we’re safely onshore, Mr. Hardwick demands to know why Essie Jane was lashed to the barrel. I take the blame for it, though it was none of my doing. It’ll go easier for me than for her, I suppose, but it must’ve been she who tied herself there as we were departing the shore. Mr. Hardwick is in a wicked humor about the loss of the gunpowder. I assure him I’ll stand the cost of it when I begin receiving my wages.
We speak no more of it, as the last of the crossings is accomplished with neither loss of man nor beast.
When the loads are put in place again and the teams harnessed up, we move on from the river, wet and cold and sufferin’. It’s a quiet evening in camp that night, all of us realizing the difficulties of the journey are near an end now. Wildwood is just days overland. The final river as we reach the town is an easy ford this time of year, according to Mr. Hardwick.
In the night, I dream of the crossin’, and then I’m flying over the river like a bird on the wing, far, far upwater to where the New Ila steams along, her stern wheel turning peacefully. And then I’m standing on deck with Captain Engle. James. His blue eyes smile at me.
If you need me, Bonnie Rose, I’ll come for you, he whispers.
In the morn’, it’s his name on my lips, but Mr. Hardwick’s face hovering over my camp bed. I don’t know if he’s come to wake me, or if he’s been there a time. I rise without speakin’ and tend to the morning business. We make a meal of only hardtack and water, and soon we’re on the trail.
It’s a bright fair day for travelin’, and the men are of a fine spirit, each knowing we will reach Wildwood soon.
The sun is low on the horizon on the fourth day when finally we see the place with our own eyes. The coyotes come out, howling like a chorus of demons as we top the final hill and move along the bluffs toward the river ford. The smell of woodsmoke salts the air, and we see the fires of Wildwood below. A cheer goes up among us. Even with the fading light, we can accomplish the crossin’ of the ford.
We’ve reached our journey’s end now, at Wildwood.
Chapter 13
ALLIE KIRKLAND
MAY, PRESENT DAY
By the time I turned off I-35, south of Temple, I wished I’d broken the rules and taken Kim with me on the trip to the set. She probably would’ve agreed to hide in the floorboard of my loaner vehicle, just to get a look at the place. In fact, she probably would’ve insisted on it. Which was exactly why I hadn’t called before I struck out. It would be just my luck that we’d get caught.
The farther from the interstate I traveled, the more rugged and deserted the territory became. A company pickup truck is a far cry from a horse-drawn prairie schooner, but a lonely, uncertain feeling closed in as civilization faded in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t help imagining what the journey must have been like for those early-day pioneers whose shoes our cast members would soon try to fill. The idea that the people in our costume diaries and biographical journals had traveled these very paths was both awe-inspiring and disquieting. The sensation stayed with me as I wandered along ribbons of two-lane highway, snaking through limestone hills and slipping under the branches of massive live oaks that must’ve shaded wagons in days of old.
Along the roadsides, vibrant sprays of wildflowers painted foamy colors amid seas of green: the yellow and crimson of Indian paintbrush, the soft pinks and whites of primrose, the bold yellow blooms atop prickly pear cactus, the deep purple of wine-cups, the azure of fading bluebonnets, the lavender of wild phlox.
The names sifted from the corners of my mind, a pleasant residue from Grandma Rita’s habitual Sunday drives into the country. Each year when I arrived at the beginning of the summer, we bonded over wild lantana, Indian paintbrush, and the Seven Sisters roses that grew near what had once been pioneer homesteads. Grandma Rita taught me so many things, but above all else, she taught me to respect the dreams that bubble from the wellsprings of the heart. Those dreams that find you in the quiet of yourself, those are the truest of all, Allie, she’d told me. Making a hope come true takes faith and smarts, and hard work. Follow your dreams, but always take your brain with you.
A tingle of excitement crackled as I topped the final hill and saw the glistening waters of Moses Lake in the valley below. Nestled among seemingly endless folds of spring green, dusty sage, and the milky flesh of limestone, the lake was breathtakingly beautiful, a fathomless deep blue, the water capturing the early afternoon light in shattered pieces. Here and there, boats skimmed the surface and sun-drenched docks bobbed in the current, providing shade for the lazy paddling of mallard ducks.
A squirrel dashed across a live oak branch overhead, then stopped and stood on its hind feet, seeming to wave a greeting as I passed a weathered sign at the edge of town. Comprised of ancient-looking rock pillars supporting a few rustic strips of board, it read, Welcome to Moses Lake! If you’re lucky enough to be at the lake, you’re lucky enough.
Moses Lake seemed like the kind of town where people might come to get away from it all, to bring the family for a woodsy, watery vacation and happily let the world pass by. Billboards here and there offered everything from fishing guide service to cabin rentals to canoe trips down the river. I followed the signs to the Waterbird Bait and Grocery, searching for somewhere to buy gas and grab lunch. Situated on a patch
of gravel uphill from the lake, the rambling tin building didn’t look like much, but as I pulled up to the gas pumps and stepped out, something definitely smelled good. The aroma of fried food was thick in the air. Downhill near the docks, a pair of fishermen was headed toward the store, one carrying a gas can in hand. When they reached the parking lot, they were deeply engaged in a conversation about fat bass and lures.
“I’m tellin’ you, Burt, it’s the green fire tail worms in the spring, and the red fire tails in the fall. That’s what I caught that lunker bass on last year down by Caney Cove.”
“Nester, as I recall, you didn’t catch that supposed lunker a’tall. It ain’t caught till it’s in the boat. There’s no proof you ever had you a lunker on the hook in the first place.”
“Don’t you even start up with me, Burt Lacey. It ain’t a figment of my imagination. You saw the broke pole that thing left behind. . . .” Nester looked my way and held up the gas can. “Pumps out, down the hill.”
“This one seems fine.” Actually the numbers on the dial were moving faster than a Vegas slot machine. Now I understood why Kim never had any money and why she was in such a hurry to sell her pickup truck. Fortunately, a company credit card for gasoline had come with the loaner pickup.
Nester set down his gas can, craning to get a look at the jumble of boxes and assorted antique tools in the back of my truck—things I’d been instructed to drop off at a warehouse outside of town, where the set designers could pick them up as needed. “My daddy had a old hand billows like that one. Haven’t seen nothin’ like that in years.” He leaned over to examine the tools.
Wildwood Creek Page 12
