Coffin To Lie On

by Risner, Fay

  Miranda packed her precious china dishes between quilts that were wedding gifts and layered Anselm and her clothes over the bedding. In a crate, she stacked every day quilts and left it sit on top the coffin. That was the bedding to use on the ground each night.

  They stacked other crates in the kitchen. Those crates held cooking vessels, the coffee pot and every day dishes to use when they stopped for meals.

  In a crate, Miranda packed items precious to her, family pictures and wedding gifts she'd never used like the silver candlesticks.

  Anselm sold the beautiful furniture he'd made for her. Miranda insisted they take her sideboard to put the fancy china back in once they had the house built.

  Miranda helped Anselm slide the heavy coffin into the buckboard. He laid the sideboard, packed with cooking utensils and dish clothes on it's back next to the coffin and stacked crates on top of both. The chicken crate, nestled in a corner of the wagon, was the only remnant of their well stocked farm.

  One last time, Miranda walked through the empty rooms, picturing the way her house had always looked. She didn't realize how much she prized the fancy home until she stared at the bare rooms. Perhaps, it was just as well, for her peace of mind, she hadn't dwelt on what she was leaving behind until now. The morning she said goodbye to her past was the day they left.

  After Anselm helped Miranda climb up to the wagon seat, she turn around and eyed what she could see of the pine box. He looked pained as he patted his wife's knee. “You dink of de coffin as a bed ven you need one.”

  Solemnly, Miranda nodded agreement. If she'd tried to answer Anselm, she say something entirely different from what he wanted to hear.

  She turned around to face the horses while she waited for Anselm to mount his saddle horse and head the cattle down the road.

  She dreaded her coffin was going west with her long before she had any intention of taking her last breath. She didn't expect to ever get used to the idea, but she couldn't explain that to Anselm.

  She reminded herself most of the time she'd sleep in the open under a canvas lean-to hooked to the covered wagon. That brought images to mind of what kind of creepy crawly insects and animals would join her each night. She'd just have to endure the discomforts. The saying, there is no place like home, came to mind. She knew that was right, whether it was the home she was leaving or the new one she'd have in the future.

  She resigned herself to the fact she needed a sturdy box to pack her precious things in. She was determined to think that way even though the pine box gave her the creeps.

  As she headed the buckboard down the road, she wondered if her mother had been so wise to give her that bit of motherly advice so many years ago. She might have been much happier without it.

  If she'd married someone, other than Anselm, the man wouldn't have been understanding since every woman knew her place on the farm. Listening to her mother all those years ago made things so difficult now.

  Look where all the lying had gotten her. She'd be traveling in a covered wagon for months with her own coffin. The only relief she'd have from the morbid feeling, when it came over her, was she’d probably be so exhausted from bouncing on the rough trail she’d fall asleep the minute she laid down.

  She consoled herself the days would be long and laborious from the break of day until darkness crept over the wagons. The nights much too short in all kinds of weather. Just enduring from day to day was going to be mind boggling enough. She wouldn't have time to worry about that awful pine box taking up wagon space behind her.

  Anselm drove his cattle into the growing herd on the way to Redwing. Miranda got in behind the other farm wagons headed the same way. They all had to listen to the bawling protest of cattle pushed forward faster than they wanted to move.

  Once the men drove the cattle into a stock yard pen, Anselm tied his horse on behind the wagon. He climbed up beside Miranda and took the lines. When they reached the dock, deck hands unloaded the buckboard on to the paddle wheeler, The Orleans Queen.

  Anselm sold the horses and buckboard on the advice of Clarence Swensen. He claimed to have found out a team of four oxen pulled a covered wagon easier than horses. Oxen were plentiful in Independence and had more stamina to make the hard journey.

  At dock side, Miranda just had time to hug her folks and tell them she'd miss them before Anselm said they had to get aboard.

  She stood at the rail with the crowd, including the Swensens and other neighbors, lined up on deck. With tears in her eyes, she waved her white linen kerchief at her elderly mother and father on shore. As the paddle wheeler floated slowly away from the bank, George and Jane Wickman became smaller and smaller. It was with a forlorn regret she thought about how old her folks had become. She feared she'd never see them again.

  The river trip was a blur. Miranda lost track of how long it took to float down the Mississippi River. Most of the time, she was in their state room, forced to stay in bed with a sick stomach.

  Anselm reported many of the passengers had the same problem. They called the malady sea sickness. She knew better what was wrong with her, but she wasn't about to correct Anselm.

  Her husband informed her when they turned on into the Missouri River. He announced in a few days they would be in Independence, Missouri. There wouldn't be any laying around for Miranda once they disembarked. By that time, she hoped to have her stomach completely settled.

  Small bites of food stayed down, and she no longer slept with a pail beside the bed. Of course, Anselm joked he knew Miranda would get used to riverboat riding by the time they disembarked.

  She gave him a weak smile. Poor Anselm. He's clueless about so many things.

  First thing Anselm did was buy a Murphy farm wagon with a canvas cover. He was told those wagons, sturdier and lighter than the heavy, cumbersome Conestoga wagons, traveled easier over the rough trails.

  He left Miranda sitting on the wagon seat while he purchased four head of oxen and harnesses. Also, he bought a sorrel riding horse with a white blaze on its face. He'd need the horse when he hunted for meat or helped drive the cattle. He tied the horse to the back of the wagon.

  Once Anselm had the oxen hitched to the wagon, he backed up by the dock. The dock hands carried their possessions from the bowels of the paddle wheeler and loaded the wagon.

  Miranda watched from the seat as they slid the sideboard in. The pine box was placed on top of it. Her face blanched as one of the hands said, “Dat be a coffin if ah e'er seed one.”

  The other one replied, “Sure do. Makes me wonder if a body be in dat or who it be fer.”

  All the other hand did in return was shrug as he went back for one of the crates.

  Miranda faced forward, not wanting to watch the loading process. She couldn't stand to see the men's prying eyes. Would there be others with the same questions? Inquiries they couldn't keep to themselves. She mulled the idea over and decided maybe not. The coffin was hidden in the wagon. If it stayed hidden under bedding and crates, no one should see it during the trip. She wasn't about to start the what ifs until they made it to their destination.

  Anselm drove downtown to a mercantile store to purchase supplies for the first leg of the trip. While he ordered supplies, Miranda rushed to cover up the coffin with the tick and bedding. When the bald head store clerk helped Anselm carry out supplies, all he saw was a wagon filled with belongings much like any other wagon.

  Anselm got directions for the wagon train encampment headed for Oregon. Fitzhugh's Mill wasn't far from Independence. They didn't have any trouble finding the camp with so many wagons lined up. Anselm drove along side the wagon he'd followed from town and stopped. “Dis for sure de vagon train headed for Oregon you dink?

  The tall, lanky man hopped down and came to meet Anselm. He held up his right hand. “I be Wilbur Mast from Virginie.”

  Anselm shook hands with the man as he talked. “Good to meet you. My name iss Anselm Tollifson. This iss my vife, Miranda. We are from Minnesoooota.”

  Wilbur to
ok his hat off, exposing a crop of black hair, and nodded at Miranda. “Nice to meet y'all, ma'am.” He turned toward his wagon. “Sarie Lee and younguns, y'all climb down right quick and meet some folks goin' with us.”

  A chunky, blond haired woman in her late twenties climbed off the wagon seat and helped two little boys to the ground. She headed the two towheads around to Miranda's side of the wagon.

  Sarie Lee smiled up shyly at Miranda and Anselm as her husband made introductions. Bobby Lee, four years old and Jefferson Davis, six years old, hugged their mother's legs bashfully as they stared at the strangers.

  Wilbur pointed to the group meeting in the center of the camp. “I reckon that's the wagon master's plaverin' goin' on right now. He must be explainin' the rules and takin' the trip fees.”

  “Ve should hurry if ve vant to know vat ve are supposed to do,” Anselm said. “You park at de end of de line. I vill park after you.”

  Once the wagons were in the line, Anselm climbed off the wagon and helped Miranda down. They walked with the Mast family to the gathering.

  Anselm turned around when he heard another wagon approach. Clarence Swensen's wagon pulled up behind theirs. Anselm waved for him and his family to follow along.

  In the next few minutes, four other families from the Redwing area lined up behind the Swensen wagon. Those men had been at the meeting in the fall at Anselm's farm to talk about going west.

  Anselm shook hands with Clarence Swensen, Hjalmar Sorenson, Olaf Krebsbach, Carl Jaeger, ,Florian Bjornson and Oskar Fjelde. He was glad to have so many former neighbors, traveling along with him in this wagon train of strangers. He introduced Wilbur Mast and his family to his friends.

  Anselm motioned toward Sarie Lee, standing by Miranda, and introduced her to the farmers' wives. They gazed fell briefly on Miranda and focused on Sarie Lee, barely nodding at her.

  Chapter 5

  In the middle of the crowd, a short, pot bellied man, in his late fifties with gray hair, looked their way. He thumbed the brim of his western hat off his forehead. “Howdy, folks. Gather around. I'm Jim Coopersmith, wagon master for this train. I'm just about to explain what happens on the trip, and what's expected of this train's members.” He stuck his thumbs under his suspender straps and looked from man to man and started a litany of the routine.

  Miranda thought Mr. Coopersmith had repeated that speech several times before. He had it memorized. It was good to know he was an experienced wagon master.

  “All right, folks, wake up time each morning is four. Whoever is on guard duty at will fire his rifle as a wake up call. Men, I don't want you to roll out of bed with a gun in your hands, thinking it's an Indian attack. The guard would appreciate you didn't shoot the messenger.” The men hooted.

  The wagon master grinned at his own joke and began again. “Ladies, you have two hours to cook breakfast, feed your family and break up camp. Men you get your oxen caught, hitched to the wagon and help the women with camp break up.

  We travel at seven each morning. When I sound my bugle, it's time to roll out. Close to noon we stop for an hour to eat. Each time we stop remember we'll always form a circle.

  Noon break will seem like a short hour. I expect you to put the fire out, load cooking utensils, hitch oxen and be ready to roll by one when I sound the bugle.

  We always circle the wagons when we stop and unhitch the oxen to graze. Turn them loose inside the circle. You should pull your wagon forward until the tongue is up to the wagon's back wheel in front of you.

  That keeps the oxen from straying away and lessens the chance of Indians sneaking in on us. Though I've been told the Indians aren't much trouble right now.

  Meet our scout, Jasper Regal. He'll keep us on the right trail and scout out camping places. Ain't that right, Jasper?”

  All eyes went to the scout, in fringed buckskins and moccasins, who quietly leaned against a wagon wheel. He wore a belt with a pistol holstered on one side and a knife on the other. The frontiersman threw back his head and laughed boisterously. “Haw, haw!” His voice was deeply coarse. “If you say so.”

  “I do, so say howdy to the folks, Jasper.” Coopersmith waved at the crowd with the back of his hand.

  “How do.” Jasper snatched his skin cap off his matted dark hair.

  Sarie Lee whispered, “Mercy, is that man safe for us women to be around?”

  Miranda shrugged. “The man appears to stay as far away from civilization as he can get. Wonder if he has a family?'

  “I'd say not,” Sarie Lee whispered, sizing up the scout. “He's a range bull if I ever smelled one. Never been a ring in his nose.”

  Mr. Coopersmith continued, “Last stop for the night Jasper picks us a place to camp near water if we're lucky. You need to fill all the barrels each time we stop. When the women have washings, then be the time while we're camped for the night. Usually there will be plenty of bushes to dry clothes on.

  Each day there will be a duty roster posted for the men. Some of you will have herd duty, driving during the day and watching the cattle all night. Others will have guard duty around the wagons through the night. Duty is for two hours at a time. There's plenty of men to switch off. If you find yourself ailing, ask someone to switch shifts with you.

  You folks need to understand we'll be like a small city of strangers, traveling together for months. There's a charter of laws we abide by. You will be given a copy and asked to sign a sheet that you understand the laws. Anyone breaks the law, you will be tried before a jury of men from the train. You will be sentenced just like by a town jury. Only thing is I'm the judge, and I decide what your punishment will be. If the crime is of a serious nature like murder, the person is held captive and turned over to the law at the next town we come to. Is all this understood?”

  Everyone nodded, and many said yes.

  “I can legally marry couples on the trail and say a piece over a grave for a funeral if need be. Unless we have a preacher on the train that wants to do the job. Any takers?”

  A medium built man, in a black suit, stepped into the middle of the circle. He peeled his black bowler hat off his head and spoke loudly. “I'm Parson Thomas Claymore. I'll be glad to perform weddings and funerals. I'll even preach a Sunday church service.”

  “Sounds good to me, Preacher. We'll have to talk about that Sunday service so it fits in with traveling. We'll be moving seven days a week. We'll have to travel hard to make it to Oregon in four months.

  I've learned some doctoring, but I don't know near enough. If anyone needs a doctor, you better hope we aren't too far from a town so I can send for one. Men, you're welcome to take off on your own for town if we're in an area safe from Indians. You and the doc can catch up to us. If the scout isn't busy I'll send him along with you so you don't get lost.

  Coopersmith pointed to a small lopsided table. “Men, line up to pay for the trip fee at that table. I have to mark down your names and age and the same information for each of the people in your wagon.

  We'll move out in two days. There's another paddle wheel docking tomorrow. I don't want to go off and leave families that want to join the train for Oregon.

  This time will give you all a chance to get acquainted with other folks in the train. If you didn't stop in town for supplies before you parked your wagon, it's time you went after them. That's all I have. If you have questions ask while you're signing up.”

  The line grew long as men headed for the sign up table. Miranda leaned toward Sarie Lee. “We might as well take the little boys to wait by the wagons in the shade.”

  As they stood by the Mast wagon, Sarie Lee studied the women walking toward them. “Ya seemed to know them women.”

  “Yes, that's my neighbors from Minnesota,” Miranda said.

  Sarie Lee gasped. “They sure don't have friendlies with y'all for being neighbors.”

  “Since your wagon and ours is next in line to those women you should know, I've never considered them friends,” Miranda said.

  Sarie Lee nodded at the
approaching group.

  “Tell me about them.”

  “The tall, raw boned woman in the lead is Brunnhilde Fjelde. She's Oskar's wife, and the hardest worker I've ever seen.”

  “I'd say she looks like it, but that's good,” Sarie Lee approved.

  “The younger one, walking with her head down, is Prudence. Her husband is Hjalmar Sorenson. She's so timid you'll be lucky to get half a dozen words out of her at one time.”

  “Once I get acquainted with her, I'll likely talk up a storm. She won't have to say much. I better warn you my husband says no one gets a word in edge wise when I'm around, and that includes him,” Sarie Lee said.

  Miranda giggled. “See the woman with her nose in the air. That's uppity Birgit. Her husband's Florian Bjornson. She thinks she's better than other people. She's not.

  The heavy set woman is a hypochondriac. Gretchen Krebsbach is Jacob' wife.” The thought occurred to Miranda there wasn't too much difference between Gretchen and her. Except she supposed Gretchen thought she really had her ailments. Miranda knew her ailments were fake.

  Sarie Lee puzzled, “Where be that country?”

  Miranda giggled. “The word means she thinks she thinks she has ailments all the time. Probably Gretchen's way of getting attention and sympathy. Whatever you do, don't ask her how she's doing. You won't get away from her in less than an hour. It usually takes that long for her to tell all her ailments.

  Jacob is strict ruler of that household. The poor woman is so brow beaten she doesn't know which end is up unless she asks Jacob.

  Florence, Clarence Swensen's opinionated wife, is the one to get on the good side of and cow tow to or stay out of her way all together,” Miranda whispered harshly.

  “My, my! It sure don't sound like she's on yer list of likeables,” Sarie Lee said.

  Miranda shook her head. “She's not. Florence is bossy. She always sways the other women to her way of thinking. I think they're afraid of her. I never was so she doesn't like me. Since Florence doesn't like me, the other women don't, either.”