Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852

by Murata, Victoria

  “Why don’t we get these pickles? That’s something different,” Nellie said.

  “Pickles!” Emily exclaimed happily.

  Resupplying the food stores took most of the afternoon, and that evening people were in high spirits. Captain Wyatt had spoken to everyone and said he was very pleased to be on schedule. Many folks had made good trades with Indians and now had dried fish and buffalo meat. In spite of the rain that had followed them for a week, people were in good spirits.

  Nellie had become a regular visitor to the Mueller wagon in the evenings. She and Mrs. Mueller became close friends, and she was becoming very fond of John. He was so attentive to his mother, and to her. The only thing that put a damper on the otherwise enjoyable evenings was the presence of Brenna. She was there every evening, cleaning up the dinner dishes and making the evening tea. It was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone how much Nellie disliked the girl. One evening, Nellie and Mrs. Mueller were visiting by the fire as usual. John had left to see about getting some nails from the Hanssons. Brenna was bringing the tea to the women when she stumbled and nearly fell. The tea spilled onto Nellie’s dress, creating a large stain.

  “Oh! Look what you’ve done, you clumsy girl!” Nellie exclaimed.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Nellie. Let me get some water to clean that up,” Brenna said breathlessly.

  “No! Don’t come near me again! Next time you’ll scald me! You’ve done enough damage.” Nellie blotted at the wet stain with a rag Mrs. Mueller handed her. She didn’t see Brenna’s face, but Mrs. Mueller did.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mueller. I should go,” Brenna said, and she turned and fled the camp.

  Mrs. Mueller gave Nellie some baking soda to mix with water to help reduce the stain. Nellie worked on her dress, all the while grumbling about stupid, clumsy Irish girls. Mrs. Mueller listened silently until Nellie had finished and sat down again.

  “You don’t like the girl.” It was not a question.

  “She spilled tea all over me,” Nellie said defensively.

  “No, there’s something else. I noticed it the first night you came to visit. What is it?” Mrs. Mueller’s face was kind.

  Nellie hadn’t realized how obvious her dislike of Brenna had been. She sighed deeply.

  “She’s Irish, Mrs. Mueller.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

  “I hate the Irish!” Nellie said vehemently. “They come to America and take away jobs from decent people because they’ll work for almost nothing. They strut around like they own this country just because they speak English. And what kind of English is it? It’s not proper English when you use that accent no one can understand. They’re all drunkards and brawlers, and if anyone says anything against any of them, they’ll kill you and never bat an eye.”

  Nellie was working herself into a state of frenzy. She stood up and paced in front of the small campfire. Her breath came in gasps and her eyes were wide as her tirade continued.

  “They came to Columbus, Ohio where my husband and I lived and tried to take over the town. They built their churches and looked down on anyone who wasn’t Catholic. Why, they would barely speak to the Germans, because if you were German, most likely you weren’t Catholic, and if they spoke to a non-Catholic, they would have to confess their sin to their priest!” She spit the words out of her mouth in distaste.

  “My husband had a good job until they came and offered to do his work for half the pay. He was let go, and he couldn’t find another job unless he agreed to work for what the Irish were being paid. Who could live on that? We were poor enough as it was!”

  Mrs. Mueller listened quietly, letting Nellie vent.

  “One night while he was at the bar drowning his misery, a group of Irish men came in. They were already drunk. The bartender told them to get out. He was a good German, and he wouldn’t serve the Irish. Those micks wouldn’t leave. Things got rowdy, and soon there was a brawl. Everywhere the Irish went there was a brawl. My husband joined in, of course.” Her face had a tortured look, and she was in another place and time.

  “It was an even fight in numbers, but the Irish never fight fairly. One of them punched my husband repeatedly in the face and stomach. My husband couldn’t defend himself against this man. He tried to get away, but the Irishman kept after him until my husband fell to the floor, hitting his head on the foot rail of the bar. After the fight was over and the Irish had left, they tried to revive my husband, but he was dead! Brain swelling from a skull fracture, they said. The man who killed him was a professional boxer. That’s what they told me, Mrs. Mueller. Those micks were never arrested. They were never charged with the murder of my husband.”

  Nellie put her face in her hands and sobbed. “I hate them! I hate all of them!”

  Mrs. Mueller waited silently for Nellie to get back her composure. Finally, Nellie sat down and accepted the handkerchief Mrs. Mueller offered.

  “I’m very sorry about your husband, Nellie. I’m sure that must have been a hard blow.” She patted Nellie gently on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mueller. I shouldn’t have gone on about it. I don’t like to talk about it. I’ve never told this story to anyone before. Not even to Emily.”

  “Your story is here in my heart, Nellie, and it will go nowhere else.”

  Nellie’s eyes filled with tears again. “You’re a good friend, Mrs. Mueller.”

  After a few minutes, Mrs. Mueller said, “Have I ever told you about my experience with the Irish in New York?”

  “No, Mrs. Mueller. What happened?”

  “Well, New York City was experiencing the same problems with the jobs. The Irish would work for next to nothing. Well, they had nothing when they came to America, and they came from nothing in Ireland, so any kind of pay was better than what they were used to. The Germans and the Italians didn’t like the Irish—and neither did anyone else.

  “I can understand that,” Nellie said.

  “We didn’t live in the German community in New York. We lived in a tenement that was largely Irish.”

  “Why would you live with them, Mrs. Mueller?”

  “My husband’s brother was a Catholic priest, and he thought he could help mend the rift between the Germans and the Irish.”

  Nellie’s face was incredulous. “Your husband was a Catholic?” She instantly regretted saying all those things about Catholics. “But your son is a minister!”

  “Yes, and a good one. He abides by the rules, but he never compromises his principles, Nellie. We wanted John to choose his own path. He has always had a deep faith, but he explored different religions and he ultimately chose to become a Unitarian minister, thinking that he would be able to reach more people. Even here on the trail, he has people of all faiths come to his Saturday evening services. Do you think that would happen if he was a Catholic priest?”

  “No!”

  “He has often told me that religion tends to divide people. He’s more interested in the common humanity that binds people together in love and faith.”

  This was almost too much for Nellie to take in, but she was listening intently.

  “Anyway, my husband Frank, being a Catholic deacon and a German living in the Irish quarters, was not very popular with other Germans, and at first, he wasn’t too popular with the Irish either. But no matter what the Irish think of you, they’re always hospitable. So Frank would knock on doors and people would invite him in. After a short while, everyone knew him and liked him. His brother was pastor at St. Peter’s, a neighboring parish, and some of our neighbors started going to Sunday mass at our church. The Germans didn’t like it too much when the Irish started showing up.”

  “I can imagine!” Nellie said.

  “It wasn’t too long before the congregation was more Irish than German. Well, one night—it was Good Friday—we were at the church late. It was after the Stations of the Cross, and everyone but my Frank and I had left. Frank wanted to do some last minute things before Easter services. I was in the back offices, a
nd I didn’t hear anyone come in, but I did hear a commotion, and when I went into the sanctuary to investigate, there was a man kneeling over my husband with a knife! All I heard the man say was, ‘Today is your last day, deacon,’ and then he stabbed my husband!”

  Nellie gasped in shock.

  “I screamed and ran at him. I had a candlestick in my hand that I had been polishing, and I began to beat him with it, but I was no match for him. I guess my screams attracted the attention of someone outside who ran in and overpowered the man. The police came and arrested him, and he hanged for the murder of my husband.”

  “Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mueller. Where was John?”

  “John was in seminary school, and when he heard the news he was devastated. He and his father were very close.”

  “Was it an Irishman who killed your husband, Mrs. Mueller? Did he want to rob the church?” Nellie asked, sure that she knew what the answer would be.

  “No, it wasn’t. The man was German, and he spoke in German. He thought my husband was wrong to allow the Irish into the church.”

  Nellie sucked in her breath. It couldn’t be true!

  “And the man who came to my rescue and saved my life was an Irishman.”

  Nellie’s head was spinning. This was wrong. Maybe Mrs. Mueller had gotten confused and mixed up the murderer with the hero.

  “That can’t be true!”

  “Nellie, you’re not angry with the Irish. You’re not even angry with the man who beat your husband.”

  Nellie started to protest, but Mrs. Mueller continued.

  “The Irish and the Germans are all the same, Nellie. We create the differences in hopes of placing blame for the bad things that happen to us. Really, no one is to blame. It’s just the way it is. I loved my husband, but I hold no animosity for the man who killed him. He mistakenly thought he was doing the right thing. My husband used to say we are all here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with power and hatred, but everything to do with love. I’m sorry for what happened to your husband, but you can’t let that ruin your life.”

  “But it has ruined my life!” Nellie cried.

  “Only because you have allowed it to.” Mrs. Mueller took Nellie’s hand. “All you have to do to have a better life is to quit living in the past and appreciate what you have now.”

  “The past is all I have, Mrs. Mueller,” Nellie whispered.

  “No. The past is nothing. You have a life now and people who care about you. We have all had difficult times in our lives. We can’t let those difficulties drag us down.”

  “But your husband…you loved him and he was murdered! How can you ever forget that?”

  “Oh, I’ll never forget it, Nellie. I will always love my husband. I miss him and think about him every day. But what happened in the past will not determine how I live my life today. If it did, I don’t think I could go on.”

  As Nellie walked back to the Hintons’ wagon, she contemplated all that Mrs. Mueller had said. All of these years she had nursed a hatred for the Irish because of what had happened to her husband. Mrs. Mueller’s husband had been murdered also, and yet she had forgiven the man who killed him. Nellie wanted to think of her life differently. She wanted to put the past behind her.

  Lost in her thoughts, she suddenly found herself near the Flannigan’s wagon. Kate Flannigan was bent over the fire, and the others were talking quietly. Nellie remembered what Mrs. Mueller had said about Irish hospitality. If she was going to think of her life differently, she needed to change her thinking about the Irish. Before she thought about how she was going to do that, she took a deep breath and stepped into the light from the fire. They all looked up. Brenna’s face was apprehensive, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Hello,” Nellie said.

  “Good evening, Miss Nellie,” Kate said. “Please come and join us for a cup of tea. The water is just boiling.”

  Nellie smiled and moved close to the fire. Conor got up and offered her his seat.

  “I was just talking to Conor and Brenna about some of the inscriptions we’ve seen on Register Cliff today.”

  “One of them is A.H. Unthank. That’s a strange name!” Conor said.

  “That one was just inscribed two years ago,” Michael added.

  “Maybe we’ll meet him in Oregon City.”

  “It’s possible, son.”

  Nellie smiled at Conor. She spent the next minutes in conversation with the Flannigans. When she got up to leave, she looked at them solemnly.

  “This has been nice. You are all so kind, and I haven’t been civil to you. I want to apologize for my behavior, especially to you, Brenna. I hope that things will be different between us from now on.”

  “Please visit us anytime. We’ve enjoyed your company,” Kate said.

  Nellie walked into the darkness. She was amazed at what had just happened. She could hardly believe what she had done. She marveled at her boldness. What had gotten into her? And yet, look what had come about. She and the Flannigans had carried on like old friends. And they were decent people, too. She felt light—like a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Maybe Mrs. Mueller was right. Maybe she could change her life. She made a resolution to try. What have I got to lose? She thought. And maybe there was everything to gain.

  The Legacy

  Chapter Ten

  Independence Rock

  July 4, 1852

  Mile 815

  Conor Flannigan ambled through the wagons pulled up for the afternoon meal and rest. The wagon train had made its goal of reaching Independence Rock by the fourth of July. Later, there would be celebrations and a much-needed lay by. He didn’t feel like celebrating. He was angry with his father and with Brenna. His father had lost patience with him when Conor was helping him unhitch the team.

  “Conor, watch what you’re about. All I need is for you to get stepped on by one of these beasts.”

  Then Brenna had irritably told him to go amuse himself somewhere else when he accidentally kicked over the frying pan that the bacon for the noon meal had been sizzling in just minutes before. As he walked past the wagons, everyone was occupied with chores except for the small children who chased after each other. The other boys his age were helping their fathers, and they glanced at him as he passed. Conor scowled. They’re probably wondering why I’m not helping my Da, he thought. He was small for his eleven years, but he was already developing the wiry muscular frame of his father.

  Two younger boys ran past him, laughing. These children and their games seemed frivolous. Just a couple of months earlier he would have joined them, but now he wanted desperately to be of help to his father. Conor kicked a stone vigorously and it flew through the air and landed on the flank of an ox still hitched to a wagon. The beast jerked in the yoke and bellowed loudly. A young man looked around from the back of the wagon.

  “Hey, what did you do that for?”

  “Sorry,” Conor mumbled miserably. Even strangers were angry with him. He couldn’t do anything right today.

  The tall young man walked up to him, eyeing him curiously. His dark hair fell over his eyes. “Good thing old Dobb’s a calm one or he’d be halfway back to Missouri by now.” Conor looked at the ox who was now calmly chewing his cud. He heaved a huge sigh.

  “I wasn’t trying to hit him—I didn’t even see him.”

  “That’s alright. No harm done. Name’s Ezra Meeker,” the young man said, extending his hand.

  “I’m Conor Flannigan.”

  “Happy to make your acquaintance, Conor. As long as you’re here, why don’t you give me a hand? I need to water these oxen and my mule Doris. She’s tied to the back of the wagon. My hired hand has been in bed all day so he’s no help to me.”

  “Sure!” Conor brightened. He wanted to show this man that he wasn’t a silly boy and that he knew his way around livestock.

  “Now, if you’ll take old Dobb, I’ll grab Burns, and we can get them to the river. Then we’ll come back for the other two.” Half an hour late
r, they were hitching the oxen back to the wagon again.

  “Doris is a good mule, but she can be stubborn. I don’t think she’ll give us any trouble, though. I’m sure she’s thirsty,” Ezra stated. Conor followed him and Doris to the shallow bank of the river. They sat on the grass while Doris drank greedily.

  “Who’re you traveling with, Conor?”

  “My family—we’re about twelve wagons up. My Ma, my Da, and my sister Brenna.” Conor hesitated, unsure whether to confide in this stranger, but the morning’s events weighed heavily on him. “They’re all mad at me.” He scowled again, remembering.

  “Oh, well, you probably deserve it!” Ezra said with a chuckle.

  “I just try to help, and I get in trouble,” Conor complained, picking at the long grass.

  “Well, you’re learning, so you’re bound to make mistakes. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re probably more upset than they are.”

  Conor watched Ezra. The young man was loosely holding the rope that was knotted around Doris’s neck, allowing her to eat the rich grass growing along the riverbank. Ezra turned and looked at him. “I’ll bet you’re a great help to your Da. Look how much you helped me just now.”

  “I try to help, but I can’t do anything right.”

  “Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Ezra smiled at the scowling youth. “Your father needs you. Try to see it from his eyes.”

  Conor was silent for a moment, thinking about how he had stormed off like a child when his father seemed impatient with his awkward handling of the oxen. His anger left him suddenly, and he sighed deeply.

  “My da has a lot on his mind. I guess I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

  “It’s easy to do. I have my moments, but when I lose my temper, I lose respect—my self-respect and the respect of others.” Conor looked at Ezra’s kindly face and sincere eyes. Ezra smiled at him, and Conor smiled back. He had made a friend, and he knew Ezra would be someone he could talk to.

  “Why are you going west?” Conor asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to settle in a new land, uncivilized, untamed. The trip alone is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. Is your family going all the way to Oregon?”