A Light in the Wilderness

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  Nancy Jane awoke and she picked her up to nurse, ham and bean aroma washing over them both. She wondered if Zach would let her bring the small coal-burning stove. He weighed everything to keep it under the recommended pounds. Nancy folded the letter, set it aside. Sarah had made it with her six children so she could make it with hers. And at least she wasn’t pregnant.

  Her thoughts returned to Letitia, who was.

  Letitia appeared to have resigned herself to the arrival of David Carson’s son. Nancy knew a little of what it was like to be set apart by a family member. Sometimes she envied her own son, Samuel, as he got to do things with Zach while she stayed in the house with their brood. How good it would feel to take a trip to town in the wagon, just the two of them again. It seemed like eons since they’d first held hands, but it had only been thirteen years and six children ago. At least she’d be a part of what happened every day once they headed west. Maybe it would be like old times beside her husband with just a touch more uncertainty in the mix.

  “I swear, woman, if we could, I’d let you take the cabin itself but—”

  “No need to swear, Zachariah Hawkins. I know. But I need my quilting frame and the spinning wheel. You made them both for me. How can I leave them behind?” Nancy’s voice held a level of discontent that Letitia had seldom heard. The Hawkinses had pulled their wagon up to the house and the Carsons were helping them finish loading. Hawkins children all with hair the color of corn tassels bounded in and out, Rothwell chasing Samuel and Laura while Letitia bounced Nancy Jane on her hip on a cloudless April morning.

  “Women,” Doc scoffed and shook his head at Davey. “Go ahead and load the frame. It can be flooring if need be. And we can always use it for possible repairs.”

  “Oh no, not that fine oak.” Then, “Of course. Whatever we need.”

  Letitia wondered if she and Davey would go through the same thing when the Hawkinses rolled their wagon into the Carson yard tomorrow to help them finish packing up. The six oxen they’d be taking along plus Charity and her latest calf would go, that was certain. Davey was taking thirty head of stock. Men had met and prepared a list of rules to govern the journey and there’d been discussion about the sturdiest wagon types, with Bain and Shutler deemed the best. Davey and Zachariah didn’t have that design but their schooner-type wagons were strong and would be pulled by four oxen with an extra team along to rest and rotate animals. Letitia had grown to love the faithful beasts who never resisted the yoke. Davey had named them A, B, C, and D. “For easy remembering.” When she began to feel sorry for herself, she’d think of those oxen and their willingness to do what they were asked to do without complaint.

  “Put the anvil in last,” Doc told the men, and the three of them lifted it together.

  “Mighty heavy,” Davey said. “Mine makes us meet that 2500-pound limit mighty quick.”

  Doc removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “I know it. But to make repairs it’ll be a fundamental.”

  “We women have to stand firm for a few of our own fundamentals.” Nancy lifted the baby from Letitia’s arms, winking at Letitia.

  “Fundamentals.” Doc snorted.

  “How are you feeling?” Nancy asked Letitia. They stood apart from the men securing the flour and rice barrels, stashing the cast-iron cookware in a box Zach had made along with the dried beef and fruits and tobacco.

  “All right, I ’spect.”

  “When do you think?” She raised her blonde eyebrows in question.

  “Late May. Early June.” Letitia hesitated, then said, “This one feel different, but I think I got it figured right.”

  “You’ve had . . . I mean, this isn’t your first?”

  “My third. One die as he birthin’. The other . . . sold away and then I hear he die too.”

  Nancy touched Letitia’s arm. “I cannot imagine how you’ve lived through two such wrenchings.” The touch of her hand brought comfort like a warming breeze. “It must have felt like tearing flesh.”

  “A searing burn that never quits.” Letitia didn’t add that traveling west meant moving ever farther away from her sons. She didn’t even know the final resting place of one.

  They stood together, each lost to their thoughts. “Come help me with the bedding, would you? Packing for eight is such a chore!”

  “I’s only got three to tend.”

  “The life of a wife.” Nancy grinned as she led Letitia into the house that still had tables and chairs and chests of drawers that wouldn’t be loaded. Rather, like so many memories, those treasures would be left behind.

  “Are you carrying?” Junior posed the question to her when Davey was well out of earshot, checking the hooves of the oxen that would pull their wagon west. He faced her, legs wide, elbows out, challenging as a bull. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Yessuh. I’s with child.”

  “You sounding pretty high and mighty for a Negro. See how I don’t use the word you really are? Honoring my papa.” He sneered, then used it anyway, looked toward his father who kept to his work. “You twisted my pa’s thinking, that’s what you done.” He whispered with a hiss, though the sounds of harnessing, men shouting, children calling out kept Davey from hearing. “Got him into bed with you and now he’s not thinking straight.” He poked at her abdomen. The physical pain felt less than the sear of his touching her, using words as weapons.

  She pushed him back, scratched at his face.

  Junior grabbed her arm, wiped the side of his face with his other hand. A trickle of blood oozed onto his fingers and he stared at it. “Look what you done!”

  “You not harm my baby nor touch my person. Ever. Again.”

  “I guess I can do what I want with you.” He twisted her arm and she cried out.

  Davey called from the other side of the oxen. “Everything all right over there?”

  “Just fine, Pa.”

  Junior looked at the blood on his hands. She smelled anger on his breath as he hissed close to her ear. “You’ve tricked him to take my inheritance.”

  She pulled away. “Your daddy promise to care for his young kin and for me. But he want you in his life so we make a peace. For his sake.” She looked back down. “I’s not one for trouble, Mistah Carson. Seekin’ good mixin’ is all.”

  He squeezed her arm harder, then tossed it aside like kindling. He wiped at his cheek. “Don’t ever expect me to mix in with the likes of you.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Then maybe one of us needs to put our feets in another direction.”

  One reddish eyebrow raised.

  “And my feets and mixin’ bowls are headin’ west.”

  Such a fractious thing to argue about and yet they had. Davey drove the team and wagon to the meeting place in Weston. All preparations had gone well and then Junior insisted on taking only a shotgun and pistols. But the governing rules said each man was to have a caplock rifle with gunpowder in barrels as well. Junior had balked at the requirement.

  “You know how to shoot. What’s the matter with you?”

  They’d already gathered up with two hundred other wagons near the Missouri, campfires glowing with children like puppets dancing before them. Davey and Junior had come back from a meeting to choose their captains and whatnot on April 5 at Wolf River. The Carsons and Hawkinses would be joining up with Stephen Staats from New York who was under Tetherow. Davey had been elected to the executive council. He wouldn’t tell Letitia yet. It would mean he’d have duties and wouldn’t always be around. G.B. Smith was going too. That one had made his pitch to be a sub-captain but he’d been outvoted. Smith had no family with him, though Davey had seen him around the Hugharts’ oldest girl and she couldn’t be more than fifteen; such a frail birdlike child. He hoped her father would keep a close eye on her.

  Everything had been going as planned and then Junior decides the rule of carrying the caplock along with a shotgun was “Stupid. I don’t wanna travel with people making stupid rules.”

  Maybe Junior
ran a fever from the bramble scratch on his cheek. It did look festered and he’d refused to let Letitia put one of her salves on it. He said as much and Junior touched his cheek, barked that his temperament had nothing to do with this. It was the guns. But then Davey had caught him looking at Tish as she crossed behind the campfire, his blue eyes dark as an angry sea. The look brought a shiver to Davey.

  “I’ll take the extra gun. Time comes you’ll want to use it,” Davey said. “That way we meet the regulations.”

  “Got no time for men who make policies like that. I’ve changed my mind about going at all.”

  “Lookee here, son. I need you to drive. I need you to help out. Thought we’d get our family back together.”

  “Looks like you got yourself one.”

  “You getting on well with Tish, ain’t you? Why desert us now?”

  “If you make it, maybe I’ll come see you. Maybe travel around the horn instead of nine months with you and your N . . . wench. See your little ‘family’ all cozy in Oregon.”

  Davey grimaced. He looked across the fire to see if Letitia might have heard. She wasn’t anywhere around. Seemed like except at meals she and Junior never stood in the same firelight.

  “Now, son, we’ve got on well since you showed up. Shame having you decide to back off.”

  “You’ll get over it. You did before.”

  Davey felt the blow in his chest.

  Junior walked around to the end of the wagon and grabbed his pack. Then without another word he mounted his horse, tipped his hand to his hat, and rode away.

  “I know you feelin’ harshed by Junior’s leavin’.” Letitia stood to blow out the candlelight, bringing the moonless night inside their tent. “Maybe . . . my fault. We toss words back and forth.”

  “No. It was the rules. He was never one to follow any. If it hadn’t been the guns, it’d be something else before long. Was why he ran off in the first place, having to comply.” He patted her hip as they lay in the bedroll beneath the tent. A cool breeze rustled the canvas, caused a small flare in the campfire now just embers. “Wasn’t your fault. Biggest problem now is finding a second driver this late. That’s one rule they won’t abide being broken.”

  She wondered if she should mention the idea she had when he first told her Junior was gone. It would be worth saying out loud. “What if I back your drivin’?”

  “Doubt they’d allow that. Wives aren’t permitted such things. They got to be cooking and whatnot.”

  “But if I’s your . . . employee. Could they refuse that?”

  He lifted up on one elbow looking down at her. Firelight lit her face. “But you’re my . . . you know.”

  “Might be safer if peoples think I your slave.” It would grate like rocks on glass not to say she was free, but it would be safer if they allowed the story. Her stomach clenched and the baby moved. “We gots an agreement. I cook and tend you on the journey and clear ground when we gets to the Territory, help prove up your land claim. You s’posed to write down that you provide for me and our children if somethin’ happen to you. Paper could tell ’em that I work for you. They have to let you hire who you want.”

  “But the child . . . people will know that—”

  “Child be born and I mother him. Not the first time Missouri folk see a mulatto in their midst. They find a way to avoid him. Or her. And if you sick and I drive, I put the baby in a bag like I do my boys when they’s little and I work for the Bowmans. Happy as a little kitten snuggled up against me. Nancy Hawkins help with my child.”

  He tugged at his beard. “They might go for it. I could be convincing. And I have hired Knighton and Martin as drovers. Might find a third to rotate with driving if need be. Especially when you’re, well, fixing with the baby.”

  “Tell ’em you have a paper claimin’ our agreement.”

  “They won’t ask.” She could see him thinking. “Truth is, Tish, I don’t write so well. Barely read.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll get Zach to write and witness it and give the paper to you. First thing in the morning. Anyone asks, you’re my . . . hired-on.”

  In the morning Davey put a document into Letitia’s hands.

  “This it? It say what we agreed?”

  “Had Zach write it out this morning while we were at the corrals getting our oxen ready. There’s my signature.” He pointed. “So you put it with your things.”

  She held the paper to her heart with quivering hands. Wish I could read it . . . “I gots room for your citizenship papers too.”

  “They’ll do fine where they are.”

  Davey left to finish his work and she considered then where to put the safety papers, as she thought of them. She laid them out lengthwise onto a piece of cloth, what was left of Nathan’s little baby quilt. She had a strip that would fold over the papers. She rolled them into a ball the size of her fist then tied them with a ribbon. Now where to keep it. She looked around the wagon. Maybe in her sewing kit. No, too obvious and she’d be taking needles in and out and the small ball of cloth might get tossed aside by mistake. At home, she’d put her paper in a tin hidden in the rafters, but no rafters in the wagon. The flour barrel. A perfect place, way down at the bottom. Nancy told her she’d put some of her best china in her flour barrel. “Zach doesn’t need to even know.” Davey wouldn’t need to know either.

  She hadn’t prayed that Junior wouldn’t join them, but perhaps God had heard her silent plea. That Junior had chosen to leave made it easier for her to comfort Davey when for a second time his son deserted him. Now here she was with the precious papers. A gift beyond measure. She stuffed the roll of cloth into the flour barrel. Out of the sorrow at Christmastime had come what she’d hoped for: safety. She brushed the flour away from her bodice and loosened the linen wrapper swaddling her belly. She began to swing and sway, singing, “Oh religion is a fortune, I really do believe.” She had her papers, a baby on its way, and with God’s guiding, she was heading toward real freedom. What more could she want?

  Oregon Country

  The Woman and the boy finished burning out the rotten log.

  “Now add dirt. Make sure to mix ashes good. Then we add seeds.”

  Before long they would have tobacco plants growing for easy harvest. They already had another burned-out log where the leaves grew tall, and they’d harvested those the year before, new plants coming back now. They’d mix the harvested leaves with bearberry leaves that were always green. Kinnikinnick, the trappers called it. They traded for more when the kinnikinnick was added to tobacco to sweeten the taste and change the smell that no one liked.

  “You find the bearberry?” The Woman motioned with her chin to Little Shoot. He hunched his shoulders down, his face wearing a scowl. He stopped, stood in a low mat of green leaves with pink berries shaped like the traders’ lanterns. Later there’d be red berries and stems that tangled like strands of hair over his face.

  “Why do we make so much, Kasa? We can’t smoke it.”

  “We smoke only a little. Give more to the old ones in the village to comfort their days. No, we trade the rest.”

  “The few trappers left?” The boy’s words challenged.

  “At the Big River of the dalles we meet people who trade for our tobacco. And more will come. The Others will come. Before long, we will not be alone.”

  “Good tobacco will make them want to stay.”

  “We do not own the tobacco. We only prepare it. The Others could do it and not need us to trade with them.”

  “Hmmph.”

  They gathered the shiny leaves, and with the tobacco leaves they’d harvested and dried earlier, they dumped them into water she’d heated to boiling with hot stones. The bearberry greens and dried tobacco swirled into a mass.

  “I tell you now so you prepare.” She motioned him to stir with the stick. “The Missionaries tell us, Others will come and many, like them, will stay. We want no trouble with them. Their coming will sharpen us.”

  “I am sharp enough.” He held up the stirring stick
in his skinny arms above his head. A boy in triumph. “Ayee. This is a thing to remember.”

  The Woman watched the boy gain strength. And she smiled that he was beginning to know what things were worthy of remembering.

  11

  Leaving

  “I’ve been elected to the executive council. Made a captain.” Davey returned from his evening meeting at Wolf River, a quiet stream that flowed into the Missouri. They waited for others to join them before the large group would head west. He accepted the tin cup of coffee Letitia handed him, then sat on the wagon tongue. He patted the iron, urging her to sit beside him.

  “G.B. Smith made the case for himself to captain, but folks selected me.”

  It was the first she’d heard that Greenberry Smith would join their company. “He patrollin’?”

  “No, no patrols, nothing like that. This ain’t a slave train. ’Cept to guard the cattle and watch for Indian trouble. He’ll be a good patroller at that.” Davey bent to secure the odometer attached to the wheel. “Officers will make final inspections to be sure everyone has the necessary supplies. I’ll be doing it for others, but they’ll select a couple of men to check ours. No favorites being played here.”