Every day he returned, having eaten a few supplies from his duffel, for no one in any part of Indian Point would share food with him. An eerie mood of selfishness prevailed. While there was plenty of food and liquor, a scarcity of water and the probability of catching any one of the dreaded diseases made everyone leery of strangers and downright unfriendly. The Kessler’s cow, Wilma, lacking proper food and water, had begun giving less milk, and the Kesslers quit sharing with us. And Oma, quick to share in the beginning, now felt our withdrawal and kept to herself. She was right. Emil pleaded with us to stay away from the crazy lady with the present dead husband.
As the days went by, I missed Karl and our daily English lesson. Even music held no charm. Only the weather varied when a blue norther blew in, and the temperature dropped from blazing hot almost to the freezing point. With chattering teeth we opened the trunks and dug deep for woolen clothes, but Emil was working when the temperature dropped and came home sneezing and coughing.
He insisted on working the next day. There were, he said, at least three dozen men waiting to take over his job. But that evening he staggered up the beach and collapsed just inside the door. Mutter and I dragged his limp, hot body to a small rug in the corner, took off his shoes, and loosened his belt.
Sometimes he chilled until his teeth chattered and his body convulsed with shaking. Then he burned with fever. All night we bathed his face and arms with damp cloths until the water was gone. The tallow candle flickered over into a puddle and we sat helplessly in the dark, listening to him groan.
All night I held Emil’s hand and worried.
By sunrise I rummaged through a trunk for something to read, anything to take my mind off Emil. All I could find was a pamphlet widely circulated in Germany by the United States government called “Special Report on Immigration.” It told of the healthy climate of Texas, employment opportunities, the ability to market produce, and the liberties unrealized in Germany. I examined the Adelsverein papers, which in exchange for 240 dollars had promised land to cultivate, a log house, transportation to the interior, and food for the trip plus public services such as mills, gins, hospitals, churches, and schools—all to be built at Adelsverein expenses.
I couldn’t help but wonder. Were all these promises lies? Will there be land or food or transportation, or will we all die here in the filth and heat?
I flung the pamphlet to the ground and went back to watching Emil.
It was the first time I had nursed anyone, and I found the constant bending and the wringing of cloths and the stifling, moist heat in the tent oppressive. After a few hours, I staggered out of the house and plunged headlong, clothes and all, into the foaming, cool surf and lay there a long time thinking about Emil. A fear gnawed at me. What if Emil dies? How could we bear living without him? How could we survive without our leader and caregiver?
But Emil didn’t die, and in the midst of nursing him I made the discovery that it felt good to help. The crack in my resolution against helping made me feel uncomfortable. For a fleeting minute, I considered helping with the dishes and laundry, but glancing around the littered beach Vater had brought me to made me stiffen my back and lift my chin.
After four days of worrying about his job, Emil dragged himself to the warehouse. He was gone less than an hour. Adolph Stein had been given his job.
“But,” he announced proudly, “I have found a way for us all to survive. I have joined the Texian army. My pay will be sent to you here.”
We sat in stunned silence. Finally Mutter uttered a soft protest. “Oh, no!”
“But, Emil, you’re the head of the household. How shall we get along? I don’t want you to leave.” I clung to Emil’s arm.
“Don’t do it, Emil,” said Mutter. “You should have talked it over with us. You could be killed! Don’t do it; everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
“All right?” Emil shouted. “Look around you. We’re stranded in the middle of a nightmare!” He pounded the doorpost until the hut shook. “We could die here!”
Sophie cried, holding up her arms to be lifted. “D-don’t g-go, Emil!”
Mutter and I pleaded with him, using every argument.
“Stop!” yelled Emil. “It’s the only way.”
It was true, and we knew it.
A black feeling of despair pressed down on all of us the next day as we watched the small band of recruits walk out of sight toward Victoria. I tried to comfort Mutter and Sophie but gave up and spent the rest of the day on the beach crying and talking to myself about the unfairness of life.
By evening, limp from grief, eyes red and swollen, I moved into the foaming shallow water and let it wash over me. As the tide went out, I lay on the cool sand with my eyes closed, listening to the mockery of the laughing gulls: “Emil’s gone, ha, ha, ha. Emil’s gone, ha, ha, ha.”
“R-reeka, get up and s-see what K-karl has brought us!” Sophie pounded on my shoulders.
I opened my eyes and found myself looking into the eyes of a square-nosed, snorting creature that stared down at me a few inches from my face. It nuzzled my chin, and I tried to slide from under it.
“Don’t worry. It’s tame as a lamb.” I saw that Karl was holding it with a rope.
I sat up to look at the rest of the horse. It was huge, except for its head, which should have been on a smaller horse. It was chestnut-colored, except it looked as though someone had spilled a bucket of milk over its back. It had a long silky tail, except that someone had cut part of it away. Its limpid brown eyes looked sleepy, and there was an aura about the animal that said, “Don’t bother me. I’m resting.”
“H-his name is B-baya,” announced Sophie. At the mention of his name, Baya swished his half tail and laid his ears back. His nose twitched.
Karl handed me the reins. “I bought him from some Mexicans who were sick and tired of transporting Germans.”
I was speechless.
“And he bought a w-wagon and a t-team of oxen.”
“Say something, Rika. Aren’t you pleased?” asked Karl.
What could I say? “How wonderful that you spent your last dollar and got us transportation.” Or should I yell, “Why didn’t you get this yesterday before Emil joined the army and went off to get killed?”
Finally, throwing my arms around his neck and blinking back hot tears, I said, “It’s ironic and wonderful. You did it!”
Karl grinned. “You knew I would.”
I hugged him again until a stern voice interrupted. “Rika! Come here!” My disapproving Mutter stood by the wagon wearing a scowl. She would have much more to say later about the hugs, but for now I was drenched in joy.
Chapter 7
The argument had been going on for hours while they loaded the wagon with our trunks, the crated plough, an anvil, and the heavy black stove. Mutter said no proper young lady would ride in a man’s saddle, and Karl countered that we didn’t own a sidesaddle. Mutter said it was unthinkable for her own daughter to be seen riding astride a horse, and Karl said it was unthinkable for me to walk and drive the oxen team, and she certainly couldn’t do it.
“You and Sophie must ride. I must walk, and Rika must ride the horse, and that’s final!” Karl announced.
But Mutter wouldn’t let it rest. They didn’t ask, but I could have told them I wanted to do neither. Much as I hated Indian Point, my hut home was a known quantity. The impending change churned up new fears, and I looked across the sand dunes, the quagmires of sinkholes, and the mudflats with a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. How would we ever last the distance? And how far would it be? Some said 150 miles. Others said as far as 250 miles.
Finally, Oma Gunkel, who had been hovering around her front door, stopped the argument. She came directly to me. “Take off your petticoat, and put on an extra skirt. I’ll show you how to tie the underskirt into protective pants.”
Wordlessly, I stepped out of sight behind the wagon, took off my petticoat, rummaged through a basket for my other skirt, and put it on.
>
“Get on the horse,” she said.
I struggled for a foothold on the wagon axle so I could mount, one of the few things Karl had taught me the day before. The riding lesson had left me sore in every muscle and sure that Baya, the comical looking, mixed-breed horse, was deceptive, stubborn, scheming, unruly, anything but funny. Now, as I threw my leg over his back, he sidestepped away from me, leaving the leg dangling in midair.
“Haw! Here, haw!” Oma called in a big, guttural voice that surprised me. It surprised Baya, too, and he allowed Oma to keep a tight grip on his bridle, holding him still, until I was seated. Oma told me how to shorten and gather the underskirt and tie it in a knot, making something like culottes. I wasn’t comfortable and couldn’t imagine sitting like that for 200 miles, but when I pulled the voluminous top skirt down over my legs, at least I looked presentable.
From my perch on Baya, I watched Oma plant herself between Mutter and Karl.
“She has to ride, you know,” she said into Mutter’s face. Then she hugged her beloved Karl around the part of him she could reach and, with tears welling under her little round glasses, she fled.
“B-bye, Oma,” called Sophie. “W-we’ll miss you.”
Oma stopped. “Miss me? You’ve avoided me for weeks. Why?”
No one spoke. Finally, Sophie said, “C-cause Emil told us to. It’s because of Gustav, I-I think.”
“Emil’s been gone three days,” Oma said sadly, hurrying through her lopsided, square door and out of sight.
Later we would remember that someone should have gone after her, but we were pressed for time. At the last minute, our wagon had been permitted to join a group of ten others leaving at noon, and we were late for the assembly. As we pulled our wagon into place, the group finished singing the rallying song of all German immigrants, Das deutche Lied (German Song), rolling a renewed wave of homesickness over me like a fog. I barely heard the already elected leader, Frederich Mittendorf, review the rules of the road. However, he got my full attention with the last two rules.
“Most of the halting places have been set. But, depending on traveling conditions, others will be needed. There will be no argument about the campsite selection,” he said. “Peter, Hugo, and I will find sites having water, grass for the animals, and wood for cooking. The remaining men and the boys over twelve years old will be responsible for Indian protection.”
A chill ran down my back. I hadn’t believed the rumors of raids by the Karankawas who ate human flesh. Goosebumps tightened my skin and my body was seized with shakes that frightened Baya. He pumped his head up and down and looked around wildly.
“Are you ill?” called a voice from the next wagon. His voice was musical and his eyes bright with excitement.
“No,” I said.
“But you’re shivering.”
“It’s only terror.” I hung my head, continuing to shake.
“Don’t worry. I, Engel Mittendorf, son of the wagon leader, promise you a good trip. No Indians. Only sunshine and fun.” Engel grinned at me.
“Engel! Mind your own business.” His mother from next to him on the wagon seat eyed my strange riding habit and smirked disapprovingly at the small-headed horse.
“Good promise, young man,” said Mutter from her seat on our wagon opposite the Mittendorfs. “See that you keep it.” She handed me her shawl. “Rika, would you like me to hold your reticule while you wrap up?” I couldn’t mistake the pride in her voice as she emphasized reticule, the height of fashion.
“No, thanks,” I said, pushing the strap tightly up to my shoulder. Already this morning I had rescued it from Sophie, who was about to show Karl my diary. If Mutter found out about my secret lump under the diary, she would be angry. After all, she had forbidden the dancing shoes. Oma Gruenwald, my favorite grandmother, had hugged me the day before we left Germany and whispered, “I usually don’t hold with fashion, but for once these newfangled reticules make sense.” She had draped it silently over my arm.
The large blue and gray tapestry bag held my diary and my secret. “You can’t take those frilly dancing shoes to Texas,” Mutter had said. “You need sturdy walking shoes.” So into the trunk went a pair of ugly brown walking shoes, and on my feet went an identical pair. But wrapped in soft white paper and hidden under my diary rested my secret, my satin shoes with bows and rosette trims. Surely somewhere in Texas there would be a floor for dancing.
As the wagon train began to move, I draped the shawl tightly around my shoulders, waving automatically to the few well-wishers lining the rutted trail out of Indian Point. Suddenly, a weight lifted from my shoulders. Among the well wishers was Otto Mellinghoff, waving his hand, while Lucas Beck, tall in his black hat, shook a clenched fist at me. At last I was free from them. Perhaps I would also be free from the green stinging flies, coral snakes, houseflies, and sand fleas. Such small things, but surely our leaving them was an omen of better things to come. I straightened my back and took a new interest in the wagon train, occasionally stealing glances at Engel Mittendorf. He was very good looking.
Skirting the mudflats surrounding the north rim of Powderhorn Lake, our leader followed the rutted trail left by previous groups of wagons. Heading northwest, we traveled at first on wet, hard-packed sand, finally veering through a small passage between shimmering, jelly-like mudflats.
The sun stood overhead when we cleared the last yellow-flower-covered sand dune and entered the deceptive salt marshes. As far as I could see, the familiar black mangrove dotted the sea of an unfamiliar needle-like grass that looked black and stiff. There were shorter grasses I hadn’t seen before, some of them accented with colorful star-shaped flowers. I soon found that the plants were sometimes growing in water when I let Baya wander. His front feet sank, and I was barely able to pull him free, and his hoof prints filled with water before we turned back to the trail.
Flocks of redwing blackbirds darted in and out among the mangroves, and down behind our trail they nabbed insects from the short, matted grass.
I shifted in the saddle, wondering how much longer I could stand the pain of sitting, and strained to see Mutter, whose chin bobbed on her chest. Her drooped shoulders told me that even in the rough-riding wagon she was asleep. Riding next to her, Sophie clutched a fold of Mutter’s skirt…as a sort of real comfort blanket, I guessed. Over Sophie’s shoulder I glimpsed Karl’s tilted cap bobbing as he walked next to the oxen.
Our wagon, a bargain for only 45 dollars, was a curious mixture of Mexican, German, and American design, resembling a two-wheel Mexican cart with solid disks for wheels. It qualified as a wagon because it had four wheels and high wooden sides. Swinging from hooks and ropes on its sides were a lantern, water bucket, a bucket of cornmeal, a plank Karl insisted would make a table, and a lidded bucket of oats for the oxen. Tied to the back of the wagon was a square salt lick just out of Baya’s reach, but not out of his intention. My arms were sore from holding him away from it.
All morning I scanned the horizon for the dreaded Karankawas, but as the noon heat burned into my face and shoulders, I loosened the shawl and slumped in the saddle, turning my attention to the ragtag collection of wagons creaking and squeaking inland. All the wagons except ours were pulled by horses. Eight of the drivers were Germans wearing the traditional dark woolen caps, and two drivers wore colorful, sun-shading sombreros. These I figured to be hired Mexican drivers. We were next to last in the chain of wagons, directly in front of a Mexican driver who shouted incessantly at the horses in Spanish.
We traveled for several hours, stopping midafternoon to rest the livestock and eat a cold lunch. Every bone and muscle in my body ached, and Karl and Mutter had to help me off Baya.
Mutter felt the effect of the trip, too. Underneath the shade of her big sunbonnet, her eyes had a glazed, burned-out look. When Sophie hurried off in search of other children, Mutter touched my arm and pointed after her. Through parched lips Mutter said softly, “Take care of Sophie. I don’t feel well.”
Stiffly, I hurried a
fter Sophie, yanked her by the arm, and lectured her all the way back on the lurking evils of the marshes and the probable dishonesty of people on the wagon train. For once, Sophie was too tired to argue.
Remounting Baya was an ordeal I would learn to endure. He was a stubborn, disgusting horse with a fiendish streak running from sidestepping when I mounted to backing me sideways against anything handy. He ignored all my commands, doing just what pleased him except when I kept a painfully tight rein on the bit.
People stared as I struggled to mount, and I wondered if they were staring at the strange horse with the small head and half-shorn tail or the sunburned girl with the strange riding habit mounting a man’s saddle. I returned disdainful looks to all who stared and tilted my nose skyward in an imitation of Mutter, who silently endured the hard wagon seat.
As we rode toward Chocolate Bayou, I wondered if I would make it all the way to New Braunfels. Angry as I was at Vater, I missed our long conversations about music and people, and for the next few hours I replayed in my memory the sound of his music lessons and listened to his ideas about the new composer, Carl Maria von Weber. After several hours I lost my sense of place and felt suspended in a dream. I looked with longing back toward Indian Point, now out of sight and miles away.
The Mexican driver, evidently mistaking my looking, lifted his sombrero and smiled.
Abruptly I turned a stiff back toward him.
Chapter 8
From my view on the strange horse, I noticed the vegetation change when we left pure salt marshes. Now we could see small flowering stalks as well as leafless spike plants on which, to Sophie’s delight, muskrats and waterfowl fed. The brackish marshes with slippery mud were treacherous. Several times I saw Karl fall and struggle back to his feet, and the horses and oxen lost their footings and had to be helped. Because of the delays and the extra rests our oxen required, we wouldn’t make Chocolate Bayou by dark, so a new halting place was scouted.
The Long Road Home Romance Collection Page 44
