“Tell them what they must take with them,” Caroline said, and Maggie leaned forward to hear the answer. Perhaps they would be required to purchase their supplies.
“As little as possible,” William answered. “We will provide the wagon and tents, the food and other provisions. You will need to bring sensible clothes, boots and two pairs of sturdy shoes, medicines, and personal items.”
“I shall personally supply each woman with a Bible,” Joseph interjected.
“Thank you, brother.”
“What about my furniture, my dishes. I could not go without my spinning wheel,” a woman called.
“There is no need for furniture, and likely you would have to discard it along the way if you brought it. As for dishes, we will have tin ones. China would be broken before we get to Fort Kearny. I would allow you to take your spinning wheel only if you would agree to carry it in your arms for two thousand miles.”
My dressmaking things, Maggie thought. They will not take up much room. She glanced down at the large bag she had brought with her and set on the floor. It contained her thimble and threads and measuring tape, her scissors and needles and pins. There was fabric, too, including scraps for mending and quilting. If she had to, she could tie some of the contents to her belt.
Reverend Parnell spoke again. “Ladies, I cannot emphasize too much that this will be a rigorous trip. A dangerous trip. None but the hardiest should undertake it. I do not want any of you to agree to it without knowing what will be expected of you.”
Mary raised her hand, and Reverend Parnell nodded at her. “How much you going to charge us?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, how much?” and “I wondered about that.”
Maggie had not thought about the cost. Of course there would be a charge. It didn’t matter how much. She had no way of paying it. She had been imprudent in coming here.
The minister paused and smiled at the women. “Not one copper. We have raised the cost of the trip from generous members of the community.”
Mary and Maggie exchanged glances, and others murmured words of surprise. Caroline took her husband’s hand.
“Many have supported our venture with their purses, but we are indebted to one member of the congregation in particular who has generously agreed to underwrite most of the journey. That person wishes to remain anonymous.”
“So we don’t need to pay anything?” Mary asked.
“You will need to supply your clothes and anything else you wish to take with you. And you should bring along an amount of cash to pay for necessities along the way.”
“How much?” someone shouted.
“A hundred dollars should suffice.” When a woman groaned, he added, “Many can make do with half that, perhaps even less.”
Maggie touched her pocket. She had little more than twenty dollars, but she would make that do.
The woman beside Maggie stood up and walked out with several others. Most stayed until the questions were done and William held up his hand. “We would like to see how many of you are interested in joining us. You have a week to commit yourselves, but if you would line up now, Reverend and Mrs. Swain and I will interview you. Do not be offended if we say you are not suitable for the trip. As I have told you, only the hardiest women should make it.”
Two
“Will you go, Maggie?” Mary asked. She removed her shawl, revealing thick yellow braids wrapped around her head.
Maggie shrugged. “I do not know. I have to think on it. What about you?”
A woman stepped aside to allow Mary into the aisle. “My brother and his wife will call me puddin’ headed. They will surely try to talk me out of it. Perhaps they are right, but I believe they are not,” Mary replied, setting Clara on her feet.
The little girl smiled up at Mary, who for the first time, it appeared, saw the bruise on the side of the child’s face. “Fell, did you?”
The girl buried her face in her mother’s skirt.
Maggie didn’t reply as Mary pushed up the veil on Maggie’s hat and studied the bruises on her face, too. After a moment, Mary said, “I help raise my brother’s young ’uns. They are all the time falling.” She reached over and touched Maggie’s nose. “It looks broken. I guess you fell yourself.”
“There are stairs,” Maggie said, although that didn’t explain it.
“Stairs,” Mary said and nodded. She stepped aside to let two women retreat up the aisle to the door. One muttered she would not walk two thousand miles for any man, even Millard Fillmore. Her companion replied she would not walk even a mile for the president, such a bungler was he.
Mary watched them for a moment, then said, “I have made up my mind to go. They—my brother, Micah, and his wife, Louise—they cannot stop me, but they will make me feel as if I have lost my mind.” She paused. “If you would come, I would help you care for the girl.”
“She likes you,” Maggie said.
“Children and cats, but maybe not men.”
“You have not found one to your liking here?” Men were fickle, Maggie thought. They cared more for a woman’s pretty face and slim waist than for her intelligence and hard work. She would have pitied Mary but suspected the woman would reject such sentiment.
“He has not found me.”
“Surely you do not need to go all the way to California to acquire a husband.”
“Oh no. There is old Howard Hale. He has the farm next to ours, that is, my brother’s farm. In truth, it is half mine, was left to me in partnership by our parents, but Micah says that by law, a woman cannot hold ownership if she has a man to act as guardian, and so it is my brother who claims it. Micah thought it would be a good thing for me to marry our neighbor and bring the land into the family. Howard is as old as the saints, and he had no children by his first wife. As the second, I would inherit his holdings.”
“Would it not be a good thing, then, to have your own land?”
“If I inherited it, Micah, as my guardian, would take control of it, too.”
“Perhaps you would have a son by then.”
Mary snorted. “Not by that old man. I would as soon sleep in the woodshed, begging your pardon, Maggie. I live on a farm and know the doings of the animals and sometimes do not watch my tongue.”
“You do not offend me. Little does anymore. So you will not marry him?”
Mary laughed, and Maggie thought she had a merry laugh, like a girl. “Would you marry a man who bathes only twice a year, on the days he changes his underwear, a man that is likely always drunk whenever he is awake? He is a lazy sort, who has let his land go to ruin and would expect me to farm it and care for the animals, as well as cook his meals and warm his bed. When he proposed, he inquired as to whether I could repair a roof.” She laughed again. “There was good reason. When the rain came through a hole in the roof onto his bed, he moved the bed.”
While Mary talked, other women pushed past them, and now the two were near the end of the line. “Do you want to sit a minute while you think it over?” Mary asked.
Maggie nodded.
“Is it the hardship you worry about?” Mary asked.
“No, I am used to it.”
“I would be pleased to carry Clara when you tire.”
“Thank you.”
“You would have time to make ready, more than two months.”
“That is a problem. I had thought we would be staying here until we left, that we would prepare ourselves or learn to drive the wagons, whilst we lived in the church. Clara and I are wearing all of our clothes, and I have brought our personal things in a bag.”
“And you cannot go home?”
Maggie jerked up her head. She had said too much. “Oh, yes, of course.”
Mary did not say more, as the two seated themselves in the shadow of a pillar in the front row. Maggie drew Clara into her lap. They could hear the ministers, but the men did not appear to notice them. She watched several women sign the applications. Others carried them off, perhaps to be read at their leisure—or
maybe only to be laughed at. Reverend Parnell turned away a woman who was tubercular and another old enough to be his mother. Maggie and Mary smiled at each other when a woman who gave her name as Lavinia Mercer said she already had a wedding dress and wanted to find a husband to go with it. Her fiancé had proved wanting, and she did not want the dress to go to waste, she told them. “I shall not forgive him,” she said, raising her chin in the air. She was plump and had a haughty face.
Joseph accepted two women who were widows but was not sure about one who had completed four years of college. “She would not make a good wife. She would want to be in charge of her husband,” he said.
Winny, the maid Maggie had recognized, went up to the men and declared she had made up her mind to go.
“Are you able to walk that distance?” Joseph asked, sizing up the girl, who was barely five feet tall.
“I walk a hundred miles a day going up the stairs with water and down them with the slops,” she replied.
Maggie smiled as she listened to the conversation. It was likely the girl had done more manual labor than either of the ministers.
“I ask because you are small,” Joseph said.
“My mistress does not think I am small when she has me scrubbing stairs and hauling buckets of coal. I work twelve hours a day and often more.”
“What do you think, Willie?” Joseph asked.
“Women know their strength more than we do. Sometimes I think they are better suited to the rigors of the trail than the men. I say she will do.” William handed Winny an application.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but as you have been to California, I ask if you have heard mention of my brother. David Rupe, he is. He left for California in ’50 and expected to find a fortune. I believe he must be very rich now.”
“California is a large place, and many men are there. They all expect to get rich,” William replied. “Nobody ever goes west to get poor.”
“He was one of the Rough and Ready boys.”
“From Maine?”
“Illinois.”
“I know of half a dozen Rough and Ready companies. I cannot say I have heard of a David Rupe, however, but some men change their names.”
“Oh, Davy would not. You would remember him. He is very strong and handsome, with hair redder than mine. It is bright enough to glow in the dark.”
“Many who leave are strong and handsome, but they do not always arrive in such condition in California.”
“You think he did not make it?”
“Oh, I cannot say that at all. There are dozens of diggings. Do you know the name of the place he intended to go?”
Winny shook her head. “His last letter came to me while he was still on his way to the gold fields. But I am not worried. When he discovers I have come looking for him, he will find me.” She slowly printed her name on the form and signed it. Then she sang out, “I’m off to California with my banjo on my knee.”
Maggie watched the girl as she left the chancel and went out a side door, glad the ministers had accepted her, because Winny was a good person. Later, if she joined the company, Maggie would take Winny aside and tell her they had met before and thank her for her past kindness. She wondered if Clara remembered her, too, but the girl was playing with Mary’s handkerchief rabbit and hadn’t paid attention.
The ministers interviewed scores of women, and the line was getting shorter when one stepped forward and picked up the pen and dipped it into the inkwell, only to have Joseph snatch it away. “Just a moment, madam, a few questions first,” he said, looking hard at her. The woman wore a gaudy dress, and her cheeks were rouged. Her hair was an unnatural color of red. Despite her tasteless embellishments, she was a beautiful woman, with white skin and deep-set eyes that were almost turquoise. “Who are you?”
“Sadie Cooper,” the woman replied, defiant.
“And what is your occupation?”
Sadie frowned. “I am a widow.”
Caroline smiled and turned away at that, and then Maggie herself recognized the woman. She was a fancy woman, a Magdalene who sometimes went to the Kitchen. Caroline had always greeted her with affection, and that thoughtfulness had impressed Maggie.
“And your husband, what was his occupation?” Joseph asked.
“None of your business,” Sadie said.
William looked up at that, then glanced at his sister and suppressed a grin.
“Such impertinence does not serve you well. Do you believe this woman is qualified to join us?” Joseph turned to his wife.
“Oh, but dearest, she will be perfect. I know her from the Kitchen. She keeps the women in line, makes sure they do not fight or steal each other’s food. And she loves the children so. I believe she would be an asset on our venture.” She glanced at her brother and added, “We do not want to take only timid women.”
“Her appearance, her dress, her face…,” Joseph protested.
“I know you would not be so un-Christian as to judge by appearance.” Caroline added in a whisper just loud enough for Maggie to hear, “Her dress is not her fault. Perhaps it was given to her and is all she has.”
Caroline’s brother had listened to the conversation and caught his sister’s eye again. “Her face will soon be covered with dust. Of course, if you judge her to be unacceptable…” Maggie thought that, like his sister, he had used the word “judge” on purpose.
Joseph stared at his wife a long time. “If you will vouch for her, then I will accept her,” he said, handing Sadie the pen.
“Noted,” William told him.
Sadie scribbled her name, then looked at Caroline with what might have been an air of triumph. After the woman left, Maggie saw Caroline exchange a smile with her brother.
* * *
THE CHURCH WAS almost empty now. A few women lingered at the back, perhaps out of curiosity, but when the line was finished, they left. In a few minutes, only Maggie and Mary and Mrs. Whitney, the woman in furs, and her servant were seated in the pews. Maggie started to rise, but Mary touched her arm as Mrs. Whitney stood up. She was as stylishly dressed as any woman in Chicago. She was not pretty, not even handsome, but still, she was striking because of her stately demeanor. It was clear she wanted to talk to the ministers privately. None of them seemed to realize two other women waited behind a pillar.
Mrs. Whitney went up the steps to the chancel, the Negro servant behind her, and Joseph bowed to her. “Why, dear Mrs. Whitney. I hope you approve of our beginning,” he said. “It was good of you to come and give us your blessing.” He turned to William. “As I have confided to you, Mrs. Whitney is the woman who is financing nearly all of our trip. She gave the rose window”—he pointed to the window behind them—“in memory of her dear husband, George.”
“I thought the financing of this venture a more suitable way to memorialize him. He was a fine man.”
“Your generosity overwhelms us,” William said. “As you can see, we have much interest in our venture. Twenty or thirty applications have been signed, and we may have more by the end of the week.”
“The women will be most grateful to you,” Caroline said.
“The women are not to know,” Mrs. Whitney told her. “That was our agreement, was it not, Reverend Swain?”
“It was indeed. My wife and my brother-in-law will keep your confidence.” He fetched a chair and set it in front of the table for Mrs. Whitney. She sat down, spreading her skirt over the edge of the chair, and Maggie saw a tiny tear in the fabric. She had made the dress only a few months before, and her fingers itched to repair the rip before it got bigger.
Mrs. Whitney reached for two applications. Then, to the surprise of the ministers, she filled them out and handed them to Joseph. “For my servant and me.”
Joseph looked aghast. “You are going?”
“I am.”
“You are going to California to find a husband?”
“That remains to be seen. I have been lonely since Mr. Whitney died. I have not found a suitable replacement among
the mealy-mouthed men who court me. They primp and fawn and lie to me, telling me I am a great beauty.” She turned to Reverend Parnell. “Tell me, sir, am I a beauty?”
Maggie and Mary exchanged looks, and Mary grinned.
“Of course—” Joseph began, but Mrs. Whitney cut him off. “I know what you would say. I ask Caroline’s brother.”
William studied her. The woman was younger than her manner would suggest, probably not yet forty, but her face was lined, and gray hair escaped from her bonnet. Her eyes were an ordinary brown. “You have strength of character in your face, and you have a stately demeanor, but no. I cannot say you are so very pretty.”
Joseph started to protest, but Mrs. Whitney held up her hand. “There, I want such an honest man, and one who does not mind soiling his hands to earn his living. I have found no such person in Chicago, and so I believe I will try California. Evaline”—she indicated the servant behind her—“has agreed to go along to take care of me. She is thirteen. I shall fit up a wagon for myself and hire my own driver.”
“That would not be possible,” William spoke up.
Mrs. Whitney frowned at him. “Do you object because Evaline is a Negro? Are you saying there are no Negro men in California?”
William looked down at his hands for a moment. “No, her color is of no consequence. There are plenty of men who would find her to be desirable. It is your demand that you take your own wagon. I believe it would cause dissent among the women if you accompanied them as you suggest. All are equal on the trail. If you were to play the great lady, you would find the others turning against you. The women must work together or they will not make it to California. Suppose you or your servant were to contract an illness—cholera, perhaps. You would need one of the women to nurse you. What if your driver were to be injured? Would you drive the wagon? No, madam, as grateful as we are for your support, we would not allow you to join the company unless you were on an equal footing with the others.”
“Surely we can make an exception. This is Mrs. Whitney,” Joseph said, wringing his hands.
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