As I looked at Mutter in her clean bed, my heart broke. Eyes closed, lips clenched against painful cramps, purple skin wrinkled and sunken against her thin bones, she gave the appearance of death, and except for an occasional moan, she seemed to be slipping quietly out of my reach. I had never been near to death before and was surprised to find it strangely silent. I was also surprised to hear myself whispering to God, asking him to help Aunt Mathilde keep Mutter alive. Almost as a postscript, I said, “I am such a mess, God. Everyone says I can do these hard things, but I don’t feel like it. I need your help. How will I ever do what I have set out to do?”
In spite of the lump in my throat and weakness in my knees, a sense of calm washed over me as I left the safe haven of Aunt Mathilde’s clean, little house and silently charged the oxen onto the trail toward New Braunfels. I dared not look back, say another good-bye to Aunt Mathilde, or even turn to wave for fear of losing my nerve. Alone and completely in charge of everything, I fought to remain alert to the dangers of Indians, wild animals, and sinkholes, but my mind wandered to the picture of my silent Mutter. Leaving her was my only choice, I kept telling myself.
The morning sun burned my face and sweat ran into my eyes as I trudged on and on. Never had the ugly brown shoes felt so heavy.
Sophie cried all morning, great, wracking sobs that exhausted her until she fell asleep. I felt the same way. Grief for Mutter burned behind my eyes, but her usual words, “Find a way,” meant complete concentration on the oxen and the devious horse, Baya, who tried to rush off to any berry bush or low tree.
By early afternoon we approached McCoy’s Creek.
The McCoy Creek halting place was at the bottom of a low, sloping hill, the first hill I had seen in Texas. Along the creek grew giant oak trees, dripping gray swags of what I learned later was Spanish moss. There were also small yaupon trees with red berries, huge walnut trees, and giant pecan trees from which hung long twists of grapevine.
Nestled under the oasis of tall trees stood three blacksmith shops, backed by three adobe and timber houses that spewed dogs and children as soon as we were in sight. Besides a few crude outbuildings, there was nothing else to notice except a large stone well. I persuaded the oxen toward the well and halted. Sophie awakened when she heard the children, and she climbed down into the midst of chattering, friendly children whose dogs barked and licked her face and swished circles around her.
I stood still in the midst of the pandemonium and the green paradise that was McCoy Creek. Tired, thirsty, dirty, with tears still burning behind my eyes and memories of dead bodies in wagons seared into experience, I felt relieved and proud. I had made it this far. I could do it! Frau Kellerman is right, I thought. She said I could do it. Whatever “it” is.
That night I slept in a bed. And the next night. And the next. I washed our clothes and our hair, and we slept in beds night after night waiting for the next wagon train.
Our food supplies dwindled. I knew we had to go with the next wagon train. It was now or never.
A maximum of ten wagons always made up the next north-bound caravan. Every day I silently rehearsed the little speech I’d make to the next wagon master, trying to convince him to take eleven wagons. My only hope was to convince him before he saw my strange livestock and the weird Mexican cart that really wasn’t a wagon. But when the caravan moved in, the wagon master, Herr Schmidt, a strong, hulking man in heavy boots, was not impressed with me, a thin, tall, blond woman with well-kept hair and clean clothes. He was even less impressed with what I proposed to drive. He laughed and ridiculed me. Other drivers gathered around into a tight group, waiting to hear the outcome of my plea and to stare at the strange young woman who dared to consider herself their equals. In the end, they laughed, too. Until a tiny lady with round spectacles perched on her nose, dragging a black valise that made fantails behind her in the dirt, hurled herself into the discussion circle.
“Hold on!” she called.
The men stopped laughing. Sophie flew into Oma Gunkel’s arms.
“I know this woman,” Oma explained. “She is hard-working, cooperative, deserving, and she has muscles of steel.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “R-r-Rika?”
Oma squeezed the breath from Sophie so she could say no more. “Frederika Mueller is a victim of circumstances. I will help her. And my driver, Kurt Kessler, will vouch for her. We are all friends.”
I held my breath. Emil had warned me to stay away from the crazy Oma Gunkel, but here she was, about to save my life. What would Emil want me to do?
I wondered how Kurt got involved with Oma. I wondered how I could accept her help and not get caught in her craziness. And I wondered if I could possibly live up to her assessment of me. I held my breath as the wagon master considered. Then I noticed him staring at my ugly, worn, and dusty brown shoes, barely visible under my clean skirt.
“I don’t know you,” the wagon master said, “but your shoes tell me much. You and your strange livestock may go with us. I know a few things about oxen, though. They overheat. You carry extra water to avoid delays. We will leave you if you lag behind.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll work hard to keep up.” Then I gave Oma a big hug and whispered in her ear, “I’m not any of those things you said.”
She whispered back, “Oh, but you are. You just don’t know it yet.”
Her confidence overwhelmed me, and I felt my spirits soar. Maybe I could do it. Suddenly I felt happy. “I’m really glad to see you, Oma. And I’m glad you got out of Indian Point so quickly.”
A raspy voice behind me said, “And we’re really glad to see you, too, Frederika. I’ll vouch for you. And we will also be watching over you.”
My heart turned in terror, and I clutched Sophie’s hand protectively.
I turned to glare at Otto.
He sneered. “We are watching Sophie, too.” Before I could reply, Otto and Lucas walked away.
“Tell me about the terror I see in your face,” urged Oma.
“I can’t tell you,” I murmured.
“Or they will hurt you or Sophie? Right?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Who’s g-going to hurt me?” asked Sophie.
“You’re safe as a bug in a rug, Sophie. No one is going to hurt you. Frederika looks out for you all the time,” said Oma.
Sophie giggled. “A b-bug in a r-rug?”
Elise Schmidt, the wagon leader’s wife, came to wish me well the next morning. As she spoke, her eyes roamed the oxen’s yoke and checked the tether on Baya, who was tied behind the wagon. However, she seemed friendly, and I couldn’t blame her for running a safety check. “Would Sophie like Catherine, who is five, and Phillip, who is six, to come sit with her this morning?”
“Y-yes, y-yes!” squealed Sophie.
It was arranged, and Elise brought them. Before they climbed onboard the wagon, she made the three of them run around the wagon fifteen times, one for each year of their ages. She said the running would keep them from becoming restless on the long ride. Then she made them go to the outhouse, the last one we would see for days.
While they were gone, she confided in me. “I know this responsibility is new to you. I’m sorry for your situation. The women will help you any way they can, but I have to say the men all have bets on how many miles you will last. I’m betting on you.” She glanced at my dirty, heavy, brown shoes. “The men who walk with the animals all wear two pairs of socks. It prevents blisters.”
I found another pair of socks and relaced the dreadful brown shoes just as the wagons pulled into order. The socks felt soft and my spirits soared with confidence as I pulled our wagon into last place, a dangerous spot for one likely to lag behind, and took my place walking next to the oxen.
I thought of Frau Kellerman and her two lost children and how she managed with part of an arm. She had said I could do “it.” And Aunt Mathilde’s voice rang in my ears: “You are strong, and you will make it.” Now the crazy woman Emil had warned
me against, Oma Gunkel, had turned up telling everyone I was hard-working and had muscles of steel.
They might be right, I thought, but how can I ever carry these heavy brown shoes over a hundred miles? I was yanked back to reality when Bright lunged off, and I quickly flicked him with my stick and called his name. He lunged against the yoke, dragging Buck along with him.
Although the men had doubts about my making it to New Braunfels, at least one man at the McCoy Creek station had taken me seriously. Bart Creedon loved animals and thought that everyone should. When I hurried through the feeding of the oxen and Baya one morning, he had chastised me. “Treat them with care, and they will work hard and obey you. Well, almost obey you,” he admitted. “They’re stubborn creatures. Get to know them. Touch them. Talk to them.”
“Talk to them? What would I say to an ox?”
Every morning Bart came to tell me exactly what to say and when to say it. All oxen have the same names related to how they are yoked. Buck is in the left loop, and Bright the right. Oxen lunge forward in the yoke rather than pulling in harness as horses do, so guiding them meant walking to their left and controlling them verbally.
Bart, who had immigrated two years before, had learned English, so he was able to instruct me in the English command words: Gee meant “turn right,” haw meant “turn left,” and whoa meant “stop.” Bart said that sometimes when one or both oxen got out of control, all the driver could do to stop them was jump up and down and swear. Would I like him to teach me some English swear words? he asked.
Since stored in the back of my mind were the Spanish commands and swear words I was to use on Baya, I figured they would all come out a jumble, so I declined.
“Whoa! Whoa!” I yelled as Bright moved away from me. Frantically I searched my English vocabulary learned from The Galveston News for words the oxen might know that would bring them to a halt. Bright lunged on, dragging the struggling Buck.
As loudly as I could muster, I yelled, “J. M. Habich wants music students on pianoforte.”
Bright lunged on.
“Sappington’s Pills and Bateman’s Drops! Sappington! Bateman! Whoa!” I switched to Spanish. “Parar! Parar!”
Tossing wildly, and hanging on for dear life, the children in the wagon began German namecalling: “Rattle buck! Rattle buck!” They switched to, “Dolt! Dolt!”
Suddenly Bright slowed his gait, Buck steadied in the yoke, and when I called “Whoa,” they halted.
Even with a big bruise on his chin, Phillip thought the ride a great adventure, but Catherine and Sophie were crying and shaking as I climbed up to the wagon seat and took them in my arms.
“Did you see the snakes?” Phillip asked.
“What snakes?” I asked.
“The ones on the trail that Bright went around.”
“Snakes!” My heart that had been beating faster than a drum suddenly stopped, and my skin went cold and clammy. I thought I’d faint. I put my head on top of Sophie’s and Catherine’s and wept.
After the oxen were watered down, and the children settled, I hugged Bright’s neck and told him very complimentary things in German. When I took my walking place next to the oxen I discovered that the brown shoes rebelled against taking one more step. My legs felt loaded with lead, and I heard a strange buzzing in my head. Totally unequal to my responsibility, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time.
I closed my eyes and prayed: God, help me. I’m nothing. I don’t know oxen. I hate the horse, and I can’t cook. Most of all right now, I’m tired and afraid, and the children are scared. The wagon train is out of sight. Father in heaven, please save us from the Karankawas. Oh, help…
When I opened my eyes, it hit me. I have just been delivered from snakebite. All blessings come from God!
I yelled the oxen forward, and launched into joyous song:
“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
praise Him, all creatures here below;
especially you, Bright,
praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The blessing of deliverance from the snakes on the trail made even the dreadful brown shoes lighter on my feet. As I walked the next few miles, I scanned the packed ruts in the dirt and grass for other snakes, only occasionally glancing at the trees for signs of Karankawas.
About noon we found where the wagon train had halted for lunch. Between the wagon ruts in a clearing near a small stream someone had placed a tin of biscuits and jerky, Oma Gunkel’s favorite meat. As we ate, I asked myself some silent questions: How can I keep moving when my head is spinning from fatigue? Why did I accept two more children for my responsibility? Will I ever catch up with the group, or will they abandon me here?
Suddenly a light turned on in my head with some answers. Phillip and Catherine will not be left behind by their father, and their mother knew that. That’s why she let her children ride with Sophie. This tiny encouragement made me spring into action.
“Phillip, you’re the oldest. I shall give you the most important job. I am going to lie down on the grass and rest until you count to five hundred,” I said.
“Why is that the most important job?” asked Phillip.
“I’m dead tired. My head is spinning, but if I go to sleep, we will be left behind.”
“R-rika, what can I do?” asked Sophie.
“You and Catherine stand in front of the oxen and talk to them. Keep them steady and happy, and whatever you do, don’t scare them.”
I took off the hated brown shoes and aired my toes; then I lay on the cool grass. Phillip must have counted to at least six hundred, for when I closed my eyes to rest, I was instantly asleep. It was a foolish thing to do, but I honestly think I would have died of fatigue if I hadn’t rested. In a few minutes Phillip awakened me, and we were on our way, refreshed and in a cheerful mood.
When the sun went down and a darkening haze covered the countryside, I spoke reassurances to the children and the oxen, partly to cover the fear growing inside me that Karankawas we couldn’t see would pounce at any moment. Also at any moment, complete darkness would hide the wagon ruts I was following, and we would be lost unless we stopped for the night.
As I peered at the barely visible trail, I tried to plan what I would do alone for the night with three children and livestock to care for. What would Emil do if he were here? And how would Mutter calm the children? Who would calm the flutter of fear in my heart and ease the aching of my tired body? To bolster my energy and opinion of myself, I recited my encouragements: Oma Gunkel had said I had muscles of steel, Aunt Mathilde had said, “You are strong, and you will make it,” and Frau Kellerman said I could do it. Could they all be right?
I trudged forward, peering into the distance for a direction marker, and my heart leaped with joy when finally I saw bright fires far ahead. As we got closer, against the light, I could see Elise Schmidt walking toward me.
Her only greeting, “I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d make it,” brought a lump in my throat as she guided me to the space saved for our wagon. Catherine and Phillip jumped from the wagon and were all over Elise with hugs and all-at-once jumbled stories of the oxen, snakes, how they helped, including my 500-count nap.
Elise looked startled, then said in a loud voice, “A very smart thing to do. You were all very brave.” She left with her two happy children in tow.
In a way, I was happy, too. Barely, just barely, I had made it. Oma Gunkel appeared from the shadows and announced supper by the nearest campfire, and I heard a rustle of harness, making relief flow over me, until a voice said, “We will take care of the livestock.”
There was no mistaking the insinuating voice of Otto as he walked past me in the darkness leading Baya, and there was no mistaking the towering, dark form of Lucas unyoking the oxen. A tremor of fear snaked down my spine. They were keeping their promise of “We will be watching you.” Instinctively I reached for Sophie’s hand, for they had promised to watch her, to
o. But I was too tired to protest, and I let them lead the animals away to grass and water as Oma Gunkel guided my arm toward her fire and hot food.
Oma had done strange and tasty things to the dried beef jerky and hominy with herbs from her little bottles, and I could feel myself relaxing after eating the warm meal. I sat on the ground leaning against a wagon wheel while Kurt Kessler and Sophie cleaned the dishes. I felt myself nodding off.
“Don’t go to sleep yet,” said Oma. “Gustav will be here soon.” Karl had told me about Gustav, and Emil had warned me to stay away from Oma. I moved to leave.
“Don’t go, Rika,” Oma said. “He’s harmless, but very entertaining.”
“But, Oma, he is dead,” I replied.
“Only his body,” said Oma. “His spirit gives me laughs and comfort. Don’t be afraid. He likes you.”
Sophie came to sit by me, and Kurt winked at me as he sat near the fire. Oma had brought out her rocking chair and was rocking vigorously next to the fire.
Oma rocked and chuckled, chuckled and rocked. She slapped her knees and rocked some more. Then she rose and danced around the dwindling fire, kicking up her heels and sashaying this way and that, her face wreathed in smiles. Falling breathlessly back into the rocker, she fanned her hot face and wiped her small round glasses and the bridge of her nose.
“Gustav always swept me off my feet with dancing,” she said breathlessly. “Tonight he was dressed in his fine velvet suit, the one he wore the last time we danced. I was the envy of everyone there, for all the women loved to dance with Gustav. He said he would have danced with you, Rika, but he knew your feet hurt, especially in those awful heavy shoes.”
I felt under my petticoat for the bulge of the reticule and its contents, and wondered if Gustav could know about the dancing shoes. I shook off the thought, realizing that my thinking sounded as crazy as Oma’s. “Did Gustav say anything?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He had a message for you. ‘A fine mess you’re in,’ he said…I guess referring to the big guy and the little guy. He said that you’re so smart, you’ll probably use them all the way to New Braunfels.”
The Long Road Home Romance Collection Page 47
