I decided to take out this journal and catch up on my thoughts and events, such as I have any that are worth relating. And that is what I have done, for many pages now, I see. I hear the sound again. I mark my place on this page and look up.
It is only the hobbled oxen clunking their great curved horns together as they graze close by one another. I am still alone and the wind is growing colder.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1849
* * *
It is later the same day, or rather it is night once more. I write this by the light of the fire, but it is difficult to see the page. I could use a second fire behind me. I have noticed that campfires are all too much in one direction, not enough in another. Sort of like Mrs. Devalaris back home. She could be your best friend when she needed something, but once she got it from you, in my case help with her preserves last autumn, then you would be lucky to drag a hello from her tight-lipped self.
I decided she was a most unpleasant woman. I told Papa as much one dark afternoon while I was baking, and he said it was not her fault, likely she was dropped on her head as a baby.
I had checked the bread for the last time, knowing it was near done, when I stopped what I was doing and looked over at him. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his big hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. It had been cold early that fall and Papa liked to have a cup of something hot before he went back out to milk Bess.
He kept his face straight, so at first I did not know what to think of his comment, then he couldn’t help it and a laugh popped right out of his mouth.
It was made funnier if you know Papa never likes to say anything bad about other folks. But I guess Mrs. Devalaris and her fickle ways even got to him.
But that is about enough of why our old neighbor is like a campfire. I am cold and there is no sign nor sound of Papa and the boys. I should say I am not terribly alarmed, as I can picture them holed up, huddled around their own warming blaze, hands held out toward it, while thick slices of buffalo meat sizzle on green sticks.
It has only been one day, but I would give a lot right now to have them back here with me. I will admit it is frightening to be alone like this. I don’t much like it, but will have to put up with it, probably until morning because only a fool would try to walk back through these strange woods in the night to get back to camp. And Papa is no fool. Nor is William. But Thomas . . . he will likely be a fool a while longer, anyway. I hope he outgrows it.
Still, I will keep the fire burning all night long, I vow it.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1849
* * *
I did as I said I would on this page but hours since: I kept the fire going all night, and now I am woefully low on a supply of wood. But I see plenty of down trees into the woods at the edge of this meadow. It is daylight and I cannot wait here in camp doing next to nothing. It is foolish of me, I know, but I feel as though I have to go look for them. But if I should leave, Papa and the boys might come back when I am gone.
Would they worry about me? Would they think I went missing while scouting for them? Or worse, would they think something awful happened to me? That thought bothers me most of all. I am in a pickle.
It is several hours later, judging by the sun. I take it to be nine to ten o’clock in the morning. They are still not back here, so I have written a note to them, folded it once, and set it where they cannot miss it—on top of the stewpot’s lid. If I know the boys at all, they will beeline for the food. I did not bother to reheat the stew. It is no longer chunks of potato and carrot and onion. It is now mushy soup, but will still taste good to them when they return.
Much of another hour has passed and there is nothing for it, I am nearly out of my skin with worry, so I will go on the scout for them. If I do not meet up with them after an hour of straight walking in the direction they left, I will turn back. I still have plenty of hours of daylight left to me. If I am feeling bold and confident of my direction, I will take a different route back to the camp, so as to cover more ground.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1849
* * *
It is the next day and I will tell you what happened to me yesterday. I made an adventure of it—and I wish I had not. I am the most foolish young lady to ever have lived. I am convinced of that. Here is what happened:
I reached what I perceived to be the limits of a safe distance from camp, a distance I daren’t exceed, I told myself. And then I kept going. That is the way with me. I cannot tell myself to do a thing, for then I become affronted and go against my own grain.
Would that I could change who I am, but I suspect that would be like asking a crow to please take up swimming instead of flying. I did retrace my steps, but only partway down off that ridge top. Then I cut northeastward, intending to come upon the valley from the southern edge of the river.
I felt sure I should know it when I saw it because the valley we are camped in is the only wide, flat stretch for some time along the river. It is a brambly, rocky path with barely room enough on the narrow trail we took to get here with the wagon.
I was most pleased I brought biscuits with me. I had been so worried that I had not eaten anything, and only tasted but a few swallows of water before I set out hours before. I reckoned I had made it halfway back to the camp when I began to feel weak inside and out, and not because I found no sign of Papa or the boys.
I tried at one point to convince myself that fresh-snapped branches about knee-height (for Papa, anyway) were signs left by them. But I also saw hoofprints of deer in a patch of soft ground where I expected to see boot prints.
I cannot allow myself to believe in things that I know are not true. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying and sinking to my knees right there in the dirt. Instead I stayed my course, and continued walking.
I kept a spire of rock in sight that I’d seen from camp. I knew it was northeast of the wagon. I reckoned if I aimed for that I would have to make my way to the left of it once I got down near the river, and that should put me somewhere near the camp. Getting lost out here would do nobody any good, least of all Papa and the boys should they find I went missing once they made it back to camp.
The path I carved wasn’t all that difficult since there’s more rock than tree out here along the boney spine of this mountain range. The trees tend to grow in patches, with big stretches of gray, slidey rock between, though without order to anything at all. Papa told me to be careful any time I was to find myself near rocks, especially those with crevices in them, and notably along sunny mountainsides. He had been told of the number of snakes living out here, and early on in our journey made sure to tell me and the boys all about them.
Rattlesnakes. We’d had them back home, of course, but he told us time and again they were nothing like out here. Cold weather would be easier since they tended to den up, but as it isn’t all that cold yet, I stepped slow and cautious.
I tell you, I was some glad to get down off that rocky slope and away from any danger of late-season snakes. I know they are looking for a few more hours of sunlight before they curl up for a long sleep. Soon enough, however, snakes became the least of my concerns, as I realized I had made a poor choice in what direction I took to get back to the wagon.
By the time I made it to the river, it was coming on darker than I wanted it to be. I could still see, but everything around me was taking on shadows and nothing looked familiar. I had no candles nor lantern with me, only the hope that the thin curve of moon I’d seen the night before would offer help. But it was clouding right quick, and when I looked up to get a fix on the rocky spire, I got a surprise instead. The fool thing was not there.
I had come too far down along the river to see it. That rock was somewhere out there, hiding behind the trees. I should have known I might well miss it. I must be more intelligent about such things. My abiding thought was that Papa would not be impressed when I stumbled into camp long after dark.
Mostly, though, I had hoped to see a snapping, dancing fire across the river to guide me
over. I still had gray light from the skies, and I took full opportunity of it.
The river gave me fits. Try as I might I could find no place to cross to keep from soaking through. I roved the bank, but it didn’t work. Soon I gave it up for a bad job and stepped down off a snot-slick rock straight into the freezing water.
My skirts bunched in my mittened hand, my satchel held high in the other. All day I’d regretted not lugging the shotgun with me, but now I was glad I didn’t have to hoist it over my head with one hand. I don’t think I could have done it, so heavy is that old gun.
My breath was the first thing to be stripped from me. Never have I felt anything so hot and cold all at once. Jagged icy teeth bit right into me. It was as if I’d been stuffed inside a freezing fire. That might not make much sense, but trust me, it was cold as cold can be.
I finally righted myself. As the upstream side of me was slammed by the water, I fought to stay on my feet with each sliding step. The jumble of rocks beneath me made it a task like no other and I still couldn’t raise a decent breath up out of my throat. It came in stutters, as if I was on the edge of a sneeze the whole time.
The water hit me higher, but there was nothing for it, I had to keep moving. When I thought I might have to turn around, the water looked to be shallowing, which meant I was gaining, so I plowed on ahead.
Through it all, the day’s light was fast leaving me. I had to make it to the other side quick, so I could get to camp. Hopefully Papa and the boys were there, not worried about me yet, and with a giant blaze licking skyward.
I am convinced it was the thought of Papa and the boys that saved me. That vision kept me dragging and stumbling toward the north edge of that river. I made it to the muddy bank and jammed a wad of skirt betwixt my teeth. This freed up a hand to grab a rock or a root, so I might hoist myself onto land. If I let go the skirts, long as they are, they would tangle around my legs and put me in a worse situation.
Though clawed from the cold, my fingers managed to snag a snarl of tree root and I held on with all strength. But the move nearly cost me my footing. I thrashed with my free arm, trying to keep my balance, and caught my mitten top on a branch wagging in the current. I pulled to free my hand, and right before my eyes my sodden mitten peeled off and, along with the flour-sack satchel I’d brought my biscuits in, slipped from me and sucked away down the river. I barely saw them bob and swirl before they were gone.
“No no no!” I shouted, mostly for the mitten, but also because I hate losing anything, especially for foolish reasons. I thrashed in anger, grabbing willy-nilly at roots and dirt and that bobbing, half-submerged branch. I kept my footing through all this nonsense and made my way downstream another ten feet. Of all the good luck a person can have in such a situation, that narrow course pounding off to my right left a sandy rise at the bank that gave me a quick way out of the river.
I hauled myself toward the bank, slopping sink-footed through wet sand. When I got close enough to firmer ground higher up, I dropped to my knees and crawled forward, sucking my left boot free of the muck.
Though I sorely wanted to, I did not rest on the riverbank for long. Light was nearly gone and the night had grown cold. My teeth rattled as if they were musical instruments.
“Papa!” I shouted as soon as I got my feet under me again. I knew they would be off to my left, upstream of me, though how far I was not certain. None of the riverbank looked familiar, which did not mean much since we’d only been there a couple of days. Nonetheless I felt certain I was more of a distance from camp than I hoped.
I staggered forward, stomping feeling into my waterlogged legs, and felt them freeze tighter with each step. I had to make it to our fire soon or I would wake up dead, as Papa has said in jest. The hidden truthfulness of that phrase, however, was enough to keep me moving.
I walked that way for what felt like hours and cursed the clouded sky for its lack of moon glow, all the while shivering so hard I thought I might lose my brimmed hat.
It was by chance that I heard the low, timid bellow of either Bib or Bub, I did not much care which. I suspect the beast was reacting to hearing me. The oxen were hobbled and there was plenty of good grass in the meadow, so I knew I had to be close to the camp.
“Papa?” I shouted that one word half a dozen times, but heard nothing in response. The wagon had to be close by, but where? Maybe the campfire was blocked by a low rise in the land.
At that point I believed Papa and the boys would by then surely have made it back to camp. Then I walked right into the Dutch oven I’d upended to dry in the sun on a stub of rock, smack between the wagon and the fire ring. Then I knew for certain what I already knew in my growling gut—they had not made it back.
Cold as I was I shouted their names over and over, staggering around the campsite, walking into things, knocking them over. I groped in the dark before me with stiff hands, one wearing a frozen mitten, one bare and red raw. My tears froze on my cheeks and I did not care.
“Papa? Thomas! William!”
Over and over I cried out for them, but no one called back. I did a foolish thing then—it was my day for such behavior. I sat right down in the dirt, somewhere in the dark at the campsite, and kept right on crying.
It is something only babies are prone to, and given that I was close to freezing to death, you think I would know better. It took me a few minutes to get over my foolishness. Since there is no one else but me here, no one to make a fire, no one to dry me out, in time I stopped blubbering and got to work. I reckoned that if I didn’t do it, no one else would.
It took me a short while scrabbling on the ground to locate the fire pit. I found it, and in the doing of it, managed to cover myself in soot. Finally I laid a hand on the dry twigs and bark scraps I needed to get a fire started. But I did not bother with making a fire outdoors. I had to get warm and quick. I knew I was in trouble when I stopped shivering. Given how cold I was, I reckoned that not shivering had to be a sign of something going from bad to worse.
I managed to climb into the wagon with my legs behaving as if they were from some other person. Fumbling in the dark, I felt for the door of the tiny sheet-iron stove. I jammed the small bits of burnables into its firebox and added twigs from the bunch I’d set beside the stove the day before.
The sulfur matches, I would use one. Papa says to burn them sparingly, but this was no time for such worry. Where were they? Think, Janette! With the flint and steel. But where was that? I had used it the day before and set it . . . yes! Inside the tin, wrapped in oilcloth, beneath the wagon seat, as Papa kept it. How could I forget such a thing? Realizing I was forgetting things I should know made me more desperate to get the fire lit.
One thing on another, heaped on another still. That is the way life has been since we took to the trail.
But when I opened the tin, there were no matches in sight. We kept a few elsewhere, but I could waste no more time hunting them down. My hands shook terribly, but I grabbed up the flint and steel. It was a mighty effort to strike the steel hard enough to shower off sparks. I am a fair hand at starting a fire, better, I daresay, than Papa, and certainly better than the boys. But not last night. No, the sparks hit the tinder and winked out with no promising glow to follow.
I tried again, and just as I was about to scream in frustration, a single spark caught, nibbled its tiny glowing heart into the edge of a twist of dried grasses. It was one of several such clumps I’d made to help start the stove of a morning.
These I had begun making a month or more back, in the Dacotahs, and Papa had praised me for being clever. In keeping with his annoying self, Thomas made fun of the simple little fire starters.
“Who is laughing now?” I whispered as I blew cautious life on the tiny nest of smoke and flame in the stove. I leaned twigs on top of more twigs with my shaking hands, not caring that smoke clouded my face. My hands were so cold I almost did not feel the growing new warmth. But I could see it, and that was enough to quicken my heart’s beating and bring a smile to
my face.
I would make a fire, and I would dry myself out, and I would live through this day of mistakes. I cursed myself for straying from camp for those many hours, and for letting the fire die out. What if Papa and the boys had been reliant on the smoke, the sight of flame in the dark to guide them back to camp? Fear and shame and worry warred in me, stabbing my gut with their poisonous barbs.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1849
* * *
I awoke in the dark of early morning in the wagon, cold and stiff and sitting upright, my back to the trunk that contains Papa’s things. I know what is in it because Papa said he had no secrets from me. I don’t think that’s true, but it is one of the things people tell each other to let the other person know they trust them. At least that is what I hope that means.
I did not feel badly about going in the trunk while Papa was here, rummaging for something to read or to fetch something he told me to bring him, but now that he is gone, no, now that he has not come back yet, I admit to feeling odd, as if someone is watching me when I go in his trunk.
My teeth ached from the cold, as if I were breathing the dry air that blows off an iced pond. It hurt my throat and nose, but it was so dark I could not see my breath, though I knew it was clouding in front of me. Even under two bonnets and a tightwrapped scarf my hair felt cold.
That should tell you how very cold it was—so much do I hate bonnets that I vowed long before we set out on this journey that I would only wear a bonnet again if we were to attend a church service. And that has yet to happen.
I shivered terribly, as if my bones would click together like knitting needles, and I listened to the dark, to the still night, afraid to speak. Who was there to speak to? I was afraid if Papa didn’t answer when I said something, that meant he and the boys had not yet come home to me. I kept my peace and listened instead.
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