“God bless you—and her,” a man said.
Mary picked up the bundle of clothing, and the three started back to their wagons. As they did, they heard one of the men shout, “Let’s move on out.”
“I thought they were camping there,” Winny said.
“Perhaps they are going on before we change our minds.” Mary reached over and let the infant grasp her finger. “I wonder how old she is.”
“We forgot to ask. I do not suppose they know anyway,” Maggie said. “I should judge not more than a month.”
They reached the camp with the squalling baby, and the women looked up, confused. “What in the world?” Caroline asked.
“A baby,” Maggie explained. “A hungry baby with no mother. The parents are dead, and the little girl will be, too, if we do not take her.”
“If Dora does not take her, you mean,” Caroline said. “She is a gift from God.”
“That is what we thought, that or a gift from those men, at any rate,” Mary told her. “They did not know how to feed her. Where is Dora?”
The young mother was lying in the sand, sleeping. Maggie carried the baby to her and touched her arm. Dora awoke with a start, reaching for the baby. Then she stopped. “What…?” She shook her head, confused.
“The men over there”—Maggie indicated a cloud of dust—“they left her with us. We believe God intends this child for you.” She held out the infant to Dora, reluctant to give her up.
Instinctively, Dora took the infant and unbuttoned her dress. She put the baby’s face to her breast, and the child began to feed. Dora stared at the little head and listened to the greedy sucking sounds. Then she looked up at Maggie. “Who is she? Where is her mother?”
“Her mother is dead. Her father, too. Without your milk, she will die as well.”
“She’s your miracle,” Sadie said.
“No,” Maggie replied. “Dora is her miracle.”
Later, Joseph said they must find the baby’s relatives and arrange to return the infant to them.
“How can we? We do not know who they are. We do not even know their names—or hers, either,” Maggie told him. “The men did not tell us whose baby she is, and we forgot to ask.” She glanced at Mary, who nodded.
Joseph thought that over. “Then it is clear she is Dora Mifflin’s baby.”
After he left, Mary said, “I am glad we did not think to ask.”
Maggie smiled. She had not forgotten. And she saw no reason to mention the initials inside the wedding ring.
* * *
LED BY MARY, the women started across the desert just at sunup, anxious to be on their way before the heat of the day. Still, the sun’s rays hit them, and they were fierce. Before an hour had passed, Maggie was perspiring heavily. The desert was littered with broken and abandoned wagons and dead animals. The stench of the rotting dead was so bad that Bessie halted her wagon to search for a bottle of camphor oil that she and Evaline and the others could use to wet rags to cover their noses and keep out the smell. The air seemed impregnated with salt, which made Sadie beg for water. Joseph warned her that water was precious. They must be judicious, because they would need it later on.
Maggie walked barefoot, her moccasins long since worn through. The sand was so hot that it burned her feet, and she tied strips of burlap from an abandoned wagon around them.
“You should ride,” Maggie told Dora. “It is all right with Reverend Swain. He told me so.”
“I shall walk,” Dora replied.
“Then let the baby ride.” The infant, no longer hungry, was sleeping.
Dora shook her head. “I will carry her.” She had used a shawl to tie the child to her chest.
Maggie studied her friend for a moment. The day before, she had been sure Dora would die before the crossing was done. Now the young woman was as strong as the rest of them, and her spirits were better than most. She hummed to the infant as they walked along and kept peering at the little face as if to make sure the baby was really there.
“Have you named her?”
“I thought of Caroline or Mary—or Maggie—but I cannot choose. What do you think of California?”
Maggie thought California was a terrible name. “I believe we are not in California but in a place called Washoe,” she said.
“Washoe!” Dora exclaimed. “Why, that is the perfect name.”
Maggie did not think it was any better than California and perhaps even worse, but she only smiled. “You do not need to decide now.”
“I have done so. Her name is Washoe Mifflin.”
“Washoe,” Maggie told Mary later on. “Why did I not keep my mouth shut?”
“It is not so bad. You could have told her we were in the Forty-Mile Desert.”
* * *
BY NOON, MAGGIE was drenched in sweat. The women could not stand to build fires but ate cornbread from the morning’s breakfast and cold beans left over from the night before. Maggie tried to rest, but there was little shade beside the wagons, and she was anxious to be on her way. So she was glad that as soon as the oxen had rested and consumed some of the grass the women had cut and drunk a little of the precious water, Joseph called, “Move out!” One ox could not rise, and she and Mary unyoked him. They would lose more oxen before the crossing was done, Maggie thought, and would have to abandon another wagon.
Joseph and William drove two of the wagons, and the women took turns with the rest. Maggie was glad her stint was over. Now, head bowed, she walked beside Winny, both of them fanning their faces with their hands, although that failed to relieve the heat. Suddenly Winny yelled, “There is a lake! Look. Just a little ahead!”
Maggie looked up, excited. Perhaps the desert was not so deadly after all.
“It is a mirage,” William called. “There is no lake, no water. It is an illusion, a reflection of the sky upon the sand.”
“But I see it,” Winny said, running toward where she had spied the water. When she reached the spot, she saw it was just a little farther on. She started off again, then stopped and began to cry. Slowly, she turned back to the company.
“Mirages are not unusual out here. We shall see more before we reach the river,” William told her.
The sand was thicker now. The oxen strained to pull the wagons, and walking was harder. Bessie stumbled and fell, then forced herself to get up and continue. Maggie’s sunbonnet trapped the heat around her face. She took small sips of water from a canteen but, mindful of Reverend Swain’s warning, drank as little as possible. She glanced at Evaline, the dog at her side. The girl carried the two apple trees, and when the leaves wilted, she wet her handkerchief and rubbed the water on them.
“You must not. The water is too scarce,” Maggie told her.
“I promised I would keep them safe,” Evaline said.
“Not at the cost of your life,” Maggie replied.
Evaline nodded and began to replace the cap on the canteen, but Blackie jumped up on her, and Evaline dropped the container. The dog tried to lap up the spilled water, but it sank into the sand. Evaline’s eyes filled with tears, and she vowed to Maggie that she would drink no more water until they stopped to camp.
Late in the day, Joseph at last called a halt, and Maggie sank to the ground for a few moments’ respite before making preparations to camp. There was to be no camp, however. “We will rest and eat supper,” Joseph told them. “Then we will go on. We will march through the night and into tomorrow if we have to.”
As dusk fell they started again, walking silently beside the weary oxen. From time to time a woman fell and could not rise and was put into one of the wagons to rest. Then after a while she took up the walk again, since none wanted to be thought of as a slacker. At one point, Maggie spotted a sign that read “20 miles to water.”
“Only halfway,” Sadie said. “Oh, I’d thought we were almost there.” She uncapped her canteen to drink and discovered it was empty. She tossed it aside, startling Maggie, who stumbled, twisting her ankle as she fell.
“Oh!” Maggie cried out.
Sadie rushed to her. “It’s my fault. Are you hurt bad?”
“Only a little.” Maggie stood and grimaced as she put pressure on her ankle.
“Ride in a wagon,” Sadie said.
“No, I shall tie a strip of cloth around my foot, and it will be fine.” She reached under her skirt and unfastened what was left of her petticoat. Then she tore strips from it.
“That’s a waste of a pretty garment,” Sadie said. “I’d let you use my petticoat if I had one left.”
“Likely I shall find another abandoned farther on.” Maggie wrapped the strips around her ankle, then tested it. “All I need is a cane.”
“A stick’s going to have to do,” Sadie told her. She looked around but saw nothing suitable. They were near an abandoned Conestoga wagon. It rose up in the moonlight like a ship. Telling Maggie to wait a moment, Sadie searched through the abandoned cargo and returned, raising her arm in triumph. In her hand was an ebony walking stick with a gold knob. She handed it to Maggie, then rushed to Dora to ask if she could carry the baby. Maggie started off, limping, letting the others pass her by, slowly dropping back. No one seemed to notice.
In fact, the women were all but oblivious of each other now. A few stopped to rest and were left as stragglers, until Joseph discovered them and urged them on. They stumbled through the starlit night, through heavy sand that seemed to get deeper the farther they went. Every few hours Joseph called a halt, and the women ate a little of the food they had prepared what seemed like days earlier and drank a small amount of water. More and more canteens were thrown to the side of the trail.
Maggie plodded along behind them, never quite catching up. She thought she might beg a ride in a wagon, but when she reached the stopping place, she discovered the others had gone on. Once she stumbled upon the two apple trees, their leaves withered, and knew Evaline had thrown them aside. Or more likely, Bessie had insisted they be discarded. Someone else would have to plant an apple orchard.
She recognized one of the company’s oxen. It must have refused to rise and had been unyoked and left to die. She saw that another of their wagons had been abandoned so that the remaining oxen could be yoked to other teams to pull the four vehicles that were left. For a moment, she wondered if some of her things had been tossed out, but she did not have the energy to search. Moreover, she did not care.
She stopped for only a moment, then started on, slower now, guided only by the moon and the wagon trail that stretched west. Sometimes she passed other emigrants, but she was too jaded to greet them or ask if they needed help. Nor did anyone offer to help her.
She stopped only to rewind the bandage around her ankle, but after a while she could no longer do that. Each time she started walking, she grimaced from the pain and wondered if she could continue. The water had been gone a long time, and Maggie was parched. Her face, burned from the sun the day before, hurt her, and she thought her tongue was twice its normal size.
The sun rose, and in the daylight Maggie saw no one ahead of her. The desert stretched out as far as she could see. By now, the rest of the company would have completed the crossing. Surely someone would notice she had lagged behind and would come back for her. She concentrated on thoughts of Dick and Clara. The memory of her children kept her going. Each time she faltered, she remembered how she and Clara had started the journey together and knew she must complete it for her daughter’s sake. Clara’s death would mean nothing if Maggie failed to make the trip. As she struggled on, her thoughts of Clara changed. Now she touched the locket around her neck and wondered if, before a few more hours passed, she would join her daughter.
Twenty-One
September 19, 1852
The Sierras
Maggie did not know until Mary told her later that it was midafternoon before Winny inquired about her. The company had reached the river in the morning. They had drunk their fill of water, washed themselves and their clothing, then napped. Mary had examined the oxen to see which ones could continue. The company needed at least four teams for each wagon, which meant they must leave another wagon behind. So once more, the women pared their belongings, this time discarding even items they considered essential. They no longer cared about material things, only about reaching their destination.
Winny came across Maggie’s things, which were untouched, and asked if anyone had seen her.
“She fell in the night, at the halfway marker,” Sadie said. “I dropped my canteen, and she slipped. I found a cane for her, and she seemed to walk all right. I would have stayed with her, but I got caught up with Dora and her baby. I haven’t seen her since.” She wrung her hands. “It’s my fault she got hurt, and I’ll go back for her.”
“No, I will go. I will take my horse,” Mary said. She had not ridden the horse since before the desert crossing and had given him much of the water she carried. So the animal was rested enough to make the journey back across the sand. “If Maggie is injured, she will need to ride anyway.” Mary had been busy with the oxen and had not slept. Still, she hurried to saddle the chestnut, then filled two canteens with water and set off.
It was the hot of the day, and she was weary, but not as weary as the travelers she encountered who were nearly finished crossing the desert. She passed a group of wagons and inquired if anyone had noticed a woman alone, walking with a cane. The people stared at her, then shook their heads, and Mary understood that in their stupor, they had noticed no one. A man asked for water, but Mary would not share the canteens. If one person wanted it, the others would demand it, too, and there would be nothing left for Maggie. “Water is ahead, not far at all. You will make it,” she said.
Farther on, a man told her he had seen a dead woman. “I would have buried her, but I did not have the strength,” he said.
Mary shuddered to think of Maggie lying in the road where anyone could tear at her clothes in search of valuables. She thought of the dead oxen and horses she had seen and wondered if Maggie was already bloated. No matter what the condition of the body, Mary would bring Maggie back to be buried by the river. She would not leave her to rot in the sand. When Mary reached the body the man had spoken of, she realized it was that of an old woman. She kept on through the deep sand and then the alkali clay, baked as hard as a hardtack biscuit.
The sun was low, although it was still bright, and the heat continued. Mary wondered if she could see Maggie’s body in the dark, for she had almost concluded that Maggie was already dead. Perhaps someone had taken the woman into a wagon, but that was unlikely. Would anyone pick up a straggler and let her ride while they themselves walked to save their oxen? There was little chivalry on the trail. In her search for Maggie, Mary had come across a man and woman fighting over a canteen of water, each demanding the other’s share. The man, the stronger of the two, won and raised it to his lips. Mary urged the chestnut forward at the thought of her friend hobbling along by herself or lying in the sand dead. She would find Maggie if she had to go all the way back to the twenty-mile marker.
* * *
MAGGIE COULD NO longer walk. She crawled now, the hot sand burning her hands and knees and scraping them raw. Her dress was torn, and she had lost her sunbonnet, so that her face was red and swollen. Her hair and face and body were covered in dust. She was barely aware that she still gripped the cane. Every now and then someone passed but did not stop. She looked up once to see two men staring down at her. “Hold on to us,” one said, but in her delirium, Maggie did not understand they would aid her. She clutched the cane to defend herself, and the men shrugged and went on. Maggie’s mind wandered. Two or three times, she thought she heard her children calling her.
She saw a tall figure loom up in front of her and tightened her hand on her cane when the figure stopped—a man on horseback. She had given up the hope that someone would help her and knew anyone who took notice of her was not to be trusted.
“Maggie?”
She heard her name and wondered how the man knew it. He dismounted
and came to her. Jesse, Maggie thought. He had found her. He had come to take Clara. But he was dead wasn’t he? And Clara, too. Maggie raised her cane.
“Maggie, it is Mary,” a voice said.
Maggie looked up with eyes as red as the sunset that blazed across the sky. Mary? She was puzzled for a moment, because her brain was fogged.
“It is Mary. I have come for you.”
“Clara. Do you have Clara?”
Mary swallowed hard, then said, “Clara is at the river.”
“Oh,” Maggie said. “Do you have water?”
Mary took the canteen from the horse and held it to Maggie’s mouth. She let her have only a few sips, because the water had to last until they reached the camp.
“More,” Maggie pleaded, and when Mary said no, Maggie began to cry.
Mary put her arms around her friend and brushed the sand off her face. “You are safe, Maggie. The others are waiting for you. I’ve come back to fetch you.” She picked up Maggie and set her on the horse, then mounted the chestnut herself. From time to time, she gave Maggie sips of water, but Mary herself never took a swallow. She sang a little, and Maggie relaxed, finally falling asleep. Mary held her tight.
When she awoke, Maggie was confused. At first, she did not know where she was or why she was on a horse. She turned her head to look at Mary, and then, slowly, she remembered. “You came for me,” she said.
Mary nodded.
“I would not have made it. I heard angels singing and Clara calling me. She wanted me with her.”
“We wanted you, too,” Mary said. “Your family here wants you.”
Maggie, her mind clearer now, thought about that. In the hundreds of miles since St. Joseph, she had seen other companies fight and break up, had known of partners who robbed each other on the trail. Some travelers left behind their sick to die alone. The women had done none of those things. There had been bickering and slights, even hostility. But over the hundreds of miles, they had come together until now they were as one. If Mary had not returned for her, Sadie would have, or Bessie, or any of the others. Just as she would have gone in search of them.
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