Stranded

by Matthew P. Mayo

  I set to work and managed to fell six and started in on a seventh when I took stock of the wind. It had picked up, though it didn’t smell anything like yesterday’s wind, no snow on the wing, as Papa would say. But then I am hardly an expert. Now Papa, he can tell what’s coming . . . at least regarding the weather.

  The wind chilled me for a moment, enough of an odd feeling that I looked to my left, westward, and I leaned the axe against the tree it was chewing into. There was a big ol’ rabbit, setting up on his haunches and staring me down. I had eaten plenty of such critters in my time, prepared a mess of them, and knew how good they could taste. I reached for the shotgun with the other hand. I didn’t feel it so I cut my eyes from where I’d been staring for a sliver of a second. By the time I looked back, that rabbit was gone, like steam off a bowl of soup.

  I sighed and set the gun down. Then it came to me I wouldn’t have had rabbit for supper anyhow, as I hadn’t loaded the shells into the gun. Fat lot of good the big thing would do me if I was attacked by a wolf. I made up for my poor judgment and thumbed in two shells. Then I set to work on that seventh tree. Once I had it felled, I looked at the half-skinned, dried trees and realized there was no way I could haul one of them plus the axe and the gun all at once. Something would have to go.

  I decided finally that though I might not have any choice about living in fear, I could make up my mind to work with two hands, and that meant leaving the axe and shotgun at the wagon so I could get on with what needed doing.

  I’d have the knife by my side, anyway. I strapped on the second long knife, to be sure. The pair of them wouldn’t hinder me much and I might be able to use one to skin off small branches and irksome knots.

  By the time I lugged the axe and shotgun back to camp and returned to my felled trees, the sky to the east was darkening and the sun to the west was starting its daily show of pretty, as I call it. The sun is saying, “Look at me, how could you ignore me all day long!” And it works, for I always take time to look at the sun as it sets.

  I tucked into my task with a vengeance and found my thoughts turning to food. That ox meat would keep me for a while, and we have a goodly store of ground cornmeal and flour, as well as a few sacks and tins of dried fruits, sugar, coffee, tea, seasonings, and the like, but how long would they last me?

  I had to eat well enough to keep up my strength to gather wood, to survive the cold. But for how long? Surely Papa and the boys would be back soon. Perhaps they made it to a settlement.

  That sort of thinking tends to occupy my mind more than it ought, but it is a daily struggle to get on with the things that need tending. Let alone the things in my mind that demand attention. Attention I can ill afford right about now.

  Didn’t I say a mind could wander? I was lugging logs back to camp, more to the point I was dragging them, when I began thinking of food, probably because I was hungry and weak from being hungry and weak. It never ends. Then I started in on that endless thought trail about Papa and the boys and here I am again. I swear . . .

  I’d fetched all but the last tree back to camp when I decided to call it a day. I was shaking and needed to sit down. I had no food prepared, not even biscuits, and thanks to Thomas I had no jerky to soften in hot water. I didn’t much fancy eating flour, and dried fruit didn’t hold much appeal at that moment. It was best after a meal, as a special treat.

  But that didn’t stop me from eating two dried slices of apple, which I followed with water aplenty, and that about filled me up. The one good thing about ample snowfall is the guarantee of water. As if the river didn’t provide that cold comfort on its own.

  I still had a few minutes of light left to me, and the wind dwindled. I hated to say it, but the temperature was almost warm again. I considered building a fire outdoors, but then I thought about how much effort it takes to gather the firewood and decided I should save it for the little stove, which takes far less wood and heats me better all around. Which isn’t saying much.

  But I did walk over to where I’d decided to build and one word rolled through my mind like fog over a farm pond in early morning: Nest. Nest. Nest. Yes, I will build a nest. But instead of backing it up to the sloped earth as I thought I might, I decided to move it out away from there a few feet. I had sudden visions of wolves stepping right off that meadow top and right onto my roof once the snow built up enough. But I needed protection from the wind I’d seen whipping in, mostly from the northeast.

  I went back to the wagon and shut myself in for the night. I did not fall asleep right away. Instead I sat bundled in quilts, thinking of how I would build my nest. It is almost exciting, if I don’t let myself think about why I have to do such a thing. I rearranged a few items to stretch my legs to sleep, and was doing so, and feeling dozy and wondering how to make the walls of my nest thick and warm and tight, when I heard them. The wolves.

  Their panting voices came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Like the last time, they swarmed the wagon, snuffling and sniffing and sounding like they were inches from me, which they were, but I don’t like to think about that. And then they were gone, or some of them, anyway. As they ran off they squabbled and I pictured them biting at each other in some sort of frenzy.

  They didn’t go far, though. They found the carcass of Bub and commenced to stripping it of anything I might have been able to go back for.

  It was a good thing I went there earlier in the day and cut what else I could from him. It was almost easier with him mostly frozen. I hope they broke their foul fangs on Bub or Bib’s bones. And as much as I hate to say it, I prayed for snow. For if the last night’s storm was any sort of truth, then it is storms that keep them away. But that is a fool’s wish. They will be back.

  Again and again. I know it.

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1849

  * * *

  I admit the nest I pictured in my mind is far prettier than the one I have been slowly building over these past days. I have always had high expectations of myself in life. Papa says I get that from Mama, but I know he can be most picky about a task. However, this shelter, nest, or whatever I dare call it—anything but home, for I swear I will not be here long enough to make it thus—is far removed from my mind’s first vision.

  I spent much of one day digging holes to set the butt ends of logs in, only to find that I had been far too ambitious in my thinking. At that rate, the size of the structure would be as long as the wagon and twice as wide. I do not have the ability to chop down that many trees for the shelter alone. I will need my strength and I will need the trees for firewood. So I changed my plans and in so doing had to yank ten poles out and dig new holes for them, not so far apart this time. I am lucky, I suppose, that I did not realize my mistake days later than I did. That will teach me to be so full of myself.

  But this thing I am building is not pretty. I tell myself it doesn’t have to be, but I hoped it would have turned out more handsome. Here is what it looks like: Roughly half again as long as I am tall, the same in the other direction, but that does not mean it is square. I meant it to be, of course, but it came out with no regular shape at all.

  Little matter, for now that it is well on its way, and I know there is no turning back, I am pleased. I angled the poles inward with their butt ends planted in holes all less than a foot deep. They leaned every which way, but I packed as much sod around them as I was able.

  I am thankful that the earth hereabouts is wet through but not yet frozen. It has made for a decent building material and I fancy I have become quite good at cutting sizable clods that mostly hold together and stack well. I devised a method of mounding them up between the poles so they don’t fall over until I have them all stuck in the ground and secured at the top.

  A goodly supply of rope would be more than I could wish for. Of course, if I am wishing, I’d want to be elsewhere and surrounded by my family.

  I hesitate to use much of my rope for I feel it will be useful in other ways that have yet to reveal themselves. For now, I lop green whips, br
anches and spry saplings, and bend them in a weave to help bind the poles and crosspieces in place. Most of them split, but still manage to hold together. I stagger the snapped bits and in the end fancy I will have something that is functional.

  It is resembling a square-shaped woven beehive, though not so pretty as any I have seen. It also lacks much in the way of a roof. I angled the poles in enough that it won’t require many crosspieces at the top for the roof. And though I say top, really it’s not much taller than Papa. Inside I fear it will be like a dark cave, but I daren’t make space for windows. My biggest concern, really more of a fear, is that I won’t make this stout enough to keep marauding animals away. But all my dirt digging has given me an idea.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1849

  * * *

  The idea I mentioned yesterday might work. It had better, at any rate, as I spent all of this day devoted to it. I reached the point of no return today. I stripped the canvas cover off the wagon. I have not seen our wagon thus since the week we started west.

  Papa had finished outfitting the wagon with the various built-in cupboards and hooks, inside and out, and the cover, a used one he bought from someone who knew someone who had decided not to go on their own journey, had proven too short all the way around. He debated for a time whether to cut the ribs down, but decided that since he and the boys are tall and I am not terribly short for a girl, we might as well have the extra eight or so inches of height.

  So what did he do? Without even asking if I might be up to the task, he hired Martha McGovern to sew extra canvas around the base. I could have done it, but admittedly she did a decent job of it, maybe better than I would have. Before I declare her work too wonderful, I will see how it holds up over time.

  Martha is an interesting creature, and if Papa was not my Papa I might be more inclined to like her. Though she is clearly younger than Papa (and older than me), I believe she set her cap on Papa and would have done about anything he asked of her. I bet she wanted him to ask her to come along on the trip. I know she made all manner of twittery remarks about it. And now that I think on it, if she had—which means Papa would

  have married her—she might well be here with me now. For good or ill, I know not which. That is a trail I do not want my mind to wander down.

  At any rate, Papa and I measured and measured for hours to make sure he bought the correct amount of extra canvas. “There is no going back once this cover is in the works,” he’d said, winking.

  I think Papa was at his happiest since Mama died when he was planning the journey, readying everything we might need. And now that I think back on it, I do wonder if he was even aware of Martha McGovern’s affections for him? Now I feel cruel and small in my remarks. But what’s done is done.

  I dragged the cover down the slope to the nest. It took much doing to arrange it atop my frame and then it did not sit right. No matter how I rearranged it, the thing fought me like an ornery child. Of course it did not help that it was meant for something that resembled a loaf of tall-risen bread and my nest is anything but that shape.

  A brief snow squall told me I did not have all the time in the world to play with the canvas, as the edges lifted and flopped in the breeze. I jammed dirt clods against the outside edges to hold it in place. That is when my second best idea of the day came to me. Laying enough clods on it all ’round, I was able to keep the canvas in place. Then I layered more and more clods, cutting into the hillside behind the nest as I went. I figure the wind will come from the other direction most often, the north and east, so I dug into that slope.

  It was tiring work but I managed to get enough dirt clods layered on the thing, right on top of the canvas. I don’t mind saying that I began to get excited. It was shaping up to be stout, and the walls fairly thick. Inside I reckoned I could do as I wished with it, and I will. In fact, I might add dirt to the inside, too, depending on how much time and strength I have left.

  But for now, though it is a misshapen thing, it is stout. Unless my poles suddenly give way with the weight of the clods, I suspect I have built something sturdy enough to protect me until Papa and the boys return. Perhaps other help will come in the meantime.

  Beneath the dirt clods there is the layer of canvas. I do feel badly it has become so soiled, but I needed it and that is that. Beneath the canvas there is my frame of logs and poles and crosspieces woven with green boughs and anything else I could find that would bend. I decided to go up on the sides with clods only as high as I can reach. I am ashamed to say my strength isn’t what it was, what with the cold and trying to preserve food.

  The way the frame is built above that, there isn’t much of a roof. It is not unlike a tipi, as we saw here and there on our journey. I recall thinking those Indians looked so very poor and miserable. Not a one of them did smile our way. I am quite certain I made up for this with my own grinning. Thomas told me I looked like the monkey in that book we used to own. At the time I wanted to box his ears, but now it seems a sweetenough comment. I will save the ear-boxing for a later date.

  At the top I was able to arrange the canvas so smoke from the stove will make its way once again up through its pipe and out the metal ring, as it had been in the wagon. It took no end of configuring, though. I don’t know how it will be affected by snow. I dare say I will find out soon.

  The space inside is not large, but it feels well insulated, or will, given all the sod I stacked and will continue to stack against the outside. It should hold heat well. At least better than the thin wood of the wagon.

  I will cut pine boughs for the floor and arrange them so they will be fragrant and feel like cushions beneath my feet. That is my plan. As I have discovered lately, my plans don’t always end up appearing as I intend them. I take comfort that I have accomplished what I set out to do so far. There is some satisfaction in that.

  At this point in the construction of the nest, the day was aging, as Papa often calls late afternoon. So I began the long task of carrying to the nest everything I would need from the wagon. The first would be the stove.

  I had not reckoned on how heavy that little steel pig really is. I made certain my fire from the morning tea was out and the stove cold, then I pulled apart the pipe and leaned it outside against the wagon. Not having canvas walls on the wagon was a blessing at this point as I could toss items right out between the arched wood ribs that look how I imagine a whale’s bones might.

  I managed to push and pull the stove to the end of the wagon. The tailgate was flopped down so I stagger-walked that stove to the back edge of the wagon and I set it down, but too far. It toppled with a godawful crash right to the ground. My heart wedged in my neck and I swear it stopped thudding for all of five seconds.

  I jumped down beside the stove, expecting to find it cracked and broken and a smoke leaker far worse than it had been. But do you know what I found? It was fine, no damage at all. It helped that the ground is low and muddy there at the tailgate.

  My next task was to move it the twenty feet to the slope, then down to the shelter. I took off the pieces that came apart easily—the lid and the door, which is on pin hinges. Then I bent to lift it, but found I could not. So I grabbed a bloody tarpaulin, folded it up, and rolled the stove onto it. Then I gathered the edges in my hand and dragged it backward. I found that by wedging my heels in the sloppy earth I was able to drag it several feet at a time. I tired right fast, though, and as I was nearly sitting on the ground after that last tug, I plopped down and rested.

  I contemplated rolling it the rest of the way, but saw I was nearly to the top of the slope. That worried me. What if I could not slow it as it went down the slope? Surely such a rolling tumble would break the stove apart.

  “Now, Janette,” I said, for I have taken to talking out loud to myself. Papa always says you meet nicer people that way. “What you need to do is let the stove and canvas work for you.” But how?

  I walked around the contraption, and snapped my fingers. I had it. I pulled some of the tarp out from under it
self so it was twice as big, then draped it over the stove. I grabbed the four corners, two to a hand, then I commenced to dragging again. It did not take long to reach the top of the slope.

  Then as the weight of the stove nearly upset the apple cart, so to speak, I scrambled back around until I was on the upside of it. The weight of the stove kept pulling the bundle downslope, but I stayed upslope of it, jamming my heels in to slow it. In this manner we reached the bottom, me and the stove. Then came the hard part.

  I made my door to the shelter quite high up on the wall, thinking it might be necessary should the snow build up. That storm had told me it would likely get deep. But how to get the stove all the way up there? I didn’t think I could yarn it up there by tugging on the corners of the tarp.

  Once again I had to set down and give it a think. This time I rested on the stove itself. I drummed on it with a hand wearing a holey sock. What to do?

  It took another couple of minutes, but I am pleased to say I figured it out. I rolled the stove off the tarp, unfolded the bloodstained thing to its full size, and dragged one end inside the door. Then I climbed back out and down that bloodstained thing.

  From the outside it looked like a great tongue sticking out of a tiny open mouth. I rolled the stove back onto the tarp. Then I grabbed the two corners, climbed over the little steel hog, and back inside. Once inside I pulled on the tarp, walking to the other side of the shelter. That didn’t take but two strides.

  I gathered more tarp and kept at it, each pull more difficult. Sure enough, it worked. Soon enough I saw the stove coming up to the hole as if it were peeking in at me.

  “Hello, little stove. Welcome.”

  But that is about as far as the fun went, because I didn’t have any idea how to get it inside and down to the floor. It was held in place by my own strength and my arms shook something fierce. I had to make a decision, and quick. So I gave the thing a mighty tug, then one more, and one more after that . . . and there was a second when I didn’t feel any more pull from the stove and I said to myself, “Oh, Janette, this is all going to go badly.”