William sighed. “As you wish, but we must spend the rest of the day readying the wagons.” He slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his head. When he drew back his hand, there was a spot of blood on it.
They were plagued with mosquitoes then, and Maggie wished for a hat with a veil like the one she had worn to the boat, then discarded on the St. Joe road. Her sunbonnet would have to do. What couldn’t be helped must be endured, she told herself, then thought of Clara, whose skin would be covered by welts in no time. She placed the yellow sunbonnet on her daughter’s head, hoping it would keep some of the mosquitoes away. Clara was still fussy and would be worse by the time they crossed the river.
The company talked about the best way to proceed. In any other train, Maggie thought, the men would have made the decision, but these women had shared in the work of driving the oxen and caring for the wagons. They knew as much about rivers as the men. Their advice was not sought, but neither was it rejected—especially not Mary’s.
Although the river was swift, Mary believed they could swim the animals across. Reverend Parnell suggested sealing the wagon beds with tar and floating them to the other side, but Mary feared they might topple in the current. Finally, they agreed the safest way was to build a raft and take the wagons across one by one. They would tie a rope to a pine on their side of the river, then one of them would cross to the other side and attach it to a tree so that it could be used as a guide rope. There was time yet that day to make a raft by lashing together cottonwood logs.
* * *
BY MORNING, THE Green had gone down a little, but rain threatened again. “It is as good a day as we shall have,” William announced.
“The water is still very high. Perhaps it will not rain. What would another day’s rest hurt?” Joseph protested.
William threw up his hands in exasperation. “Wait, wait! Why not wait until December. Perhaps the river will freeze then, and we can drive the wagons across on the ice. You can wait if you like, but the women and I will be on our way.”
Maggie stared at him in confusion. He was usually so calm, but he had been agitated these last days, always complaining of delay. Now Reverend Swain seemed to be the level-headed one. He, however, said nothing.
“We must keep to our schedule,” William said to his brother-in-law’s silent reproach. “I fear for snow in the mountains. You do not understand how it can be.”
“No, of course not,” Joseph said.
The two looked at each other for a time. Then William asked who would brave the water and carry the rope across to the other side. “Which is the strongest horse?” he asked.
“Miss Madrid’s,” Edwin told him.
“Then I shall take it.”
“No, he will not let you ride him,” Mary said. She had been standing with Maggie and the men, studying the river. “I will go.”
“I will not allow you to risk yourself,” William told her.
“You have no choice. Mine is the best horse, and I am the only one who can ride him. Besides, I am as strong as you are.”
“But you will be soaked,” Caroline protested.
Mary laughed. “And Reverend Parnell will not be?”
The others tried to dissuade her. Only Maggie realized that Mary actually wanted to go, that she took pride in her strength and endurance, and she wanted the women to be proud of her, too. Mary was adamant, and at last William gave in. He tied the rope to a tree near the riverbank and gave the other end to Mary, who saddled her horse, checking a second and then a third time to make sure the saddle was tight, the stirrups in place. The minister instructed her to find a spot where the bank was not soft, a little ways downstream from where they stood.
“’Tis a good thing she don’t ride sidesaddle. She’d be washed right off in the river,” Penn observed.
“At a time like this, propriety is of no consequence,” Bessie told her.
“I am beginning to think it is of no importance at all on the Overland Trail,” Maggie said. She watched Mary with admiration, thinking how the woman had been an inspiration to all of them. Mary had set an example. She was one of the reasons Maggie was different now—stronger, more self-assured. Maggie wondered what Jesse would have thought of her. If he were alive, would she still cower from him as she once had? And if she did not, what would he do? It was a moot point, since he was dead and could do nothing to her now, she told herself. Far more dangerous was the river.
They all watched as Mary checked the rope tied to her saddle horn, then urged the chestnut into the river. The horse fought her, but Mary prodded him, and he plunged into the water and was swept down the river with the current until he righted himself and began to swim. He resisted the force of the water as he made for the opposite bank. Still, the current was stronger, and it carried him along. Mary could not keep him on course. Suddenly the horse seemed to flounder and dip into the water, as if giving in to the river. Horse and rider were at the mercy of the swirling current, and Maggie feared Mary would be washed off into the water. A woman beside her gasped, and Maggie turned to see that all of them were watching Mary. It was as if they were all riding on that horse together. Mary pulled back on the horse’s head and urged him on.
“Can she swim?” Bessie asked.
“What does it matter?” William answered. “If Miss Madrid is washed off the horse, her water-soaked clothes will pull her down to the bottom of the river.”
The horse drifted and fought for traction as he and his rider were carried downstream. Then the chestnut caught himself and began to swim again. He reached the far side of the river, but the bank there was too high, and he could not get purchase. He was carried farther until finally he scrambled up onto dry ground. Mary dismounted and tried to wring out her drenched skirts. Then she raised her arm in triumph, and those watching, the men as well as the women, cheered.
Fourteen
The men had built a raft of large cottonwood logs and sealed it with tar. They believed it was safe, but it had to be tested before the women and wagons could be loaded. Now four men, including Edwin, who had crossed the Green several times, climbed aboard the raft. Edwin steered it into the river, using the rope as a guide. The raft caught in the current and twisted around, but the men righted it, and in a few minutes they reached the far bank. Mary helped them dock the craft. Three of the men stepped off. They would help unload the wagons after they were brought over. Edwin guided the raft back across the river. He would steer it back and forth.
Maggie had been ferried across rivers before, but she was apprehensive. So were the others. The raft might have been all right with four men on board, but the wagons were heavy, and each was filled with two thousand pounds of supplies. They could not be sure the cottonwood logs would not sink under the weight.
“Who goes first?” William called.
The women looked at each other; no one volunteered. Maggie clutched Clara and stared into the rushing water. Finally, Caroline stepped forward. “I will go,” she said.
Joseph looked at her with concern and something like pride. “And I shall escort you,” he told her.
“Hurry it along. We must all be over before the rain comes,” William said, glancing at the sky, where clouds were gathering.
The men pushed the first wagon onto the logs and fastened the wheels in place with chains. Then Caroline and Joseph boarded and stood beside the wagon. “Do not look at the water,” Edwin told Caroline. “It will hypnotize you and make you dizzy.”
She nodded as she clutched Joseph’s arm. Maggie could see fear on her friend’s face. Along with the others, Caroline had encountered enormous challenges, but this was the first time she appeared to be truly frightened. She closed her eyes, as her husband gripped her waist to stop her shaking. Maggie knew they were both praying. Caroline leaned against her husband, her eyes closed, as the raft swirled in the water, caught in the current. She stood immobile as water lapped over the logs and splashed her dress, until at long last the raft bumped against the bank and Mary helped
her out onto land.
Maggie, watching from across the river, had been caught up in the crossing, and when Caroline and Joseph reached safety, she clapped with the others.
“At this rate, we will be finished by midafternoon. We should leave this place before the day is out,” Maggie told Sadie. “I for one would like to be as far away from it as possible by nightfall.”
After the first wagon was offloaded, Edwin piloted the raft back to where the rest of the company waited. “Who is next?” he called.
“We might as well get it over with,” Bessie said. “Come, Evaline.”
The girl, who had been drawing, closed her sketchbook and smiled at Bessie. “Shall you hold on to me or I on to you?” she asked.
“Either would ensure we would both fall off. Instead, we will hold on to the wagon.” They waited until a wagon was secured on the raft. Then, along with other volunteers, they boarded the boat. The crossings went quickly after that, so quickly that William said they might even drive a few miles farther that day.
Most of the company was safely on the other side of the river when Maggie and Clara, accompanied by Penn and Dora, boarded. Maggie placed Clara in the wagon, then climbed in after her. Clara stood on a box of supplies so she could look out through the opening made by the puckered wagon cover, but Maggie lifted her down. “That is not safe. You might fall,” Maggie said.
“I want to see out,” Clara insisted.
“You can sit on my lap.”
“I want out. I want Penn to hold me.” Penn and Dora were standing on the raft outside the wagon.
“Penn cannot do that. She has to hold on to the wagon wheel or else she will fall into the water.”
“She can hold me.”
“No, Clara.” Maggie held the wriggling child tight, annoyed that Clara was still obstinate. What has gotten into you? she wondered.
“No, Mama. Don’t touch me. I am big. I can hold on myself.” Clara pulled loose and went to the front of the wagon to see through the opening. The raft got under way then and swirled a little, and Clara caught hold of a box. “See, I can do it,” she said. When the raft was steadied, she let go and twirled around. “Look, I do not have to hold on.”
Before Maggie could catch her, Clara had climbed on top of the box again. Maggie rushed to grab her and held tightly to the little girl. “Behave, Clara! You will do as I say. The water is dangerous. Grab on to me.”
Clara fussed, but she let Maggie grip her. The ride was smooth then, and Maggie told herself that she had worried needlessly about the crossing. The wagon box was deep. Maggie remembered how the men had chained it to the logs. She turned and stared through the opening and saw how far they had come. They were more than halfway now. She relaxed a little.
At that moment, a log submerged in the river struck the raft and sent it swirling. A box skidded across the wagon and caught Maggie’s dress. She let go of Clara with one hand as she struggled to free herself, and at that, Clara jumped up onto the box, then climbed out onto the wagon seat.
“Look, there is Evaline. I see Evaline. She is drawing a picture of us. Evaline!” Clara called, but the noise of the river drowned out her voice, and Evaline did not hear her.
Maggie ripped her dress free and reached for her daughter, but Clara was standing on the edge of the wagon seat, trying to catch Evaline’s attention. Evaline saw her then and waved, and Clara waved back with her free hand, then let go of the wagon cover to squash a mosquito that had landed on her cheek. The raft swirled, and as Maggie reached for her daughter, the craft was caught in the current and spun around, sending Clara tumbling off the seat. Maggie screamed, and Penn, holding on to the wagon, reached out for the girl, touching the tips of her fingers. She grabbed for Clara’s hand, but Clara, instead of crawling toward Penn, tried to get to her feet. The raft lurched again, and Clara slid into the water.
“Clara!” Maggie called in terror.
Penn, holding on to the edge of the raft with one hand, jumped into the water. “Where is she?” Penn yelled frantically. “I can’t see her.”
Maggie was out of the wagon then, searching for her daughter. “Clara! Clara!” she called, as if her voice would carry underwater. She glanced around the raft in the vain hope that Clara had clutched one of the logs and was safe. “Dear God, help me,” she prayed, saying “help me” over and over again.
Once she thought she caught a glimpse of her daughter’s yellow sunbonnet, but it was only a tree branch, and it sank into the churning, bubbling water. She stared at the spot where Clara had disappeared, thinking the little girl would pop up onto the surface. “Clara!” she screamed again as she went to the edge of the raft. She leaned forward, mesmerized by the water, ready to jump in, but Dora grabbed her. “You’ll die,” Dora yelled.
“I have to find her,” Maggie said, trying to pull away.
“You cannot.”
“Let go of me.”
Dora held fast to Maggie’s dress, risking her own safety, because another jolt would have sent them both into the river.
“She’s gone, Maggie,” Dora yelled.
“No. Let go. I will find her,” Maggie said.
The men, who been on the other side of the wagon guiding the raft, failed to see Clara fall, but they heard the commotion, and Edwin rushed to Maggie and grasped her. “There is no hope, Mrs. Hale,” he said. “No one, least of all a small child, could live in that current.” He gripped her while Dora helped Penn back onto the raft. Penn was cold and shivering so hard that Dora held her tight.
At the far side of the river, Evaline had seen Clara fall into the water. She screamed and pointed. The others rushed to the bank while Mary jumped onto her horse bareback and forced him into the river. “Where is she?” she called, as she kicked the horse into the current. She looked at the raft for direction and then back at the women on the bank, but Clara had disappeared in the rushing water. She was gone.
* * *
JOSEPH, CAROLINE BESIDE him, lifted Maggie off the raft. She was hysterical, at one moment calling Clara’s name and at the other begging God to save her daughter. Caroline put her arms around Maggie and gripped her as if she were a small child. Maggie tried to pull away, but Caroline held her fast.
Sadie helped Penn, who was shaking, her teeth chattering, onto the ground, then wrapped her in a quilt and led her away to a wagon, where she could change into dry clothes, then sit by a campfire. The other women surrounded Maggie, their silence stronger than words of condolence. Mary, who had ended her futile search for Clara and come back to the camp, joined them.
“She is with God,” Caroline said.
“She is with little Dick,” Mary added.
“But I want her with me,” Maggie sobbed. “I must find her.”
“God knows best,” someone said.
“Then I hate Him.”
“Do not blaspheme,” a woman muttered.
“I think God would understand,” Joseph told them gently.
“She was the best of us, the most innocent,” Caroline said. “It is a crushing blow to lose her, but we must remember that God is with us in our grief. Your loss is greatest, but it is a tragedy for all.”
“We had not counted her among the forty-four of you who joined the company in Chicago, but we must now, because she will always be one of us,” Joseph said.
Maggie did not hear him. “Clara needs me. I must find her,” she said.
* * *
THEY WERE ALL across now. There had been no more falls, no more accidents, and the women were safe—safe from the river crossing at least. They stood in small groups, silent, grieving, because Clara had indeed been one of them.
Maggie was not with them, however. She was following the two ministers along the riverbank as they searched for Clara’s body. Caroline had tried to dissuade her, but Maggie shook her head. “She is my daughter. I must go. She will need me.”
“Let her go,” Mary told the others, then said to Maggie, “I will go with you.” Maggie shook her head again, and Mar
y did not insist. Maggie trudged along behind the two men, absorbed in her own grief, paying little attention to what they said.
“I would follow this river a thousand miles if I thought we would find her,” William told his brother-in-law. He stopped, then plunged into the willows lining the riverbank. The branches tore at his arms, which were already scratched and bleeding, his shirt ripped. “I thought I saw a splash of color, but it was only a bush,” he said.
“We have come a long way already. I do not believe we will spot her. The water must have carried her for miles.”
“Then I will continue to search for miles. You go on back, Joe. The women need you. You can offer them a solace that I cannot.”
“They have need of you, too, Willie. You are far better at comforting the grieving than I.”
“Not this time. I myself have too much grief. It is my fault. If I had not been impatient, we would have waited a day to let the water go down.” He stretched out his hand at the river and said bitterly, “Look, the river has already subsided. And it did not rain.”
“Blame God, but not yourself.”
“Fine words for a minister, Joe. Yes, I blame God, but I blame myself, too, blame myself for so much. If I had not taken Anne west, she would be alive.”
Joseph looked up, startled at the mention of William’s wife’s name. “Say no more of that. The blame is not yours.”
Maggie glanced up as the two men stopped. She recalled vaguely the name Anne Parnell written on Independence Rock, but in her sorrow, the conversation meant nothing to her. She looked back at the river, searching. Clara might have been thrown up onto the bank. She would be cold.
Joseph looked back and said, “Walk beside us, Mrs. Hale.”
“No, I shall follow.” She held her grief close and did not want their words of comfort.
William studied her a moment but did not speak to her. Instead, he said to Joseph, as if Maggie were not there, “The blame is mine. This poor child’s death is on my hands. We have no body to bury. So there will be no stone to mark her life. I used to think I was an instrument of the Lord. I even allowed myself to think that when I asked you to join me in putting together this company of women. I saw it as a way of making amends for Anne’s death. I thought she was directing me to do God’s work. Now three of the company who trusted me are dead. How many more will die because of me?”
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