Frank immediately interrupted. “1845? Didn’t you cross over in 1846?”
Virginia frowned at him, making it clear that she didn’t want to be interrupted.
He smiled at her. “So you would have been thirteen years old?”
“It was supposed to be a business trip, but in hindsight, it is clear that my father was investigating the possibility of joining the exodus,” she continued. “He’d promised my mother that we would stay in Springfield, but that couldn’t stop him from wanting to see what was happening.
“When he asked me to join him, I was as happy as I’ve ever been. It might have been the last carefree spring of my life. It was the first time since my early years that I had time alone with Father: two weeks without chores, and without competition from my brothers and sisters. I loved every minute of it.
“Independence was a magical place. London, or Paris, or New York wouldn’t have been more exciting to me—though now that I look back, it was no more than a dusty pioneer town. My father left me alone while he conducted his business. We were perhaps a little bit small-town naïve, but nothing untoward happened to me.
“Perhaps because I was alone so much of the time, everything looked big and prosperous. Those who were getting ready to set out West were eager, and it was impossible not to pick up that feeling of excitement in the air. I wandered about the shops. They were so much bigger than our store back home, and they were always crowded.
“It was in one such store that I met Mary.” She fell silent, and Frank waited patiently for her to continue.
“I saw her slip an apple into the folds of her dress. I didn’t say anything, just watched out of the corner of my eye. I noticed that the storekeeper had seen what she’d done and was waiting for her to leave before pouncing on her.
“I walked over to her. ‘You’d rather have an apple than candy?’ I asked. She was a red-haired girl with pale skin, but if possible, she paled even more at my words. I remember the freckles on her nose standing out against the whiteness.
“I said, ‘Let me buy it for you, dear cousin.’ Without waiting for a response, I picked up another apple and paid for both. As we walked out, I bit into the apple, and it was soft inside. I spit it out.
“‘I hear that Oregon has the best apples in the world,’” Mary said. She was walking by my side. She was taller than me by about six inches, and I guessed her to be about seventeen. Over the next ten days, I grew to believe she was the most worldly person I’d ever met, though I know now that she was probably only a scared girl trying to act confident.
“Mary lifted her chin. ‘I am not a thief,’ she declared. ‘I was just so hungry. I would have paid him back, I swear.’
“It turned out that Mary’s father was a teamster who was joining one of the wagon trains. Mary herself was planning to be a stowaway.
“‘I’m supposed to go back to Mother,’ she said. ‘But I won’t do it. If Father won’t take me, I’ll go with someone else.’”
“That night, the two of us ended up sitting on the bluffs above the Mississippi. The lights of the campgrounds lit up the sky on both sides of the river, and there were more lights blinking on the boats passing by, and off in the distance was the glow of the fires from the wagon trains that were only a day into their journey. It was as if the heavens had descended onto the Earth.
“We spoke of what we’d find out West, and for some reason, Mary focused on the vast apple orchards she was sure would be there. ‘The weather is perfect for the fruit,’ she said, as if enamored.
“It was so exciting, and even Mary’s rebellion seemed to be part of that excitement. I realized later that my friend was hinting, asking if I could somehow hide her away. But I was too naïve then to pick up on the allusions. Only days later, well onto the trail, did I awaken in the middle of the night and realize that Mary—in spite of her spirited nature—had been desperate not to be left behind.”
Virginia stared down at the worn letter. It looked as if it had been bent a hundred times, it had strange brown stains on it, and the paper was yellowed. Across the top, the word “Lost” was handwritten in pencil. There was also a date: “1849.”
She felt a tingling premonition.
I don’t have to open it. Whatever news it contains will be two years out of date. There is probably nothing I can do.
But her hand went the flap without volition, and she opened the letter. There were several thin pages of cramped writing, some of which was blurred by water stains. Before reading the text of the letter, Virginia’s eyes scrolled down to the signature.
Mary Perkins.
She gazed down at the soiled letter, suddenly certain that her friend was equally battered and soiled and that whatever the letter contained, it was not good news.
It was a cloudy day, and Virginia squinted at the cramped writing. She got up, lit a lamp, sat back down and spread the sheets of paper on the table.
Taking a deep breath, she started reading.
Chapter Three
Oregon City, Oregon Territory, September 23, 1849
Dear Virginia,
I don’t know if you will remember me. I must be a dim memory by now, after all you have gone through. I was so frightened for you when I learned of what happened. I wished I could sprout wings and fly to you. As bad as things have been for me, I cannot but imagine what you went through. If I could have taken your place, I would have…though perhaps that would not have been for the best, for while your ordeal is over, mine continues.
I remember you well, Virginia, for you were kind to me, befriending me when I was alone, making me laugh, giving me hope that there was a life beyond the misery that I was feeling.
I didn’t tell you everything. You were so happy and innocent in Independence that I didn’t wish to darken your thoughts. My father intended to leave me behind with my mother, but I had no intention of staying. My father is a strict man, and his way of admonishing me was often rough. But my mother…I will not tell you about her, save to say that she was a monster. I would rather have died than stay behind with her.
When I slipped into the back of a wagon, I expected to die on the trail. I didn’t know who owned the wagon; I had no money, no food, only the clothes on my back. I would offer to work, to be a slave if need be, as long as someone along the trail took me in.
This was a week after you went back to Springfield. It was a miserable time. I was alone. My father didn’t speak to me before he left, sensing, I suppose, that I intended to disobey him. He departed without a goodbye.
So I was abandoned there, and I had to steal my food and find shelter wherever I could find it. When I saw the open flap of a wagon, I climbed in on an impulse. I covered myself with sacks of flour. Their weight upon me, and being hidden away, was somehow comforting, and I fell asleep.
I awoke to the sounds of the muleskinners shouting out to the beasts pulling the wagon and a lurch as the wheels were released. The four sacks of flour tumbled off me, and a box from above landed on my head, cutting my scalp, making me bleed all over my soiled dress.
I managed to stay out of sight for three days, long enough, I hoped, that they would not try to send me back. Fortunately, the family whose wagon I invaded were so excited to be underway that they spent most of their time outside, walking beside the wagon, venturing inside only to get supplies for meals. They were predictable in their routines, and I succeeded in keeping out of their way.
I felt guilty about stealing the family’s food, but I had chosen what seemed to be the most prosperous of the wagons lined up to leave that day. I hoped that I was not putting them in jeopardy. Soon I would leave the safety of the flour bags and venture out alone, and I resolved to steal only from those who could afford the loss.
It was thirst that finally compelled me to come out of hiding. I had found an open bottle of milk in the wagon that one of the family members had forgotten, and that was enough for a day or two, but by the third evening, I could think of nothing but my thirst. My mouth was so dry it
seemed to be swelling, my tongue was like sandpaper, and my teeth felt as if they were cutting into my cheeks. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I crawled out of the wagon. I suppose I intended to remain a ghost, to trail the wagons from a distance and sneak up at night to steal enough food to survive—no more than that, for while I am many things, and I have done far worse things since, at that time I was not yet a thief in my mind.
I poked my head out from under the wagon’s back flap. The family’s campfire was near the front of the wagon, and while I could see a few yards in the flickering light, I doubted that anyone could see me once I was away from that small, dim circle.
As I crawled out, I met the wide brown eyes of a child, age seven or so. She stared at me as if I was a monster from the deep and ran screaming to her mother and father. My legs didn’t want to cooperate with my panic, and I stumbled upon hitting the ground and managed only a few steps before Augustus Catledge came around the back, gun in hand.
“Hold it right there, young woman,” he said.
I froze, for there was no mistaking the menace in his tone.
“Please, sir, I mean you no harm,” I said.
“Have you been hiding in the back of our wagon?” he asked.
“I have only taken a small portion of food, sir. Let me go and I will bother you no longer.”
“A small portion?” he muttered. He lowered his gun and shook his head. “I can believe that.”
I couldn’t look him in the eye, but stared at the ground in shame. I could sense him examining me and raised my head. I was ashamed, but I still had some of my pride in those days. I have only done what I need to do to survive.
He looked me up and down, and his stern expression began to soften. “Come with me, young lady.”
I looked out into the darkness. Even as weak as I was, I could have escaped. I could have hidden so they never found me. But what then? Wait until the next wagon train passed and hope that I could somehow attach myself to it? I looked down. My dress was torn and soiled. I put my hand to my head and felt matted blood and tangled hair. I must have looked a horror.
There was something in Mr. Catledge’s face that reassured me, for to my own astonishment, I followed him.
The campfire was between three wagons, which were in a rough circle. Three families were congregated there, and it was these people who held my fate in their hands.
Abigail Catledge met her husband with a worried look on her face, not seeing me at first. She hugged him in relief, her head barely reaching his chest. She was short and round, while he was tall and lanky. He must have been older than his wife by a decade or more, for his face was lined and craggy, and her face was round and smooth. She looked even younger than she was.
Their young daughter, Becky, was a combination of the two: tall for her age, and also plump. She possessed her father’s serious demeanor along with her mother’s sweet nature. Of all the people who could have discovered me, I could not have found anyone nicer and more sympathetic to my plight. She was fourteen, and sometimes acted the child and sometimes the young woman.
They were, perhaps, too nice for their own good.
Abigail finally noticed me, and her eyes widened. “Who’s this?” she asked.
“We’ve a stowaway,” Gus answered. “A starving sparrow.”
Abigail motioned to the log she’d been sitting on near the fire. I could smell the beans cooking over the flames, and despite how thirsty I was, my mouth watered. The moisture was sopped up by the dryness in my mouth, and I started to choke.
“Quickly, husband,” Abigail exclaimed. “She needs water.”
Gus walked in long strides to the water barrel strapped to the side of the wagon and brought a dipper to me.
There has never been anything before or since that tasted as wonderful as that water. I closed my eyes, and tears sprouted underneath my eyelids and squeezed out, dripping down my cheeks.
“Sit, girl,” Abigail said, taking me gently by the arm.
Dizzy, I sat there for a moment, sensing that I was surrounded. I opened my eyes to see everyone staring at me.
To my right was the Parsons family, Bartholomew and Karrie, a young couple with two children, as well as Karrie’s elderly mother. They looked disapproving, but eventually accepted me, especially eleven-year-old Cager and ten-year-old Allie, who were soon to fall under my supervision.
To my left was Jonathan Meredith and his poor wife, Ellen, and their brood of children. Jed was oldest, at fifteen, and thirteen-year-old Edwin did everything his brother told him to. Sitting on the ground was a young girl who looked a hundred years old. A blanket hid her legs, and I later learned that she was crippled, her legs not growing like the rest of her body. Sarah could move around on crutches, but she needed help for most things. The Merediths had two younger, healthy girls too, Mattie and Nan, eight and six years old, respectively.
By now, Virginia, you must be wondering why I am telling you all this. Why is it necessary that you know about these people? What is the purpose of this letter?
I ask that you bear with me, for all these people are important to my story, and they are the reason I am writing you. For it was what happened to these children, and my suspicions of who did it and why, that compels me to write you.
I will not linger on what happened over the next few months. Suffice to say that because of the Catledges, I was accepted among the pioneers and given the duty of watching over the children. Abigail gave me a castoff dress, which draped about me like a tent and only reached my shins, to wear until my own dress was cleaned and mended.
The Parsons family accepted me readily enough, happy not to have to watch their children every second. Jonathan Meredith accepted me only begrudgingly (I do not know what Ellen thought, and it doesn’t matter, since Mr. Meredith decided everything), but he soon realized that he benefited most of all, for his children were my main duty, and he was free to do as he pleased.
So now I come to the events that necessitated this letter.
The trip was long and arduous, which I needn’t tell you, and things happened that even today I’m loath to talk about. You will learn of these things if you come here to Oregon City, for they are detailed in the journals of which I have come into possession.
Our situations were similar, Virginia, though your ordeal in the mountains was far worse than anything I experienced.
Nevertheless, we were both led astray by frauds and suffered because of it.
Stephen Meek, the brother of the famous mountain man Joe Meek, led our wagon train. He assured us that we could take a shortcut across the High Desert of Eastern Oregon and avoid the Blue Mountains.
Over a thousand souls followed this benighted man into the desert, and many lost their lives.
Our own group, at the insistence of Jonathan Meredith, split off from the main party and became even more lost.
One day, as we camped beside a small creek, the children wandered away. For once, I was not with them. Perhaps if I had been doing my duty, none of this would have happened. Perhaps I would have known to hide my discovery, and all the tragedy that followed could have been avoided.
But on that day, Abigail was feeling poorly, and I felt it more important to take care of her than the children, who by then were accustomed to the trail and knew what to do and what not to do. Or so I thought.
“Be careful,” was all I said to them. “Don’t wander far.”
They took the blue buckets from the backs of all three wagons, for it was our habit to fill them whenever possible with dry twigs and moss so that the fires would be easier to start in the evenings.
Mr. Catledge and Mr. Parsons insisted on traveling north in hopes of finding the main party, while Mr. Meredith insisted on pressing on westward. For once, Jonathan Meredith was overruled, probably because Gus was worried about Abigail and Bart by then loathed Meredith. (By then, we all knew how he treated his family, and we couldn’t wait for the journey to end and to be away from that awful man. I will n
ot speak of my experience with him, for I have tried hard to forget it. Little did I know, until I received Ellen’s journals, how bad it really was for the others.)
The children were gone longer than they should have been, and after they returned, when I had time to think about it, I realized they were more subdued than normal. Even as desperate as things were, the children always seemed in high spirits.
They had put shiny rocks into the buckets instead of dry tinder, and I almost mentioned my dismay, then simply shook my head in exasperation and began to dump the rocks out.
“Please, Miss Mary, can’t we keep them?” Becky pleaded.
I looked around, snatched one of the empty flour bags out of the back of the Meredith wagon, and poured the rocks into it. Ellen and Jonathan Meredith came around the corner of the wagon at that moment. Jonathan frowned. He turned to his wife. “Won’t you be needing that cloth?” he asked.
“We are almost to Oregon City,” Ellen said. “If we need it, we will dump out the rocks then.”
“To what purpose?” he asked. He reached over, picked up one of the rocks, and examined it curiously. His face didn’t betray a thing. “Still, I don’t suppose it will hurt anything. The wagon is nearly empty, and old Clyde and Peter can pull a little extra weight a few extra miles.” Clyde and Peter were the Merediths’ poor, abused mules.
It was only a few days later that tragedy struck.
We woke up on a cold morning. Fall was approaching, and we were almost to our destination. As lost as we were, we were still many miles farther west, closer to our goal. We were hopeful.
And then all our hopes were dashed. The Parsons family usually woke up later than the rest of us, so we were already eating breakfast when their children were discovered missing.
Allie and Cager were always the noisiest of my rabble. I never worried about them the way I worried about the quieter Meredith children or brave, adventurous Becky.
We searched for days. We never found any sign of them.
The Darkness You Fear Page 3
