Westering Women

by Sandra Dallas

  * * *

  THE RIVER DISAPPEARED, and the land grew desolate. For several days, the go-backs Maggie saw talked of the difficulties ahead. “Imagine the worst desert you can, and it is ten times as bad,” one told her. “Nothing before compares to what lies ahead,” said another. And a third said simply, “The devil designed the trail. You must travel through hell to reach California.”

  As they passed each eastbound traveler, Winny inquired about her brother. “Have you met a David Rupe, Davy he is called?” she asked. “Red hair, and eyes as green as the grass.”

  The men shook their heads. “I knew a Davy Brunning back in Kentucky,” one told her.

  “There was a Davy at the Goosetown diggings a time back,” another said. “Don’t recollect the last name.”

  “I bet he’s struck it rich by now,” Winny told Maggie. “They’d be calling him Mr. Rupe, not Davy. That’s why they don’t recall him.”

  Although she did not say so, Maggie was concerned that Davy had disappeared. Winny was making the trip to find her brother, not a husband. She would be devastated if he was not there.

  It was odd, Maggie thought. They had all signed up to go to California to marry the miners, but many of the women didn’t care about finding husbands. Winny wanted her brother. Mary had come for a new life for herself. Sadie hoped to get away from prostitution. Dora had signed up because she was pregnant. Caroline already had a husband. And she and Penn had run away from violent men.

  * * *

  TO SAVE THE oxen, few rode in the wagons. Even Dora walked, with the baby slung across her chest. From time to time, he gave a feeble cry. It was so low that only Dora and Maggie, walking beside the new mother, heard it.

  “I do not believe Baby will live much longer,” Maggie told Caroline when they rested one noon.

  “Such a cruel fate,” Caroline replied. “If that is the case, I worry that Dora herself won’t survive. She has nothing else to live for.” She thought a moment. “He must be baptized.” She hurried away to find her husband, and that evening, Joseph performed the sacrament, drawing a cross on the baby’s forehead with the river water.

  Dora hardly seemed aware of the ceremony—Baby slept through it—and in the next days, she could barely keep up with the others. Dora slept only in snatches during the night, waking each time the baby mewled, trying to get him to take her breast, but he would not suck and turned away his head. He was feverish, and Dora tried to cool his body with water, but the water was harsh and turned his skin an angry red.

  “Shall I carry Baby for you?” Maggie asked as she trudged beside Dora a few days later. The wind had come up, blowing so much dirt that Maggie had tied a scarf around her mouth and nose. She knew the dust in the air must make it hard for Baby to breathe.

  Dora did not respond. She seemed to be moving in a trance.

  “Here, let me hold Baby,” Maggie repeated. She reached out her arms to take the infant.

  Dora stared at her friend with unfocused eyes. Then she shook her head. “He needs no more care,” Dora said.

  “Of course he does.” Maggie stopped as Dora’s meaning sank in. “Are you saying…?”

  “He passed at our nooning.”

  Maggie closed her eyes against the tears. “Oh, my dear. Why did you not say so?”

  “I could not. We are a day behind because of me. I would not ask for another half day to bury him. Besides…” She staggered, and Maggie put her arm around the young woman to steady her. “Besides, I could not let him go yet. How could I leave him behind in this terrible place? There will be no one to care for his grave.”

  Maggie understood, because she had felt the same anguish at leaving Clara’s body near the Green River. She hoped wild animals had not disturbed it. The women had dug a deep grave, much deeper than the grave she and Caroline had dug for Lavinia. Still, she was horrified at the possibility the grave might have been desecrated, that wild animals might have fed on that dear body. She would make sure Dora’s baby’s final resting place was too deep to be disturbed. She did not want Dora to harbor such worries. “Only his body will be left. You will carry his soul in your heart,” she said. “I shall fetch Caroline. She will tell the ministers.”

  “Not just yet. Wait until we stop for the night.”

  Maggie agreed. Let Dora hold her baby for one more hour, she thought. It was not a very long time. She herself would have held Clara and Dick forever. She walked beside her friend until William called a halt. Then she told him that Baby was dead.

  As the news spread, the women grew silent, talking in whispers while they unhitched the oxen and turned them loose to find feed. They were quiet as they prepared supper and went about their chores. Just as they had felt a collective joy at the child’s birth, they now shared the loss of him. Quietly, they approached Dora with their words of sympathy, but the bereaved mother barely acknowledged them. She did not speak or cry. In fact, she had not cried since she unwrapped the infant hours before and realized he was gone. She sat propped against a wagon wheel, her dead baby in her lap. Maggie brought her a plate of food, but Dora did not touch it. Winny clipped a few strands of the pale hair and said she would save them for Dora.

  Bessie approached Dora and held out a silk scarf that had been a gift from her husband. It was as light as a butterfly, so she had not felt guilty about not discarding that bit of luxury. “Wrap Baby in this. He will wear something fine for eternity.” She unfurled the scarf, pale yellow with gold and silver threads running through it. “I should be pleased if you would accept it,” Bessie said.

  Dora reached for the scarf, and as she did so, the wind caught it and flung it out like a banner. It shimmered in the sun. Dora stared at the silk, then spoke for the first time. “It is the color of his hair.” She began to cry then. She put her hands over her face as she sobbed and gasped for breath.

  Maggie picked up the infant from Dora’s lap. “We will prepare him,” she said. She and Sadie washed the dust and grime from the tiny body. What did it matter now that the water was harsh? They wrapped him in the length of silk and then the small quilt that Maggie had made. Because there was no wood for a coffin, they placed him in a burlap bag. Once again, the mourners dug a deep grave in the dry earth.

  At twilight, they gathered at the gravesite for the burial. The words of the ceremony seemed too big for such a small soul in that hard land. So instead, Joseph read the Twenty-third Psalm, while William talked of God’s love, which he hoped would surround Dora in her sorrow. Then, as they sang a hymn, each woman picked up a handful of dirt and threw it over the tiny body.

  Later, as the women prepared for bed, Maggie volunteered for the first watch. She remembered what Mary had done after Clara died, and when the others were asleep, she peeled two boards from the side of her wagon and fashioned them into a cross. Then, using axle grease, she wrote “Dora’s Baby” on the crosspiece and placed it at the head of the tiny grave. Like Clara, Dora’s baby would at least have something to mark his final resting place.

  Twenty

  September 16, 1852

  Forty-Mile Desert

  Dora trudged beside the others in a trance, her arms folded against her swollen breasts. She seemed oblivious to the milk stains on the front of her dress, was unaware of the women who offered her words of sympathy. Every now and then, she muttered that she had sinned, that the baby’s death was due to her transgression.

  A pall hung over them all. William was edgy. It was apparent that the baby’s death weighed on him as well. “How many more souls will I have caused to pass on before we reach the mountains?” he asked as he walked beside Caroline and Maggie.

  When Caroline didn’t answer, Maggie said, “We will not allow you to take the blame for the death of the infant, any more than we will blame his passing on Dora’s sin. Do you think he would have lived had he been born in Chicago? Or Dora? She might have died in childbirth there. I believe you saved her by bringing her west. You also saved Evaline.”

  William did not appear to
hear her. He strode off, striking a stick against the earth until it broke.

  “He is greatly burdened,” Maggie told Caroline. Then she added, “It is your husband who has risen to the occasion. We are all grateful for it.”

  Caroline smiled a little and nodded. Joseph had indeed become their leader. As William sank into depression, Joseph had found strengths that had not been apparent at the outset. Over the last weeks, he, along with Mary, had made the decisions. Solemn and self-righteous at the beginning of the trip, he had become patient with the women’s foibles, had laughed at faults that in the past would have annoyed him. His good humor buoyed them all. What was more, Maggie had observed, where he had once considered Caroline as no more than his helpmeet, he now seemed to treat her as a partner, asking her advice and, to Maggie’s astonishment, taking it. “The women would not have made it this far without your support,” he had told her. Maggie had seen the joy on Caroline’s face at the words. Would Joseph have given his wife such praise back in Chicago? Maggie wondered. Caroline confided that Joseph had professed doubts and failings to her. “I believe he never did so before because he feared I would find him weak,” she said. “It is just the opposite. I believe his humbleness gives him strength.”

  Maggie wondered if Reverend Parnell resented his brother-in-law’s leadership. After all, the trip had been his idea. But he seemed unaware of the change in their relationship.

  Joseph came up to Caroline then and took her hand. He had become more affectionate as the weeks on the trail passed. He touched her as they walked, held her hand or patted her arm. Maggie knew that, despite the crowd of women and the lack of privacy, they had found time for marital relations.

  “When we stop, I shall rub your feet. I know they pain you,” Joseph said before he left to see a woman who waved him over.

  As Caroline watched him walk away, Maggie whispered, “Have you told him yet you are with child?”

  Caroline blushed. “How did you know?”

  “I can tell.” Caroline had lost weight during the march, and she had become less pudding-faced. Maggie had noticed the swelling in Caroline’s belly the day Dora’s son died and thought the Lord might be compensating them for the loss of Baby. As if one child could replace another! Caroline’s joy would no more help Dora deal with her misery than Dora’s baby had helped Maggie with hers. Still, she was glad for Caroline.

  “The others, are they aware as well?”

  “I have said nothing, and they are too tired to take notice.”

  Caroline smiled at Maggie. “We had given up on children. I accepted that I had failed Joseph in that way. As a man, God perhaps does not know it would have been better to have waited until I reached California. Nonetheless, I accept His decision with gratitude.” Then she added, “No, I have not told Joseph. I do not want to add to his worries.”

  * * *

  WHEN THE WOMEN reached the start of the Forty-Mile Desert they made camp, and Joseph announced they would spend the next day preparing for the crossing. The oxen were jaded and needed a day’s rest if they were to survive the grueling miles ahead. Two had wandered off the previous night and could not be found, and two more had been unable to rise in the morning. So another wagon was eliminated. Just five were left.

  Before the little train started across the sand, William ordered the women to cut grass for the oxen and fill every vessel with water. They would build campfires to cook enough food for the journey ahead, although Winny remarked that the sand was so hot they could fry eggs on it. And the travelers themselves must rest. The next two days would be the hardest they had yet encountered. The oxen were weak, and Joseph said that if the animals were to make it across, no one could ride in the wagons.

  Dora sank down beside a wagon and told Maggie, “I must feed Baby. My breasts are so heavy with milk that they pain me.”

  Maggie looked at the woman sharply. Had she forgotten her baby was dead? “Rest. You will feel better if you can sleep,” Maggie said. Dora did not argue. She lay down in the sand and closed her eyes. Maggie stared at her a moment, knowing Dora would not be able to walk forty miles under the relentless sun. Maggie would insist that Reverend Swain make an exception and let her friend ride in the wagon. She rose and went in search of the minister.

  Just then, an eastbound group of men stopped not far from the women. Because it was late in the season, there were fewer travelers going east now. This group might make it no farther than the Salt Lake and have to winter there.

  Winny, who was mixing cornbread, set the skillet in the coals and rose. She would inquire about Davy. Mary stood, too. The women had no guidebook and asked the groups they passed for directions. Mary said she was not sure why they did that, because each gave different advice. She could just as well determine on her own how to cross the desert. Still, she or one of the ministers always inquired. Mary looked around for Reverend Swain, but he was conferring with his wife, so instead she asked Maggie to come along.

  “Hello, the wagons!” Maggie called as the three women approached the group. Some twenty men were unhitching mules, leading them to water. She thought the train was made up entirely of men, but then she heard a baby’s cry. There must be women among them. “How was the desert?”

  A man looked up and shook his head. “We been to hell and back. I crossed going west and swore never to do it again, but here I am, God’s fool for sure.”

  “We start across tomorrow. Have you advice for us?” Mary asked.

  “Turn back is my advice.”

  “Have you heard of a Davy Rupe?” Winny broke in.

  The man turned to her. “Seems like I have. Your husband is he?”

  “My brother.” Winny was excited. It was the first news of Davy since she had seen his name on Independence Rock. “Where is he?”

  The man shook his head. “Maybe Dogtown. Maybe Goosetown. I cannot be sure. Cannot be sure that was his name neither.”

  When Winny looked away, discouraged, the man called to the others. “Anybody here heard of Davy Rupe?”

  A second man joined them. “Some there is that changes their names.”

  “Not Davy,” Winny said. “Have you come across him, sir?”

  “Heard the name of Rupe, but can’t recall the Christian name. Was a year ago, maybe more, maybe less. Over by Hangtown seems like. That where you’uns be headed?”

  “Goosetown,” Mary told them.

  “Close by.”

  “He was one of the Rough and Ready boys,” Winny persisted.

  “Ain’t they all,” the man said. “Ain’t they all.”

  “We came to ask advice for the crossing,” Mary told the men.

  “I told ’em turn back is what I said,” the first man remarked.

  “My advice, too. It don’t get better. Only gets worse.” He looked over at the group of women and asked, “Where’s your menfolk at?”

  “We have two of them,” Maggie replied.

  “The rest of you’s womens?”

  Mary, Maggie, and Winny were used to the incredulous looks when men encountered their train.

  “We heard of you. There’s talk of you in the diggings from men that’s passed you by. We thought it was a fairy story.”

  “Talk of us?” Maggie asked.

  He nodded. “Men gone ahead of you spread it about there’s a wagon train headed for Goosetown made up of women looking for husbands.”

  “The men are mighty excited about that,” his friend added. “Seems like they’re crowding into the diggings waitin’ for you. Womens is scarce in the camps. How many you got?”

  “Thirty-seven,” Maggie told him.

  “They’re expecting a hundred, two hundred, maybe more. That ain’t near enough to go around.”

  “But you have women with you, one anyway,” Maggie said, glancing in the direction of the crying baby.

  The two men looked at each other. “You thinking what I am?” one asked his friend.

  The women tensed. They had become used to men who had mischief in mind wh
en they saw the large group of women. “We are as able as any men,” Mary told them.

  “You have to be to get this far, ma’am. I would say more women make it than men. Now do not be sore at us. We mean no harm.” He paused. “We got us a problem.” He nodded in the direction of the screaming baby and said, “That there is the problem.”

  “A sick baby?” Maggie asked.

  “Not sick. Hungry. She ain’t had nothing to eat for more than a day, and I guess she will starve herself to death.”

  “We would give you milk, but the cows we started with are gone,” Winny said.

  “Her mother is ill?” Maggie asked.

  “Dead, and so is her pa. The woman died out there on the desert. The man said it was his fault, that he never should have took her to California. They was going back home, but after she passed on, he went crazy and shot hisself. Now we got a baby and no women and not a thing to feed her. It grieves us sorely.”

  The second man added, “We got no milk, so we tried water, but she throwed it up. She licked whiskey off my finger and went to sleep, but then she waked up hollering worse than ever. We got no way to take care of her.”

  “You want us to take her?” Maggie asked.

  “Sure it is she’ll die if she stays with us.”

  Mary looked at Maggie and Winny. “Are we of a similar mind?”

  “We are,” Winny replied.

  “Yes, we will take her,” Maggie said.

  The men grinned with relief and went to fetch the baby. They returned not only with the infant but with a sack of baby clothes and a gold ring that they said had belonged to the infant’s mother. “We sure do appreciate this,” one of them said. “I reckon she does, too.”

  Maggie reached for the baby and tried to quiet her screams. “Hush, you pretty thing,” she said. She remembered holding Dick and then Clara when they were infants, how the tiny bodies felt warm against her breast. For a moment, she wondered if the child might be a gift to her. Perhaps providence was giving her another daughter. She knew better, however. “She is starving. We must hurry,” she said, looking at the baby instead of at Mary and Winny.