The leaders of the entire wagon train have asked that those of us who are better supplied begin to share with those less fortunate. Last night, I came across Jonathan in the back of our wagon, hiding food and water. He didn’t acknowledge my presence, and I did not say anything. I am torn, for I see the suffering of others, but I have four children of my own to look after.
Bart and Gus have been more generous, as might be expected. When Jonathan offered his paltry portion, I saw both men look at each other as if to say “I told you so,” and I was ashamed.
The going has become rougher, either because of our position farther up the line or because it is a new trail for everyone. Today we had to travel up a gulch as rough as any we have encountered. Jonathan says that the men removed ten thousand stones before we could go on.
Our wagon has begun to break down in small ways, and rarely does a mile pass before we come across a disabled wagon, the men working furiously to fix the wheels or the axle. We have also come across dead livestock alongside the trail, as there is not enough water for both man and beast. As important as our beasts of burden are to us, when one is thirsty, it is hard not to drink all the water oneself rather than give it to mere animals.
When we do find the rare source of water, it is quickly despoiled. Oxen and cattle can’t be held back, and men and women struggle to fill their water pails before it becomes mud. If we come across a small stream, it is soon almost buried under the trampled banks, and we must scramble upstream to reach fresh water.
We want to stop but know that we cannot, for we also need food, and this land is quickly being stripped of all resources. I wonder if we will not eventually drain the rivers themselves.
The terrain is the same, mile after mile, and yet the land is never level, nor the path ever clear. We strain our eyes to see the Cascade Mountains that are supposed to be directly ahead of us.
“We will see a lava butte we can travel toward,” Meek tells us. “Beyond that is a bend in the river where we can cross.”
But there is no butte; there is no river. There is nothing but sagebrush and rock, mile after mile. The sandy soil coats everything in gray-brown, and our throats are dry, our eyes gritty. We came across freshly dug graves this morning, and it made me cold in the midst of a hot day. We are all on the edge of oblivion, with no relief in sight.
Mr. Meek has ridden ahead, I think as much to avoid the wrath of those he has led to this place as to actually find a way through. I hope that no other company that follows is as gulled as we have been.
“He’s a fool,” Jonathan raged last night at our fire. “We have already gone far beyond where he told us the Deschutes River lies. I wonder if he has ever traveled this way.”
“Yet the river must be there, eventually,” Gus said.
Jonathan snorted. “Aye, and so must China be…eventually.”
“If we strike north, we will reach the Columbia Gorge,” Bart said. “We can find the well-traveled path. Better that we be late than that we never arrive.”
“Gerald Simmons has already decided to do so,” Jonathan said. “He is leading a group north tomorrow. I say we should join them.”
There was silence at that. Jonathan is no longer in a position of influence, as he once was. Gus is the man whom Bart listens to, and so whatever Gus decides, we do. It drives Jonathan mad with indignation, but he never shows it to others, only to me, late at night. I have learned to listen to his resentment and not express an opinion either way, and hope that it dissipates.
Gus finally spoke. All were listening, the women and children as well as the men. “We will stay with the main body for now. There is safety in numbers, and we can always turn north if need be.”
And so we continue into the dust and sun, day after day. Jonathan grows frustrated, sure that by the time we reach Oregon all the land will be gone, or at least all the good land. That isn’t possible, I think. It is a big country, and I will be surprised if we are not among the first of multitudes yet to come.
But first we have to reach the Willamette Valley safely, with our possessions and our lives. I fear for both.
September 6, 1845
The road is all short turns, sidling places, hard pulls, and rolling stones. We traveled up a ravine so narrow that there was no way to avoid the large, sharp rocks. We made it through without incident, or so we thought.
On a flat plateau, our wagon finally broke. We were not even on a rough road, and perhaps Jonathan relaxed; he struck a rock that splintered the right front wheel, and the entire wagon tipped over, throwing those of us riding in it against the side and almost crushing Edwin, who was walking beside it.
Once again we have been saved our friends. Gus and Bart immediately pulled aside, letting the others pass, and the rest of the day was spent putting our spare wheel onto the wagon. We tried to reach one of the campsites before dark, but ended up simply pulling off the trail and going to bed without the warmth of a fire or food in our bellies.
September 7, 1845
This morning, we hurried to get underway so that we didn’t fall in with the last group of wagons, for if that happens, by the time we arrive at any watering hole, we will find the water gone or spoiled.
During all this, Cager has stayed in the back of his wagon, reading. As we started off, the wagon became hung up on a ledge of stone, and we could only get it off by rocking it back and forth. Jonathan was behind the wagon, and he saw Cager inside and it enraged him. He started yelling, “Get out here and help us, young man!”
Allie came to her brother’s defense. “Leave him alone!” she screamed. “He’s hurt!”
Jonathan wasn’t mollified. “He can walk, I’ve seen him.”
I was too embarrassed to speak. Here these kind people had spent an entire day helping us, and Jonathan was repaying them by yelling at one of their children.
Allie flew at Jonathan then, and I believe if she had had a knife in her hand, there might have been blood. Jonathan easily held her off, but he had an astonished expression on his face.
Bart heard the commotion and came running, and the two men nearly came to blows. Gus managed to separate them, but I fear that our long association may be over. I don’t know what we’ll do by ourselves. I believe that without the other men around, nothing will keep Jonathan from expressing his unhappiness in dangerous ways.
September 8, 1845
We went on without speaking of yesterday’s incident. Cager has come out of the wagon and is doing what he can to help, but it is clear that he is not healthy enough to do much. I am so embarrassed that I have stopped visiting with the other women.
It is very hot and dry, and there is nothing to cheer us. The road remains broken and rocky, with no way to get along quickly. The majority of the overlanders have decided to travel on through the night in hopes of finding water. Men travel ahead, lighting beacon fires of sagebrush. We tried to reach the fires in hopes that they had found water, but, exhausted, we have stopped to make camp without finding grass for the animals or water for any of us.
Some of the men want to stone Stephen Meek or hang him. We have now been traveling more than a week past where he said we would encounter the Jay River.
Fremont Peak has disappeared behind us; ahead is only rocky, inhospitable, broken ground.
I heard another overlander say, “If Meek doesn’t lead us out of this land, his head won’t be worth a chew of tobacco.” Yet other men insist that—even though we are lost—he still has more knowledge of the terrain than any of the rest of us.
We descended into a deep valley, wheels locked, dragging the biggest logs we can find to slow our plunge.
Will this trip never end?
Yet as intolerable as it has been for our small company, we have heard that in other companies, people are dying. This morning, we were told the entire King family, including a month-old babe, has perished, as well as Delaney Norman. Mr. Fuller lost his wife and daughter. I have little doubt that when we join up with other companies, we will find that
many others have died. I believe that because of the strain these last few weeks have put on us, we are all prey to any sickness we encounter.
September 9, 1845
We have stopped again. The two groups following us have decided to turn north, and we have decided to join them. If we can only reach the Columbia River, we believe we can stop long enough for repairs and to rest. It was not really discussed; it was clear we all wanted to try something different.
When Harrison Semple, the leader of this offshoot of the wagon train, turned his wagon north, we followed. But it was not long before we realized that we are lost again. We have no real idea where we are, and it is not a simple matter of continuing north. The terrain appears to be almost impassible. From a distance, it seemed to be the same flat terrain we have been traveling over for the last few days, but we quickly realized that there are deep gorges in our path, with no easy way across them. We have been traveling eastward because it appeared that the steep sides of the main gorge flattened out in that direction, but instead, as we turned into the morning sun, we found that the gorge only deepened.
Most frustrating of all is that we have traveled miles in the wrong direction. We have made camp on the edge of the gorge. All night, the winds have been blowing upon us, as if there is an angry god at the bottom of the deep, black ravine.
September 10, 1845
We have reached a low, stagnant lake, surrounded by tall rushes and full of ducks, geese and cranes. Elfie Packwood died today, and many others are sick and feverish.
Once again, we are trying to decide whether to continue or turn back. There seems to be no choice, for the gorge appears to be impassable. We have begun following our own tracks back west, and then once more to the south. We hope that when we reach the spot where the trail turns west again, we will not be too far behind the others to catch up.
Though the terrain is flat in this direction, the sagebrush grows so high and thick that we must take turns breaking through it. We spend much of our time compelling the unwilling oxen forward. The nights are turning colder, as autumn is upon us.
A young child died today. Because of what we have done, I will not say her name. We buried her without a marker, and then drove over the grave to hide it. We have heard that the Indians are digging up the graves to take the clothing of the dead.
I believe that God will forgive their desecration more readily than ours.
Chapter Nineteen
Testament of Virgil Conner
August 2, 1851
On Meredith’s orders, we have begun to load the mules with the nearly full packs of gold. The animals stagger under the weight, and I fear they will not make it back to Vale. Then I laugh at the thought, for I am convinced that Jake and I will not make it back either. Meredith watches us work with gun in hand and an impassive expression. Occasionally, he’ll say something that he no doubt means to be encouraging: “You’re going to be rich, boys. Any day now.”
Jake and I have decided we can no longer wait to make our escape. We aren’t even hiding our stashes of gold from each other anymore, since both of us already have more than we can carry. I intend to carry as much as I can for as long as I can, but will shed the weight if my survival depends on it.
We are just waiting for Meredith to turn his back. I don’t want to hurt him, but if I have to…
August 3, 1851
We all realize we are near the end. Meredith never comes near us and always has his weapon in hand. He acts casual, even friendly, but there is something threatening in that. I’d rather he seemed resentful that we were taking his gold. That, at least, would mean he means for us to keep it. I keep writing this testament because if things go wrong, it may be the only thing I leave behind.
Jake fears that Meredith will rob us, but I fear something far worse. I don’t believe Meredith means to leave any witnesses. We might have been blindfolded, but I do believe I have a sense of how far we came and in which general direction. I have told Meredith otherwise, of course. From the moment we arrived, when poor Tad exclaimed about how turned around and lost he was, I chimed in my agreement.
But I can’t help but think about the journey to this place, reconstructing it, adding it to what I know of the local terrain, and I think I may have a fix on where we are.
August 4, 1851
I must leave. There is something wrong with the air, the earth, the sounds and smells. It all brings back memories of the past. Yesterday, I saw my daughter. She was floating in the air before me, wearing the look of disappointment that I always remember when I think of her. I cried out, and the figment disappeared. I leaned against a rock and closed my eyes, my heart pounding. She had seemed so real.
For the rest of the day, as I was digging, the terrible thought came to me that if I had not neglected my poor daughter, Tina, she would still be alive. If I hadn’t been carousing around town every night, my wife Agnes would still love me. The feeling of remorse won’t go away. I remember that last argument with my wife, how mean-spirited I was, and regret washes over me. It is as if there is something pulling my innards down into the dirt. My heart feels raw, as if rubbed by sandpaper. I am hollow but for my roiling fear.
Yesterday, I turned to Jake, ready to confess that I could not take the darkness any longer, and I realized that he was weeping. Jake Tanner, weeping. A man who could outdrink, outfight, and outcurse any man I have known. Crying silently, the dirty streaks of his tears running down his furrowed cheeks like a flash flood in the desert.
I am not a thoughtful man. I know this about myself. How can I think about the past when I am trying to survive the present? When the occasional bad dream surfaces, I ignore it. I have lived as I must.
It was never my fault that these things happened.
So I believed until now. Now all I can think about is how I should have done things differently. How a few kind words to Agnes might have kept her my willing bride, and how, had I said a few words of encouragement to Timothy, perhaps he wouldn’t have run away.
Last night, as I returned to the front of the cave, I found Meredith frowning down at the ground, as if he was thinking sad thoughts. It was a strange sight, for Meredith rarely shows any emotion at all.
The gold does not warm me. At first, I was dazzled by it, but now it is merely more rocks. Gold doesn’t light the darkness, and it doesn’t have the warmth of human companionship. I’m tired, and I want to see the sun, to swim in a river, and most of all, to talk to someone who isn’t as dirty and tired as I am—man, woman, or child, even a stranger. I long to join civilization again. Tomorrow I leave, whether Meredith wishes it or not. He will have to shoot me to stop me.
August 5, 1851
This morning, I woke to a rumbling noise. I tried to rise, but the ground was shaking so violently that I was thrown to my knees. Jake also tried to rise and cried out as he was thrown against the rock wall.
When the shaking ended, we were in darkness. I couldn’t see the dust, but it filled my throat, and I coughed until my sides hurt and I nearly vomited. I swiped at my eyes, which made things worse, grinding the grit into them until the tears were flowing down my cheeks.
I couldn’t even remember which direction the entrance was. I reached out blindly and touched one of the walls and began to feel my way forward. I stumbled on the rocks of the cave-in before I reached the now closed-off entrance.
A flicker of light sent my fragmented shadow shooting up the crumbled walls of the entrance. Jake had lit a single match. I wiped my eyes as the light filled the cave. Then the light blinked out with a cry from Jake as the flame reached his fingers.
“Hold off,” I said, and my voice had a muffled quality, as if I was enclosed in a small space. The entrance of the mine was small, but until then, I hadn’t understood how I’d come to depend on that sliver of natural light for hope, for reassurance, and as a reminder that there was a bigger world outside. “We need to start a fire,” I said.
“Where are you?” Jake said. “Come toward my voice.”
/> I reached out and stumbled toward him. My fingers brushed against him, and he reached up and grasped my hand. “Here…I think I’ve found the remains of the campfire,” Jake said.
He lit another match and set it to the leftover tinder from the previous night’s fire. The welcome light filled the room, and we both sighed in relief. Jake’s face was black with dust, and his eyes were white and frightened. No doubt I looked just as bad.
“He left us here,” Jake said. “He took all the gold.”
“He took the food and water, too,” I said. “We can’t live on rocks.”
Jake didn’t respond. It was clear that he hadn’t thought of that. He moved off into the shadows and came back with his empty rucksack. “He even took my gold.”
Despite knowing it was a foolish reaction, I hurried to my own hiding place and found my pack empty as well. “We had the purest nuggets,” I said. “He must have known that.” For several days, Meredith had rejected almost all the diggings we had brought him, despite having one more bag he said he wanted filled. The pile of tailings—rejects that in any other mine would have been considered rich—filled one side of the cave.
Only then did the anger surge up in us. And if I was angry, Jake was furious. He started cursing, stomping about the chamber, kicking at loose rocks. “We should have rushed him while we had the chance,” he growled. “Even if we’d failed, it would have been over quickly.” He struck the wall so forcefully I was afraid he’d injure his hand.
“Careful,” I said. “We’re going to need to dig our way out of here.”
Jake laughed. “We have no tools. We have no water. There is no way we can dig our way out in time.”
“We have to try,” I said.
Jake lowered himself down beside the fire and stared disconsolately into the flames. I slid down across from him and joined him in his silence.
The Darkness You Fear Page 14
