Westering Women

by Sandra Dallas

  “I will not do it! If I cannot go to California on my own strength, I shall throw myself under an ox team.”

  Maggie laughed and said, “You are too proud. Before we reach California, we will all of us lean on each other.”

  * * *

  ALL MORNING, MAGGIE looked for Pennsylvania House, the girl who had approached her the day before about joining the company. Maggie had expected Penn to show up first thing to make sure she didn’t miss the train, because there was no way she could join the caravan of women after they crossed the Missouri. As the day drew on, Maggie wondered if Penn’s man had discovered her plans and beaten her, maybe tied her up—even killed her. Jessie had threatened to kill her if she ever left him, and Maggie knew he’d meant it. She peered behind her so often that Dora asked who she was looking for. “A woman who hoped to join us,” she said, no more willing to tell Dora about Penn than she was to share Dora’s situation with the others.

  She saw Sadie and asked if she had spotted Penn. “Maybe she changed her mind,” Maggie said, although she doubted it. If Penn House had been desperate enough to share her situation, she had already made up her mind to run away.

  Sadie shook her head and said, “She was frightened. I seen women like that before. A man promises to be good, and they believe him, the fools. He’s nice for a day or two. Then back it is to what they had before, only worse. If he finds out she’s going to leave him, he will beat her bad.” She paused. “I ain’t trying to shock you. I know you for a widow, and I expect your husband was a good man.”

  Maggie didn’t trust herself to respond. Instead she said, “We may be Penn’s only chance to get away from such an evil man.”

  “No, there is another. She could go in a pine box.”

  Caroline, who had joined them, said, “We must pray for her.”

  “I never did much praying,” Sadie told her.

  “I have found it helps. At least it does no harm.”

  Maggie looked over the crowd and at last spotted a girl hurrying toward them. “There she is,” she said, relieved.

  Penn rushed up to them, glancing back over her shoulder to see if she was being pursued. The gesture made Maggie herself look around again, searching for anyone watching her. “I could not get away. Asa asked where I gone yesterday, and I says I was seeing the sights,” Penn told them. “Then he says I was looking for another man, and he whipped me something terrible. I think he broke my nose.” She touched her nose, which was red and swollen. Her eyes were black, too.

  “How did you get away?” Maggie asked.

  Penn scanned the crowd again. “He went for the borrow of a sledge. Soon as he disappeared, I run off. All I brought is what I got on. I got a dollar in my shoe that I stole last night, but I ain’t got no more clothes.”

  “I will share mine,” Maggie said, thinking she could cut down one of the dresses Louise had let her take so that it fit Penn, who seemed as thin as the flower stem she had given Dora.

  “We must get you hid before he discovers you are gone,” Sadie said.

  The three women helped Penn climb into one of the wagons, then covered her with a quilt.

  “Do not show yourself until we have crossed the river,” Maggie ordered. “We shall keep a sharp watch for Asa.” Then she turned to Sadie. “Do you know his appearance?”

  Sadie shook her head. “No, but I know the look of him. We got to watch for a man with a sledge in his hand and hate in his eye.”

  Caroline shivered. “Do you believe we are in danger, then?”

  “If he finds out she is with us, I say we better watch out.”

  * * *

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON before the company reached the head of the line and the fleet of boats and rafts that ferried the travelers and their wagons and animals across the Missouri.

  “The prices are usurious,” Joseph complained in a loud voice as William negotiated a rate with a ferryman. “Tell him we are men of the gospel, taking a train of women to civilize the gold fields.”

  William only laughed. “In that case, he would likely charge more.”

  Maggie was apprehensive as she watched the loaded boats set off. “The Missouri looks like a giant mud puddle. You cannot see an inch below the surface,” she said to no one in particular. Water frightened her.

  “I never saw a river so dirty,” the woman beside her said.

  Maggie turned to see who had spoken and recognized her. She was Lavinia Mercer, the woman who had wanted to join the company because she already had a wedding gown.

  “I do not understand why the ministers do not engage a steamship to take us across. If men in California want us as their wives, they should be willing to pay for our comfort,” she complained. “It is bad enough that we should be expected to sleep on the ground. Why are there not wagons with beds for us?”

  The idea was so preposterous that Winny, standing nearby, laughed. “I have made up a thousand beds in my life and am glad not to make up another for five months.” She and Maggie exchanged a look.

  “The mosquitoes are terrible,” Lavinia continued, slapping at her arm. “And I do not care for the food. The trip is not what I had expected. Why was I not told more of the hardships?”

  “You could quit. There is still time,” Maggie said, thinking Lavinia’s fiancé was lucky he had not married such a complainer.

  “And do what? Where would I go? This is the best I can do, and a bad choice it is.” She turned toward the river, a look of distaste on her face. “I do not believe it is safe to cross in such a way. Perhaps I should speak to the ministers.”

  Suddenly there was a cry of “Look!” The three turned to see a man topple off a boat into the Missouri. He flailed his arms. His head bobbled up and down, and then he disappeared under the water.

  Maggie looked for Clara, but the girl was safe with Mary. She rushed with the others to the edge of the river to watch.

  “Maybe he cannot swim. Someone must jump into the river after him,” Lavinia said.

  “Then two would drown,” Winny told her. “You could not see the body under all that dirty water. If he cannot save himself, then he is done for.”

  “But the boatman—” Lavinia protested.

  Maggie interrupted. “What could he do? If he jumped in, what would become of the raft? It would overturn, and all those aboard would be drowned.”

  The women stared in horror at the water, hoping to spot the man’s head. They heard a piercing wail from the river and saw a woman standing at the edge of the raft, her arms raised in supplication. Beside her were small figures—children.

  “What will she do?” Winny asked. “Will she go on?”

  “She might,” William replied. He, too, had seen the man fall into the river and had joined the women on the bank. “There are single men who would marry a widow for her wagon and provisions.”

  “It is a horrible thought,” Lavinia retorted. “A woman who would marry while her husband is barely dead.”

  “That may be,” William replied. “But what else can she do? It is likely they sold everything to outfit themselves for the trip west. What is there to return to? Sometimes the unknown ahead is preferable to the known we have left behind.”

  Maggie turned to stare at him. Was he speaking of himself? He was certainly speaking of her.

  The raft reached the far side of the river, and the wagon was unloaded. William watched as it disappeared into the crowd of vehicles and people. “We will never know,” he said.

  “We shall pray for his soul and the well-being of his family,” Caroline said, as she wrapped her hands in the apron she wore to protect her dress.

  Dora was somber, staring at the spot where the man had disappeared. “I did not think it would be like this,” she said.

  “It will get worse. Some of us will die, too, I think,” Mary told her.

  “You are right,” Maggie said. “But most of us will live, and we will make it to California.”

  “God willing,” Caroline added.

  “Hu
rry it up!” the ferryman called. Drownings were nothing new, and a long line of wagons waited to board the rafts. “Who be the first among you?” he yelled.

  Maggie expected Mary to step forward, but even the big woman seemed to have second thoughts. For the first time on the journey they had witnessed death, and that sobered them. Maggie had thought only of getting away with Clara. Now she was faced with what lay ahead. Had she been too hasty in agreeing to the trip? Still, what else could she have done? Perhaps the other women realized the enormity of their undertaking, too. None of them volunteered to be first.

  “Others be waiting. You want to go or not? Makes no difference to me. Who’s next?” the ferryman repeated.

  William, who had bowed his head in prayer, looked up then and said, “Joe, you and I will set an example—”

  Mary cut him off. “I shall be first.”

  Maggie looked around to see who would speak next. When no one did, she took Clara’s hand and stood beside Mary. “And we shall go with you.”

  Six

  May 15, 1852

  Gold Rush Alley, or the St. Joe Road

  After a week on the road to Fort Kearny, Maggie was used to the routine. Still, it was not easy. The dust and smells of the animals, along with the smoky campfires, made her irritable. Clara often refused to wear her cap, and the sun burned the child’s face. Maggie herself limped because of blisters. She wrapped her feet in strips of cloth, but the grit of the trail worked its way into her shoes and under the bandages. She tried going barefoot, but the rocks and thorns tore at her feet. She had mended her dress—Mary’s, too—because it caught on the underbrush, and she wondered if her clothing would be rags before she reached California. She might have ridden on one of the horses that Reverend Parnell had purchased, but he had brought only men’s saddles, and Maggie was not willing to try one—not yet. Only Mary, often with Clara sitting in front of her, rode astride on her big red horse.

  The days were dictated by the sun. Maggie rose at four and breakfasted with Clara and Mary, Winny, Dora, Penn, Sadie, and Lavinia. Then they packed their belongings. The men William had engaged to accompany them harnessed the oxen. Mary helped, and Maggie tried, but even with Mary’s training, she felt useless. Will I always be found wanting? she wondered.

  By six, the company was ready to move out. Maggie was glad they could travel in the cool of the morning, because by ten her face was covered with fine dust, and she felt sweat trickle down her sides. She had thought she would ride in a wagon, but the board seat was hard, and after an hour she was bored by the slow pace of the oxen and the monotonous landscape. Besides, Clara did not want to sit still, and Maggie worried she would jump down and be trampled by the oxen.

  The prairie was covered by long brown grass that waved in the wind. The grassland seemed to stretch on forever, so far that Maggie thought she could see the earth curve. Sometimes there was not a single thing to mark the plains except the sight of another wagon train. “I wonder why God did not see fit to plant a tree here,” Mary complained to Maggie.

  “It would block the view,” Maggie replied with a laugh. Clara was beside her, on the hunt for treasures, while Maggie searched for berries and wild onions. Neither was very successful.

  At noon, William called a halt so the company could eat a cold meal and the animals could rest. After an hour, he set the wagons on the trail again until four or later, choosing a campsite when he found a suitable spot. He instructed the women to form a circle with the wagons, with the oxen and the horses and the dairy cows that Caroline had insisted they take along corralled in the center. By dark, Maggie was asleep, wrapped up in quilts and lying on a gutta-percha tarp spread on the ground.

  She shared cooking duties with the others. Even Penn crept out of the wagon to take her turn at the campfire. Except for meals, however, Penn stayed hidden, until after a week Maggie convinced her to walk by her side. Still, if Penn saw men on horseback approaching from the east, she disappeared into the wagon. The entire train knew that Penn had run away from a man who had beaten her and that she feared he was following. Most were sympathetic, but Lavinia complained that Penn put them all in danger. “Who knows what she done to cause that man to hurt her. I do not trust her. Who said she could join us? Besides, she is mighty common,” Lavinia said.

  “She is all right,” Maggie told her. A better companion than you, she thought. Penn never complained. In fact, after she felt safe leaving the wagon, she was quick to offer to help others. She knew almost as much about oxen as Mary and was happy to walk beside the brutes when others were tired. Maggie came to love her, because Penn had extracted a thorn from Clara’s foot, then rubbed it with a salve made of herbs to keep it from swelling. And when a rattlesnake curled up beside a wagon wheel near the little girl, Penn took a pistol from her pocket and shot the snake.

  Maggie and Mary protected Penn. Whenever a group of men passed them, the two insisted they take over Penn’s chores and let her ride in the wagon. “I should be about,” Penn said once when there had been no sign of Asa.

  Maggie told her, “We are all safer if you are hiding when he passes by.”

  When the wagons were corralled at night, Mary told Penn to sleep in the center. “Asa will not sneak up on you,” she explained.

  Maggie hemmed Penn’s skirt, and Sadie gave her a blouse and drawers and a petticoat, because Penn had joined them with only the dress she wore. Bessie gave her gloves, and Evaline presented her with hair ribbons.

  Penn ran Evaline’s gift through her fingers with wonder and said, “I never had a ribbon in my life, nor underwear, nor a present neither.”

  “There is not one of us here who is not concerned with your well-being,” Maggie told her.

  * * *

  MAGGIE LIKED IT when her wagon was in the lead and she did not have to deal with the dust from wagons in front of her. Of course, the next day, the lead wagon returned to the rear, and the others moved up a place. Maggie often tied a handkerchief over Clara’s nose and mouth to keep her from breathing in the dust and brushed the child’s hair each night to remove the dirt and sticks that blew into it. One night, Clara’s hair was like mud because they had marched through a rainstorm. Maggie had suggested they stop and seek shelter under the wagons, but Reverend Parnell said they had to keep moving. “We are already late in the year to be on our way, and we are not keeping up with other trains. Every day, every hour counts if we are to reach California before the snows. Besides, there will be worse days ahead. You will be glad later on that we did not stop now.”

  “But it would be for only an hour,” Maggie protested.

  “In a snowstorm, an hour is as important as a day,” he said.

  Maggie looked forward to Sunday—they all did—because it was their only day of rest. That first Sunday, William and Joseph disagreed on whether to stop or to keep going. “Honoring the Sabbath in that way will add two weeks to our journey,” William protested. “I believe we can praise the Lord as we go along.”

  “I will not break the commandment to rest on the holy day,” Joseph said. “The women and animals need it. They will be refreshed for the following week. Go if you choose, but I shall stay and catch up with you later.”

  “There are other commandments we shall willingly break on this trip,” William told him.

  “Not I.”

  Maggie, who had fretted at Reverend Swain’s sense of righteousness, was glad then that he held steadfast on that issue. She needed the rest, although the Sabbath was not a day of leisure. It was a day for catching up, for doing laundry, mending clothing, washing themselves, and cooking what they could for the coming week. Maggie discovered that preparing meals over a campfire was not a pleasant task. The fire sent out sparks that burned her skin and made holes in her clothing, and the wind blew smoke into her face and hair. The food was tasteless, and after just a week, she found it monotonous—side pork, beans, cornbread or biscuits, a few greens only if they were discovered along the road, and prairie chicken if Mary was lucky enoug
h to shoot one.

  “I’ll be bloated big as a sow by the time we reach California,” Lavinia complained. When she thought no one was looking, she reached into her trunk for a box of sugar candies, slipping one into her mouth but offering none to the others, even Clara. Maggie saw the little girl stare at the sweets, and she was disgusted with Lavinia’s greediness. Lavinia had refused to take her turn at cooking, and that evening, after the others complained about her, Lavinia told Mary, “I was never expected to cook at home, so why should I do it now?”

  “Do not hold yourself above the others. If you do not cook, you will not eat,” Mary chided. “Do your part, or you will be sent home.”

  “And how’ll you do that?” Lavinia asked defiantly. “You think the ministers are going to turn me out to walk back to St. Joseph?”

  “If need be. After all, we cannot spare a horse.”

  Lavinia stamped her foot. “I was never treated this way!”

  “You should have been,” Mary said, turning her back.

  “You never cooked over a hearth?” Maggie asked. She took out beans from the night before and put them into a kettle over the fire. She was angry at Lavinia, too, but they had to eat. Despite Lavinia’s selfishness, Maggie felt sorry for her.

  “We always had us a cook,” Lavinia said.

  “But you knew it was expected of us. The preachers made it clear. Did you not hear them?”

  “I never expected to come this far. I never expected to come at all.” Lavinia watched as Maggie cut slices off a slab of bacon and laid them in a cast-iron pan, then set the pan on the coals.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought Arthur—he was my intended—was coming for me. We had us a quarrel. He said he wouldn’t marry me then, but he never meant it. He loved me too much. He should have come for me when he found out I was going to California. He should have begged me back. He was at the boat. I know because I saw him plain as anything.”

  “You did not talk to him?” Maggie asked, thinking perhaps Arthur was not there to ask Lavinia to stay in Chicago but to make sure she was leaving.