Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie

by Kristiana Gregory

  I wish for once someone would just answer my questions straight out instead of blushing!

  I walk with Wade every day, but he has become more like a brother to me. My dream of falling in love seems far away now.

  We are camped in a valley called Grande Ronde, surrounded by mountains. There was a loud fight after breakfast, but it was between Aunt June and Uncle Tim! Seems she had her heart set on visiting her friend Narcissa Whitman, and he says there ain’t enough time.

  It’s here that the trail branches to the Whitman Mission at Waiilatpu, about two days north. Tall Joe said no way can we detour for a social visit.

  “Winter’s coming and it’s coming quick,” he said, agreeing with Uncle Tim.

  A vote was taken. Only three families were willing to make the trip. It’s too risky with snow on our heels and the Cascades to cross, plus our animals are so exhausted we may all end up walking.

  Tall Joe took a stick to draw in the dirt. “Lookie here. Once you get to the Whitman Mission — I been there, I know — the only way to Oregon City is to raft down the Columbia River. The Columbia, ma’am! Do you know how many boats have sunk in them rapids? It’s rough and more dangerous than the Snake, and with all these new little babies, no sir, I ain’t takin’ a chance.”

  He stood up and said to Uncle Tim, “Now, here’s another idea if you don’t mind spending the whole winter at Whitman’s. You can come back this way next spring then follow our trail into Oregon City. That way you can avoid the Columbia, take you a month mebbe.”

  So we took another vote.

  Funny enough, it was Aunt June who decided we should all stick together. “Narcissa will understand,” she said, holding her baby against her shoulder.

  Evening

  This afternoon Pepper and I were tending the children and babies while their mothers washed clothes in the stream. Jake and some of his friends were sloshing along a creek that ran through our meadow. They were playing war with peashooters and whips made from plants.

  For some reason I felt uneasy. I called to Jake but he ignored me, so I hurried after him. When I saw the plants the boys had pulled up I immediately grabbed Jake’s toy, then did the same with the other boys’.

  Their cries brought several parents running, but their angry looks vanished when I pointed to the uprooted hemlock lying in the grass.

  I pulled Jake into my arms and with fear in my heart asked, “Did you eat any?”

  He shook his head no. We asked the others. “No,” they all said.

  The hollow stems are perfect for blowing pebbles at birds, Jake explained, and also for making whistles. He pointed to three boys who’d been pretending they were smoking cigars. Their lips were numb and they felt sick to their stomachs, but they promised they ­hadn’t eaten any.

  Another search brought some girls who’d started to string necklaces with the seed pods. We threw it all into the campfire, every root, leaf, and seed. I don’t know why my own brother ignored Pa’s lecture from weeks ago. We showed all the kids what hemlock looks like, told them to stay away and not touch, but they didn’t listen. My own brother!

  Mrs. Kenker keeps to herself. One or two folks are kind, they invite her for meals, but most ignore her like she was a bug on a rock. No one has offered to drive her wagon or share a tent. It’s different for Mr. Bigg. He’s surrounded by people night and day, helping and comforting him. That’s how much folks like him.

  I miss Mrs. Bigg.

  Ma says that she left behind so many kind words and memories that we’ll never forget her.

  “Hattie,” she said when we were laying out the beds after supper, “I know two things for sure. God loves us and He has a plan for our lives. I wish I knew why He took Mrs. Bigg and Cassia and the other children, but this I don’t know.”

  “It ain’t fair,” I said, crying softly.

  Ma bit her lip. She was crying, too.

  Next day

  Jake and Ben are sneezing and shivery. I wipe their noses with the hem of my dress and rub a little bacon grease on their chapped skin, but it’s small comfort. I wish I had peppermint sticks to give them.

  The Dalles

  It has rained for six days. Nearly every blanket and shirt is wet. Pepper and I have undone our braids so that our hair will dry at night, but we still feel chilled and wish the sun would come out. It is miserable walking with wet clothes.

  I am fed up.

  Mud oozes into our poor old shoes and keeps our feet cold. There is no way to stay warm except by rubbing our arms hard and fast. Oh, I wish I had Grandma’s wool shawl to wrap around my neck and shoulders.

  (While I’m feeling sorry for myself . . .) The pages of this journal are soft from the dampness which makes the pencil poke through when I try to write. It frustrates me so bad I want to throw this thing away, but Aunt June says, “Keep trying, Hattie, don’t give up.”

  Our canvas top ripped from the wind, leaving the front hoops bare. Finally we had to throw out our other trunks and boxes, most of our cooking pots and the sacks of flour. Even the souvenir chips folks got from Chimney Rock were thrown out.

  Everyone shares everything. Ma put it this way: “Why do eight women need eight dutch ovens?” She didn’t blink one tear.

  Such a roaring river, the Columbia. Tall Joe gave us the good news that last year a man named Samuel K. Barlow finished a road that goes around the shoulder of Mount Hood, over the Cascades, then right down into Oregon City.

  “This is the first year we don’t have to ride the lower end of the Columbia thank you, Jesus, amen,” said Tall Joe.

  It is supper. A light rain is making the fire hiss so I’ll write quick, as long as my paper don’t rip.

  We made it up Barlow Pass, but our last two oxen that came with us all the way from Independence gave out just as we were ready to go down the western slope. The men rolled their carcasses off the trail like they did the others and we left our poor wagon under a ledge. Maybe it will be useful to next year’s travelers.

  Somehow now that we are on foot, I’m not so scared about things. My brothers are marching along just fine, like strong little goats. If Indians come maybe we can make friends instead of run. And with no wagon we don’t have to fret about getting it across rivers. Maybe like Ma I’m becoming brave.

  There was snow on the ground, but not deep. Our footprints pressed down to mud. Wind made it unbearably cold as most of us had tossed out extra clothes like leggings and warm sweaters, and what we were wearing was damp.

  I feel chilled all day and my throat is sore. My ears ache. (It is hard to write this on account of my numb fingers!)

  All I can think of is how the Donner party froze and starved last winter. If we wasn’t so close to our journey’s end I would give up, just give up and let a bear eat me, I’m that wore out.

  Two of the wagons left are driven by Mr. Bigg and Gideon, to carry the babies and littlest children and the seedlings. The rest of us walk. Pepper says she feels sick, but she keeps going anyhow, with long slow steps. When I told Ma about Pepper’s illness she just smiled and told me not to worry.

  Pa encourages every tired one of us. He is in such high spirits that Ma is cheerful, too. They tell my brothers and me that we are almost there.

  Willamette Valley

  And we are almost there! Now that we’re out of the mountains we could rest a few days, but everyone’s so anxious to see trail’s end that we are up each dawn and moving out quicker than usual. Noon is just long enough to eat cold biscuits and drink from the stream.

  It is so green everywhere, with lush pine trees. A mist makes my face feel soft again and the ends of my braids are curly. I can’t see the ocean. Tall Joe said it’s a few days west of Oregon City, so it’s too far away to even hear the waves. He pointed north and said just across the Columbia River is Fort Vancouver, a British fur-trading post owned by
Hudson’s Bay Company. Soon, after we get settled, he’ll take Pa there for supplies.

  If only the sun would come out, even for a few minutes, we could warm up. My arms are chafed from where my wet sleeves rub, rub, rub, and there are new blisters on my feet from dampness.

  Mid-October

  Oregon City, here we are!

  I don’t know how to describe our new home. Green. Wet. Muddy.

  When we finally got here it was raining. There is one broad road running through town and there are fir stumps near everywhere, enough sometimes to leap from one to another without landing in puddles.

  I figured Ma and the women would fall down weeping with relief and joy that we finally really truly made it all the way to Oregon, because that’s what I felt like doing.

  But no. Ma looked around, asked Pa what he thought about putting our tent there. He said fine. Aunt June did the same, Mrs. Anderson, and so on. Within a few hours we had ourselves a neighborhood laid out at the edge of town.

  Mr. Bigg’s tent is next to the Lewis family and across the road from ours. Tall Joe is just around the bend, and the other families have spread out, too.

  Tomorrow Pa will see about buying a lot. He says there must already be a few thousand folks living in Oregon City. There’s two churches that we can see, four blacksmiths, a lumber mill, some saloons and stores, and many houses. There’s even a school.

  Pepper and Gideon are sharing our tent. Many families also are sharing until we can cut enough lumber to build homes.

  I asked Ma, shouldn’t we have a celebration right now, on account of finally reaching our Promised Land? But she said, no, there is too much work to be done yet. When our house is built, then we will celebrate.

  October 22, 1847, Friday

  I’m writing this to the sound of rain on our tent. Looks like my paper won’t ever dry out so I must just get used to pressing soft with my pencil.

  I still wake up in the middle of the night and wonder, Are we really here? Then I drift back to sleep, waking later to the smell of coffee and bacon frying. No bugle. No lowing cattle or creaking wagons. No dust.

  No reason to hurry up and go.

  Pa has already planted eight fruit trees, seedlings he bought from the Iowa brothers. He lifts his chin and closes his eyes. “Hattie,” he says, breathing in deeply, “can you smell the soil, can you smell how rich it is? We’ll be eating from our orchard before you know it, daughter.”

  October 24, 1847, Sunday

  Rain crept under the tent and soaked my pillow, which is where I keep this journal. But now the back pages are so soggy they tore. I am almost at the very last page.

  December 23, 1847, Thursday

  It’s been a long time since I wrote. We now have a cabin. There’s a window that looks out to the road leading into town. I’m sitting at our new little table, on a new three-legged stool, both built by Pa. Behind me is a stone fireplace with two hens roasting and a kettle boiling for tea.

  Ma and Aunt June are rolling pie dough and Pepper is by the hearth rocking River to sleep. She must practice because sometime in the spring she and Gideon will have a new baby themselves. Pa and Mr. Lewis built them a cozy room in our barn, so in a way our dream of living next door to each other has come true.

  Aunt June just called over to me, her hands gooey with flour. “Remember, Hattie, tell the good and the bad.”

  So I will.

  Last week men rode into town with news that just about broke Aunt June’s heart. On November 29 her friend Narcissa Whitman was murdered, along with her husband, Marcus, and twelve others, many of them children.

  We don’t know the whole story, but it seems there was a measles epidemic. When some Indian children died, the Cayuse thought Dr. Whitman was a sorcerer. So they burned down the mission.

  Aunt June can’t believe she’ll never see her friend, the very friend who inspired her to come West in the first place. We’ve all talked long hours about “what if ” we had gone to the mission for the winter. If we had, I wouldn’t be writing this.

  Ma said God’s plan is bigger than us and it’s impossible to guess why He lets things happen the way they do.

  There’s so much I don’t understand.

  In the two months we’ve been in Oregon City, the men have worked hard to put up houses. Many are still in tents, or snug under wooden lean-tos, such as Mrs. Kenker.

  Somehow she managed to bring her wagon over the Blues and the Cascades. What she had in it, no one knows. Her tent is at the end of our street. Sometimes we see her walk through the mud into town, a basket on her arm. She is shunned by many of the folks from our wagon train, including me.

  When Ma said she wanted to invite Mrs. Kenker to our celebration dinner I said no, absolutely no . . . not until she says she’s sorry.

  Ma smiled. She and Aunt June were setting the table for tea with our new cups from Fort Vancouver.

  “Hattie,” she said. “In order to move on we must forgive the past. Sometimes that means forgiving someone who hasn’t apologized and probably never will. We don’t have to forget what happened.”

  Ma poured boiling water into our new teapot. Squares of ginger cake sprinkled with powdered sugar were stacked on our new tin platter. Almost nothing survived our trip, just a small amount of money that Pa said is hardly worth counting, the worn-out shoes on our feet, our clothes, some blankets, my journal . . . and Ma’s spoon and her little plate that I carried over the mountains in my pocket.

  We’ve all written letters to friends in Booneville, telling them to come to Oregon. Pa rode our mail to the fort. From there the letters will go out on the next clipper ship bound for the East Coast. It’ll take at least six months for them to sail south around Cape Horn, then back up to Boston, then by wagon and riverboat to Missoura.

  Becky may not read my letter for another year!

  Christmas, 1847

  It is late and everyone’s in bed. I’m writing by our new lamp — the wick is floating in whale oil that Pa got in trade from Fort Vancouver.

  At noon Christmas day, our guests began arriving. Wade came with his parents, and Mr. Bigg wheeled himself over with the Andersons. He’s living with them in a special room they built him. He brought a gift for each child: a small canvas sack that he cut and sewed from his old tent, each with a whistle inside that he carved from Oregon pine.

  Tall Joe came with a sea captain who’s staying in Portland and some neighbors who moved here a year ago. The family with the twins, Sarah and Blue, brought cranberry pies.

  The last person to show up was Mrs. Kenker. She stood off by herself as if she wanted to join in, but ­didn’t know how.

  I had hoped she would arrive with gifts for all of us, by way of saying she’s sorry. But she was empty-handed.

  Dinner lasted four hours because we took turns with our few chairs and plates and cups — whoever wasn’t eating was talking or holding a baby. During this confusion I kept my eye on Mrs. Kenker. Several times she reached down to comfort a crying child, but stopped herself, not sure if she should, I reckon. Several times she went to the kitchen to help, but seemed timid, like she didn’t want to bother any of the women busy there.

  She seemed so lonely, my heart began to soften. I hurried behind the curtain that hides my bed. Under my pillow is where I keep these treasures: this journal, Ma’s silver spoon, and the small china plate with roses on it. I took off the sash to my apron. It is blue and about four inches wide, so I wrapped this around the spoon until it looked like a real present.

  I tied it up with a piece of string and lay a fresh pine bough on top. I found Mrs. Kenker at the door just putting on her shawl. As she stepped out in the damp air I called, “Merry Christmas,” then handed her my gift.

  Light from the window made a patch of yellow on the ground. Gently she undid the wrapping. When she saw what it was, her eyes grew moist. />
  “Thank you, Hattie,” she whispered. We stood there a moment in the cold. She touched my cheek, then walked to the road.

  I felt good. For the first time in months I wanted to be kind to Mrs. Kenker. Maybe what Ma said yesterday is true. She said, if you “give forth” you are beginning to “for give.” (But I’m not ready to part with my grandmother’s plate.)

  Well, I have much to think about. But before I blow out the lamp . . .

  When I turned around to go back in the house, Wade was waiting for me in the doorway. He is taller than when we first met back in Missoura and tonight he wore a new cloth coat with a string tie. He was smiling when he stepped out and took my arm.

  “Come on, Hattie.”

  We could hear music coming from the barn: There were fiddlers, and the sea captain was playing a banjo.

  When I saw Mama out on the dance floor with Pa, her arm looped through his, and her head thrown back in laughter, I knew we were really truly finally in Oregon.

  Just like that.

  The families who arrived in Oregon City prospered. On May 15, 1848, Pepper and Gideon had a baby boy named Michael who was to be the oldest of seven brothers. On Christmas Eve of that year, Wade and Hattie were married. They were unable to have children of their own, but adopted the six-year-old twins, Sarah and Blue, when their parents died in a buggy crash.

  For the rest of their lives Hattie and Pepper shared a fence and a vegetable garden.

  The Anderson family started an inn on their fruit ranch. Mr. Bigg lived with them and became well known as a tailor and a favorite “uncle” to the many children who visited.

  Mrs. Kenker lived alone in a cottage at the edge of town. One summer afternoon in 1849 Hattie went to visit, but found her dead on the kitchen floor. The constable said Mrs. Kenker had died from a heart attack at least two weeks prior.