STRANDED
STRANDED
A STORY OF FRONTIER SURVIVAL
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MATTHEW P. MAYO
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
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Copyright © 2017 by Matthew P. Mayo
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Mayo, Matthew P., author.
ThreeTitle: Stranded : a story of frontier survival / Matthew P. Mayo.
Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of
Cengage Learning, Inc., 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016058125 | ISBN 9781432834043 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432834045 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Wilderness survival—West (U.S.)—History—19th century— Fiction. | Frontier and pioneer life—West (U.S.)—History—19th century— Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Westerns. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Historical fiction. | Western stories.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A963 S77 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016058125
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First Edition. First Printing: May 2017
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Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 21 20 19 18 17
To two amazing women:
Janette Riker, for never giving up,
and my dear wife, Jennifer,
for the same reason—and so many more.
“Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!”
—The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1798)
“Nature, red in tooth and claw.”
—In Memoriam,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1850)
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—
not absence of fear.”
—Pudd’nhead Wilson,
Mark Twain (1894)
The following account is based on the true story of Janette Riker’s struggle to survive the harrowing winter of 1849–1850, stranded and alone in the Northern Rocky Mountains.
PROLOGUE
* * *
“You’re old . . . why don’t you die and get it over with?”
Janey’s whispered words hung in the close air of the small room, between her and the old, wrinkled woman in the bed behind her. The girl heard the quiet, grinding gears of the wooden clock on the cold fireplace mantle. Rain peppered the window and a gust of wind rattled the sash before moving on.
She was sure the old lady heard her. Janey had never sounded so mean before. Her mother’s voice in her head said, “That’s the trouble, Janey. You never think.” But it was too late to take it back. She didn’t know what made her say such things, did not know how to stop.
Janey’s eyes half closed and she smiled. Maybe she didn’t want to take it back. After all, before she left for her silly job at the hospital this morning, hadn’t her mother nagged her about telling the truth?
Janey stared through the rain-smeared window panes and listened to the wind. She thought about all that had happened to her over the past year. Too much, that’s what. This had been the worst ever of her fourteen years—the war in Europe had ruined her life. It all began when her father had shown her that map. Over there, he had said, tapping France.
Over there. Like the song.
All to help people he didn’t even know. She told him she didn’t want him to go, had begged him to stay. It was too far. He’d never come back to her, she said. But he hadn’t changed his mind.
And now he was gone. The telegram said something about him being lost in action. Janey didn’t want to think about what that really meant. But she knew.
She also knew her mother felt as bad as she did. And knowing they had this horrible thing in common made it worse. Janey sighed, then stopped—she was beginning to sound like her mother.
“Janey.”
The voice startled the girl. It was not what she expected, but strong and clear, like the old woman’s eyes. Janey turned from the window.
Those odd, bright eyes gazed at Janey, eyes that looked as if they belonged to someone Janey’s age, not set in a withered face. It was as if the old woman was always about to smile.
“Janey, please do me a favor.”
The old woman, Janey’s very own great-grandmother, hadn’t said five words to Janey in the two weeks she and her mother had been there. Not that Janey had tried talking to her. Why should she? She didn’t want to be here any more than the old woman wanted them in her house. They’d been forced to move in, all because of that horrible telegram and the stupid, stupid war.
“What?” The word came out tight, like a finger snap. Janey tried to look as though she didn’t care, as if she might ignore the old woman anyway.
“I said I would like you to do me a favor, please.”
All the while the old woman wore that half smile, as if she knew something no one else did. A favor? Hadn’t she heard what Janey said to her?
The old woman reached a bony hand, like a pink old bird’s claw, into the front of her nightgown and lifted a worn brass skeleton key that hung on a thin leather thong around her neck. Janey had not seen it before, but it looked like it had always been there.
“Here, Janey.” She slipped it with effort up and over her head, her long white hair gathered in a soft bun. “I would like you to take this key, please.” She held her long, bony arm out, the key dangling from it, hanging in the air between them.
Janey stared at the key, eyes wide. It could be a key to anything. This house was full of mysteries, there were rooms she hadn’t yet seen. Maybe the old woman was giving her gold, jewels!
Then Janey’s eyes narrowed again. Why would she do that? No, she was an old, crazy woman. And I’m stuck with her all day. And the day after that. And the day after that.
“There is a steamer trunk in the attic. This unlocks it.”
The old lady continued to hold the key, and still wore that annoying almost-smile.
A trunk in the attic? Anything had to be better than sitting here, watching an old woman who didn’t talk, who refused to do them all a favor and die. Older than dirt, that’s what Janey’s friend, Beatrice Little, had said about her own grandfather. He had lived with Beatrice and her family for a whole year before he finally died one night in his sleep.
Janey smiled. She liked that phrase, “older than dirt.” She’d save it for later, for when the old woman was really getting on her nerves.
“Why? What’s in it?”
“There is a small bundle, wrapped in pretty beaded cloth.” Janey stared at her for a few se
conds more.
“If you would be so kind as to bring it to me.”
Janey sighed and reached out, snatching the key. The old woman let her hand drop, laid back against her pillows, and watched Janey. They regarded each other like that for a few seconds, then Janey stomped across the room to the door.
“Bring an oil lamp, dear. It’s dark up there.”
Janey turned one last time in the doorway, her bottom jaw outthrust, teeth set, her eyes half closed. It was her best angry look, one that drove her mother crazy. As she left the room, Janey said, “I’m not your slave, you know.” But she paused passing the kitchen doorway, and with a loud, long sigh retrieved an oil lamp and a couple of wooden matches.
“Dark, ha,” she said, walking down the long hallway.Why didn’t the old lady have electricity in the entire house and not just the kitchen? Everyone else in the world had electricity. It was 1917, after all.
Janey mounted the stairs two at a time, wincing as the wood creaked and popped beneath her shoes. In truth, she was only too glad to get out of that stuffy sickroom. She doubted the old bird would last much longer, especially in this nasty weather.
The attic door stood closed above her, at the very top of the stairs. It looked like all the other doors in the house, polished wood the orange-brown of a bold sunset. Janey had yet to go up the narrow stairwell. Her mother said there was nothing much up there but old things, and a window at the gabled end. She’d go up there and find that trunk and open it with the old lady’s magic key. Then she’d grab the beaded bundle—probably silly old love letters.
A smile spread over Janey’s face. Now there’s an idea, she thought as she climbed the dusty steps. What if they are love letters? Who’s to stop me reading them? The old lady can’t walk, not without much help, anyway, and Mother’s not here. But I am, and I have the key.
She looked down at the plain, wor n brass key in her palm. It almost made her forget what a spooky place the attic promised to be. Almost.
As she stepped upward, one tread at a time, she wondered if maybe the old woman wasn’t tr ying to trap her up there. Janey paused before the narrow door one step above her. She grasped the knob, turned it. The door inched away, swinging inward toward the darkness of the attic.
Janey swallowed, her throat dry. The glass globe of the oil lamp jostled, made a hollow chattering sound. She hugged it closer. She’d made it this far, might as well get the bundle and get out of there. She could read the letters on the stairs. If they were letters at all. She nudged the door open wider, enough for her to pass through, but first she peered in.
The attic was brighter than she expected. Directly across from her was a dusty window, square, but set into the wall on end, as if it were a diamond. It was the same window she’d seen when they first arrived at the old woman’s house. Janey had liked how it looked, fancy even though it wasn’t.
Beneath the window, tucked to one side, sat a dust-covered trunk. Had to be the one. Janey stepped in and looked around. The attic was filled with all sorts of stuff, mostly junk.
She took a deep breath, let it out. “May as well get it over with.” She turned her gaze once more toward the trunk, but couldn’t help taking in the few other items stuck up there. Really, there wasn’t much, now that her eyes had gotten used to the ill-lit space.
The attic smelled of dryness, of old things. She saw dust trapped in dull light from the window. The sky had darkened more and the big tree out front waved its branches as if it were a slow dancer.
A tall brass lamp stood to the left, its cloth shade in tatters, like an old flower not wanting to shed its petals. Closer to her, also on the left, though tucked further under the eaves, an open-top crate of books sat under a thick film of dust. To the right, a wooden drying rack lay on its side like a bony, tired dog. Then there was the trunk.
Janey walked to it, trying to ignore the squeaks and pops of the attic’s plank floor. Without breathing, she stuck the key into the dark, glaring keyhole at the top of the trunk’s face. Her hand shook slightly. “Silly girl,” she whispered, echoing something her mother often said to herself when she made a mistake knitting.
There was resistance inside the mechanism and she squeezed the key firmer between her thumb and forefinger. She was rewarded with a click-click—something deep inside slid into place.
Before lifting the lid, Janey held the rawhide thong a moment, then looped it over her head. She lifted her hair, letting the thin strap rest against her neck. The key settled at the same spot on her chest as on the old lady.
With a quick breath, Janey knelt before the trunk, unlatched two buckles on leather straps, and lifted the lid.
There was so little in there. At the top of the tr unk sat a tray covered in paper of delicate blue flowers with three evenly spaced compartments, but they were all empty. She grasped the dividers, lifted out the tray, and set it on the floor. Inside the dark bulk of the tr unk, atop a few old, folded cloth items—quilts, maybe—sat the beaded-cloth-wrapped bundle. She lifted it and found it surprisingly heavy. The covering felt like leather, but old and delicate. It reminded Janey of the papery skin on the backs of the old lady’s hands and arms.
What did the old lady want with this bundle, anyway? Sure, the beads were pretty. Or maybe had been at one time. Now, though, they were dull, and some had fallen off. The thin threads holding them were frayed and loose. As Janey held the bundle, a small white bead, then a blue one, popped free and rolled along the rough plank floor before finding a crack between boards where they disappeared.
The girl sighed again. Just like an old person, she thought, to want something that was useless. Then she would ask to be propped up in bed. She would hold this thing in her bony, trembling hands and get all wet and blubbery over it, whatever it was.
Janey felt through the soft, supple cloth.What was inside? A book, maybe? Yes, that’s what it felt like. A book.
And then, somehow, Janey knew what it was. It was a diar y. Maybe the old lady’s diary from when she was a girl. Oooh, think of all the juicy details of the old bird’s life from what—a hundred years ago? Ha! She could only imagine what it might reveal . . . “I saw a boy today. He was cute . . . for a farmhand. But I didn’t dare say anything to him because this is the olden times and we don’t do things like that. Maybe someday people will have guts to speak to each other! Until then I’ll write silly little girl things in my diary.”
Janey snickered at her wicked thoughts. And then she untied the narrow leather wrappings from around the bundle. Three more beads popped free and dropped, despite the care with which she tried to hold it. The leather covering flopped apart to reveal what she’d thought it might be—a book with plain, brown, hardboard covers. It was thick, though, more than an inch, and measured longer than her hand and nearly twice as wide.
Janey sat with the book on her lap, resting on the opened leather wrap. She wanted to open the cover, to see what it said, but something told her that if she did, somehow the old lady would know.
Of course she’ll know. You’ve undone the threadbare wrapping. But Janey knew it was more than that. She knew that reading the book was something that once done could never be undone. And as soon as the thought occurred to her, it was replaced with another—that she was acting silly.
A tentative smile crept onto her face. Then she heard the little voice, the one she’d been listening to lots lately. It told her, almost in a chant, that she should read the old lady’s secret thoughts. Go ahead, said the voice, it will be a stitch!
And so, Janey Pendergast opened the old book’s cover and began to read.
THURSDAY, JUNE 14, 1849
* * *
Waiting, waiting, waiting. I am dog-tired of waiting. I wish this infernal trip had commenced weeks ago. Once I have set my mind to a thing, I do not like to wait. I prefer to get on with the task, even if it is as big as moving from Missouri to Oregon Territory. But wishing will not speed the plow. I am inclined to believe what Grandpa Barr used to say: “Wish in one ha
nd, mess in t’other, see which fills faster.”
A poet he was not, but I will say he was usually more right than wrong.
In truth, I am in no hurry to leave this place, the only home Thomas and William and I have ever known. But even if there was a way to call a halt to the trip, I am not sure I would want to. I would never tell the boys that, as they think I am dead-set against this venture. And it does not pay to let your annoying brothers think they understand you.
After so many months, then weeks, then days, it is hardly believable we have come down to a short stack of hours. We are sleeping for the last time in the house my father and mother built themselves with little help from anyone else. They came to this place, Bloomington, Missouri (back when it was still known, and I do not jest, as Box Ankle), as a young couple, newly married, far from their families back east in New York.
Tomorrow, after living here for nearly eighteen years and raising three children on this farm, Papa will move the family forward, taking us farther still from everyone we know. But we will leave one behind, the most important of all. Mama. She will stay here, tended, or rather her grave will be tended, by Cousin Merdin and his young family.
Funny to think he used to pick on me whenever they’d visit for a special occasion, but look at us now. I am fourteen, and he is all grown up, has a wife in Ethel. I know I shouldn’t say it but she is a mousy thing, all bony fingers and shoulders, big eyes and pulled-back hair. It’s as if she might fall to pieces if she doesn’t keep everything about herself held like a fist, so tight the knuckles are white.
Of course, I expect any woman in her shoes would feel pinched, what with Merdin for a husband and those young’uns, a boy and a girl, if you please. Little Elmer and Ethel, the girl being named for her mama (now wouldn’t that be confusing?), are two of the most troublesome children I have ever met. They weren’t here ten minutes this afternoon when they turned loose all the hens I had spent an hour shooing back into the coop. I needed them in there so I could gather up the six we planned on taking along before we lit out in the morning.
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