by Adell Harvey
“In Salt Lake. When he learned Washakie had been at Fort Bridger, he asked about you.”
Ingrid lowered her eyes. “He just wanted to know if I was safe,” she said in a broken whisper. “That’s all.”
Hanabi leaned toward her, her eyes still dancing merrily. “No, that’s not all. He said he has been looking for you for nearly a year. When Washakie told him you were going to Oregon, he said he would go there as soon as he left the Army.”
Ingrid’s heart sank. For a brief moment, she had almost believed the dream, but it was impossible. He was going to Oregon; she was on her way to California. She knew he would never find her.
Just like Ingrid’s dreams, the merriment, too, came to an end. Washakie announced that the wagon train was now safe from the attacks of Pocatello. The Shoshones would go back north toward their hunting grounds, and the white men would now be able to safely continue their journey to California.
Once again Ingrid bade a sad farewell to her beloved friends, knowing that she would probably never see them again. She hugged Hanabi tightly, tears running down her cheeks. “You will have a good life in California,” Hanabi promised. “I know it is so.”
The wagon train once again fell into the monotony of its daily travel routines. Up at 4 a.m., breakfast hastily cooked over the glowing embers from the night’s campfire, the seemingly eternal jouncing of the wagons until noon. Finally, a short break while lunch was consumed, then back on the trail again until dusk.
The days passed slowly, across a rolling mass of loneliness and waste. The salt desert was awful in its aloofness, inexplicable in its calm. There were no shadows in its bald glare, no witchery on its horizons. The desert seemed candid in sunlight and alien and ageless in its mood.
Travel fell into a pattern of sunset pastels, followed by moon and early dawn clouds mingled over the arid steppes, beginning each new day with a foggy sunrise silhouetting distant peaks. Leaving the salt flats behind, the trail led across occasional meadows accented with yellow paintbrush, Indian rice grass, and rabbit brush, often surrounded by lava boulders.
The California Trail was almost like a pavement, the alkali hardened by so many wagon wheels carrying gold diggers to their destiny. The trip across Nevada Territory, though hot and dusty, was uneventful, giving Ingrid and Mary much time simply to ride, chatter, and get to know each other.
Mary talked endlessly of the gold digs Henry had bought in California. “They say Gold Flat is situated in a delightful valley, right in the middle of the richest quartz veins in the world. Truth to tell, it sounds almost too good to be true. Me, I hated to leave Wisconsin. But I determined wherever the mister went, I was gonna go with him, no matter what. They say a woman is important out there, to help earn the keep while the men are in the digs.”
Ingrid digested this bit of information. “Do you suppose I’ll be able to find work?”
Mary laughed. “From what they tell me, you’ll have more work than you want! Most of the men don’t take their wives along, so’s they need somebody to cook, sew, do their laundry.” She glanced at the bonnet Ingrid was stitching. “As good as you are with that needle, you kin probably find work as a dressmaker.”
Ingrid looked up from the bonnet. “Do you really think so? My Ma taught me a lot about sewing, and I learned a lot from the Shoshones, too. They really know how to decorate things!”
“That’s a good idea, puttin’ them Indian designs on yer bonnet. Bet ya could design some dresses like that, too.”
Ingrid stopped sewing, her mind in a whirl. It might actually work. Turning in the wagon seat, she remarked, “If there are enough ladies in Nevada County, maybe I could earn my living designing dresses for them.”
“Oh, there’s ladies a plenty. The Mister assured me Gold Flat, Grass Valley, and Nevada City are right up town, with lots of culture and operas and everything. He says we’re not going to be in the wilderness, but right where everything’s going on.”
“But I’d have to have money for materials,” Ingrid murmured, not realizing she had voiced her thoughts aloud.
Mary leaned closer to her and spoke in a confidential manner. “The mister, he says ya got way too many robes and furs than needed to pay for yer trip. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but he’s gonna give a bunch of ‘em back to ya to hep ya git a little cabin and such.”
Ingrid drew in her breath, too moved to speak. When she finally found her voice, she whispered, “But that’s too kind. Why should you be so nice to me?”
Mary broke into a wide smile, her eyes shining. “Because we like ya, I reckon.”
Teasing laughter twinkling in her eyes, she added, “Besides, don’t suppose ya’ll have to worry about workin’ very long. They say there’s twenty fellas for every woman out in the diggins. Ever consider gettin’ hitched?”
Ingrid felt the hot flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I’m not looking for a fella.”
Undaunted, Mary continued teasing. “Every girl needs a fella. Bet’cha if the right one comes along, you’ll fall hard enough.”
Her sense of humor taking over, Ingrid laughed in answer. “The right one isn’t likely to come along in the gold digs. He’d have to be as handsome and charming as anything, and smart, too.” A smiling Major Crawford suddenly appeared in her mind. She shook her head, as if to shake his image from her memory. He was headed for Oregon; it was an impossible dream.
The train left the seemingly endless flat desert, following the river through a narrow, grassy gorge. The call went out to circle the wagons for the night. Ingrid surveyed their surroundings, thrilled to see something green after the weeks and weeks of gray-brown ugliness.
Mary shared her excitement. “Just look at them mountains reflecting in the pool,” she exclaimed. “Ain’t that something?”
Ingrid glanced into the pool, a wide quiet eddy in the river. Towering mountains reflected from the water’s mirrored surface, bare, desolate mountains. A feeling of dismay overtook her, dimming her usual optimism.
“Just more brown mountains,” she muttered. “All I’ve seen for almost two years is bare, brown mountains. How I’d love to see some real trees!”
Mary reached over and patted her knee, trying to keep the surprise from her voice. “Nearly two years? You’ve been on the trail that long?”
Ingrid nodded. “It’s been a long trip from Copenhagen.”
At Mary’s urging, she told a little of her story, of the hardships and devastation at Devil’s Gate, how the Shoshones and Jim Bridger had rescued her. But something deep within her held back; she didn’t want even this, her dearest friend, to know of her former connection with the Mormons.
Chapter 15
THE STARK landscape began to change, first with a few tall spires of grass showing up among the sage, then the brown mounds in the distance became green-black, covered with deep green forests. “Looks like you’re going to get your trees,” Mary observed.
Heading up into the Sierras, the travelers did, indeed, “get their trees.” Ingrid drew in her breath. Such majestic trees! Everywhere she looked, trees towered a hundred feet into the air. “I’ve never seen such dense forests in my entire life,” she exclaimed. “Not even when I lived with the Shoshones.”
The wagons lumbered over Donner Pass without incident, although more than one man looked anxiously skyward, intent on getting to the gold fields before winter set in. The train grew smaller as a number of families branched off at Bear Valley to take the Bear River Route. Nearly every day, other families left the Overland Emigrant Trail, dropping off at one gold dig or another.
Climbing the Washington Ridge, Ingrid gaped at the spectacular views. Giant cedars, ponderosa pines, and white firs spread their branches heavenward, creating a cathedral-like effect when the sun occasionally shone through the dark, dense forests.
“Well, is this enough trees for you now?” Mary asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Ingrid looked upward at the majestic trees, many with enormous twisted trunks, some curve
d and encircled with knobby growths. “So many different kinds of trees,” she exclaimed in wonder. “What a wondrous God must have designed all of these!”
Mary nodded agreement. “And just look down there!” Far below in a narrow valley were the towns of Alpha and Omega, surrounded by scarred hillsides, stripped bare of grass and trees. All the vegetation had been gouged out, the earth itself cut away in huge hunks and swaths.
The sight of it all nearly overwhelmed Ingrid. From the amazing beauty of the ridge to the plundered earth below, the contrast was staggering to the imagination. Despite all the bareness and desolation she had traveled through, nothing compared with this devastation. It looked to her like the aftermath of drought, flood, and the biblical plagues.
“What on earth happened down there?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
“Henry says that’s from the mining they’re doing. The miners build a dam, then divert a stream into one of those long boxes or into a ditch. Then it goes into a big pipe and somebody comes along and opens a nozzle. Kaboom! The water hits the hillside, and down she comes! They call it fluming,” she explained. “They say it can tear up a whole hillside in just an hour or two.”
Mary’s explanation left Ingrid feeling bereft. God created all this beauty, and in only a few hours, man was able tear it up. Was that the way it was with religion, too? Was God loving and good and beautiful, and then men came along with their evil and deceit to change everything?
Raising her gaze over the devastated valley, Ingrid sighed. There were at least five different mountain ranges seemed pasted against the horizon, ablaze with yellows, reds, and greens of still more forests. Under her feet, thick carpets of pine needles testified of the oncoming autumn.
As the wagons lumbered farther and farther down the ridge, the scenery changed with the lowering altitude. The giant firs and cedars gave way to oak, walnut, and maple trees, all attempting to outdo each other in their glorious fall regalia.
A slight breeze wafted through the trees, waving the leaves almost in welcome to the weary travelers. Sunlight filtered in and out through patches of light and shade, dappling the trail. Ingrid felt her excitement rising as every mile brought them closer to what would be her new home.
“Home,” she whispered to Ammie. “We’re almost home.” In reply, the toddler snuggled closer to her on the wagon seat, as if she, too, was weary of the long journey.
Rounding a curve in the road, Henry halted the wagon. Pointing to a broad, flat valley far below, he announced, “Well, there she is. That’s Gold Flat.”
The vista was overwhelming in its simplicity. Gently rolling golden hills, speckled here and there by the deep green of sprawling centuries-old oak trees. In the background, mystic blue mountains stretched heavenward. The horizon was thinned with haze, and the land grew softer and softer in the distance, almost fading as in a dream.
Mary and Ingrid scrambled down from the wagon, eager to see their new home. Below them lay a large flat meadow at the base of a hill. Wood smoke hung over the valley, sending the pungent scent of smoke upward, assaulting their nostrils with an acrid burning sensation. They stood silent and stricken with wonder, gazing at the panorama of wonder before them.
Henry pointed out landmarks in the distant valley. “Over there, off to the right – that’s Gold Flat, right on the north slope of Banner Ridge.” He stopped to check out the hand-drawn area map he had brought along. “That must be Little Gold Creek, and over on the hilltop is the school building.”
The girls strained their eyes, eager to see the place where their children would be educated. “I don’t see anything looks like a school,” Mary remarked.
Henry shrugged. “Must be in that big grove of sugar pines, according to my map. Probably can’t see it from here.”
Pulling a much-worn newspaper from his pocket, Henry nearly recited the words: “Grass Valley is one of the most flourishing of all mountain localities. Situated in a delightful valley in the midst of the richest quartz veins in the world and possessing a combination of everything necessary to ensure to its inhabitants both pleasure and profit. It has gone on with a steady increase, and unlike many other California villages, bids fair to thus continue.”
Mary pulled the Grass Valley Telegraph from his hands. “Sounds like the editor is over-impressed with his surroundings.”
Henry headed back toward the wagon, his shoulders slumping just a bit. “Don’t you think you’ll like it here?”
Mary laughed. “Won’t make much difference what we think, will it? I think we’re gonna live in Gold Flat, like it or not. We made that decision back in Wisconsin when you sold the farm and bought the gold claim from Harker.”
“But you will like it, won’t you? Isn’t it as nice as I told you it would be?” Henry persisted, seeming eager for her approval.
“Does look like a pretty place,” she conceded. “If you overlook the dust and the mess they’ve made of the mountainsides.”
Ingrid was lost in her own thoughts. Dust and scarred hillsides were nothing compared with what life in Salt Lake City would have had in store for her. She shuddered, remembering the gruesome things Brother Amundsen had told her. Anyplace that was far away from Salt Lake City, Brother Rasmussen, and the Mormons would be good enough for her!
As the wagon jounced and lumbered down the mountain, Mary continued to read the Telegraph she had taken from Henry. “Says here there’s 150 houses, several stores, lots of shops, hotels, and saloons in Grass Valley, and about 3,500 people.”
Ingrid glanced over at the paper. “But that’s dated June 29, 1854. It’s probably a lot bigger than that by now.”
“Probably, if whoever wrote it knew what he was talking about.” She burst into a loud laugh. “Listen to this! It says there’s only 300 women and fifteen school-aged children in the town! If you can’t light a fire in one of these rich miners, friend, your wood’s wet!”
Ingrid blushed at the light vulgarity, letting Mary’s remark go unanswered. She had no intention of “lighting anybody’s fire,” most especially not some miner looking for a housekeeper and cook. She had settled for what she thought was security and safety once, thank you, and that was enough. If she ever gave her heart to another, it would be for love and love alone.
Ingrid and Mary fussed with their hair, donning pretty bonnets. They urged Henry to stop at a creek so they could wash up the children. “Can’t drive into our new home lookin’ like wretches,” Mary insisted.
“Distances sure are deceiving out here in the mountains,” Henry grumbled. “From up there, it looked like we was almost there, and here we are back in the woods again.”
Ingrid agreed. Another turn on the trail, and they were back in the perennial dusk of the deep woods. A narrow canopy of the blue above was patterned delicately by the needled branches of evergreens, which nearly met over the road. A startled grouse whirred its way into a cedar thicket as their wagon approached.
Skirting a river, the road wound through the dense forests, feeling like a dusty tunnel. They encountered a succession of heavily laden wagons, bearing the wealth of the mountains down to the Sacramento River and the Bay.
As the dust settled, Ingrid caught a closer glimpse of the town that was to be her home. Contrary to its name, the town was not flat at all, but a succession of buildings clamoring up steep hillside streets. Along one side of the wide dirt street that led into the town stood a row of saloons, a hardware store, an express office, and a large mill. A brick church stood out in bold relief against a number of wooden buildings across the street.
The town also boasted a Temperance Hall, a huge hotel, an Odd Fellows Lodge, and a theater. “I swan,” Mary declared. “Looks like we might have a bit of culture here.”
“And a church!” Ingrid whispered, almost reverently.
“More than one,” Mary observed. “Look there – a whole Church Street!”
Perched at the end of the street stood St. Patrick’s Church. Directly across from it was the church’s cemet
ery, its ornate grave markers surrounded by iron fences. Down the block, curved stained glass windows in a rustic wooden structure bore evidence of yet another church. On closer inspection, Ingrid was able to see the sign, “Emanuel Episcopal Church.”
Across the street to the north sat yet another church, a frame building whose steeple rose more than a hundred feet, clearly visible from any spot in town. “I think that’s the Methodist Church,” Mary said.
Ingrid experienced a gamut of perplexing emotions. “So many churches! How will we know which one to attend?”
Mary turned to her in surprise. “You a church-goin’ person? What kind are you?”
“What kind? What kinds are there?”
Mary laughed. “I forget you’re from Copenhagen. Up in Wisconsin, we had all kinds of churches – Methodist, Episcopal, Presbyterian. Wonder which one this is?”
As if in answer, their wagon drew closer to the large brick church. “First Presbyterian Church” was painted over the door. Ingrid had never heard the word. “What exactly is a Presbyterian?”
“Just another name for a church. Don’t reckon it makes much difference what sign’s over the door, just as long as they preach from the Good Book. Me and Henry was married by a Methodist preacher, but he’s not too taken by religion.” She turned on the wagon seat, an eager expression on her face. “But now that I’ve got you around, maybe we can go together and take the Little Toads to Sunday School. Won’t that be a frolic?”
Henry drove the wagon on through the town, turning north on a narrower road. Clop, clop, clop. The measured sound of the oxen’s hooves striking the hard-packed streets echoed sharply against the buildings as the team drew the wagon around the curves of Race Street. The street was paved with rock, remnants of the many gold mine dumps.
“Harker said these streets were paved with gold!” Henry exclaimed. “But I thought he was exaggerating.” He turned teasingly to Mary. “It’s like we’ve found Heaven – don’t even have to wait till we die to walk on them streets of gold!”
