Orphan Hero

by John Babb

Ben was beginning to realize that having money was not an easy thing. He had been ready to step right off the boat with everybody else and see the sights. It hadn’t occurred to him that someone from the boat might knock him in the head and take his money. “Thanks for the advice. I don’t have much money, but I aim to keep what little I’ve got. And Mister, if you’ll let me sleep on the boat, your haircut is free.”

  His last customer had been right regarding the status of the steamship’s passengers and crew. When Ben walked down the gangway at daybreak the next morning, he didn’t see a soul moving around, including the first mate. But the absence of people was overshadowed by the size and the numbers of warehouses along the riverfront. Not only did they almost stretch out of sight, but they all appeared to be some three or four stories in height. What manner of place was this St. Louis that there could possibly be so much commerce?

  He spied a sign advertising breakfast about a block away from the dock and spent one of his haircut quarters on bacon, eggs, and biscuits, realizing it might be the last hot meal he would have until he reached Independence.

  His traveling bag felt like it was getting heavier by the minute by the time he reached the Missouri River docks. There was certainly plenty of activity there. Horse-drawn wagons and Negro stevedores pushing two-wheeled drays and barrows were everywhere you looked. When he inquired as to the price of a boat ticket to Independence, the agent said he couldn’t sell a ticket to someone his age without an adult along, as they were headed into wild and dangerous country.

  “Why, sir, my father didn’t get back to the hotel ’til almost morning, as he is a man that enjoys strong drink.” Ben glanced sideways at the ship berthed in front of him. “He told me to be sure and get on the General Jackson packet boat if he wasn’t here yet. He’ll be along before you set off, but please let me go aboard so I can stop carrying this heavy bag around. If I have to carry this back to the hotel, my arm might fall off.”

  The agent looked at the size of the bag and the size of the boy. “All right, but be sure your pa reports to the captain soon as he comes aboard. You wantin’ the main deck or the second deck?”

  “The main deck is all we can afford.”

  “The trip is three dollars for you. Your pa’ll owe four dollars.”

  A ride on the river was not without risks. Although rare, it was not altogether unusual for someone to fall overboard. Depending on the speed of the current, the undertow, the temperature of the water, the amount of clothes the victim had on, and whether or not they were strong swimmers, only a few survived a plunge into the river.

  The Missouri was full of trees and stumps, and this was especially true during the spring thaw when the water was high and fast and had a tendency to wash away portions of the riverbank. Many a steamboat pilot ran his ship up on an invisible large snag, holed the hull, and lost their boat. At least one boatman was always stationed on the bow to watch for snags and measure the depth of the ever-changing river channel. Despite these dangers, steamboats and their passengers continued to make the journey.

  The second day of the trip, Ben rolled out his barbering equipment again. He offered to cut the hair and beard of one of the wildest looking trappers on board, and within a few minutes, an audience assembled to watch the man’s transformation. Once again, Ben had to stop his procedure and whisper a diagnosis. “Head lice.” He repeated his prescription advice, remembering that his aunt had used sulfur and coal oil for almost everything.

  One of the trapper’s friends sat down in front of him, mesmerized by the man’s shoeless feet. “Skinner, I don’t believe I ever seen feet as dirty as yorn. They ain’t no way them feet will freeze with all that dirt on ’em.”

  “Ain’t you never heard of insulation? With this here layer of good Missouri soil, I don’t need no boots like the rest of you girls.” Finally, when his customer looked in the mirror at the close of his procedure, Ben noticed a tear in the man’s eye. “Boy, I didn’t hardly recognize my own self! I reckon I forgot what I looked like. Ain’t had no haircut except what I could accomplish myself in at least eight or ten years.”

  Ben made sure he washed his equipment and his chair was full, with no letup even for a meal, until dark, when the steamboat made landfall on the south side of the river. A light was visible high up on the bluff, and a man who was obviously new to the frontier questioned Skinner. “Say, what place is this? We’re not in Independence yet are we?”

  “Naw. This here is just a little settlement, name of Rocheport.”

  The man had a look of anticipation when he asked, “Any excitement hereabouts?”

  “Rocheport ain’t got but two stores, two whores, and a fat German with a grape farm.”

  “Are they fine lookin’ specimens?”

  “The grapes or the women? I reckon it depends a lot on how picky ye are.”

  Thankfully, there was a much higher level of anticipation over the next three days for the excitement awaiting them in Independence, and Ben’s scissors stayed busy, as all wanted to look their best when they arrived. Once again, he began to worry about too many people knowing about his money. Despite paying for his meals and three steamship fares for the last ten days, he actually had more money now than when he left Jeffersonville.

  A full day out from Independence, a boatman on the bow shouted out, “Big log comin’ downstream on the port bow.” A few seconds later, “Cap’n, you better look. It appears to be a whole smokestack in the water off the port side.”

  Everybody crowded to the rail, including the captain. One look and the captain bowed his head. “I sure hope the passengers and crew are safe. I wonder if the stack is off the Algoma? Captain Greenlee left St. Louis about three hours before we did, and his was the only boat ahead of us. He’s as solid as they come. I hope it’s not his ship.”

  Another cry from the bow, “Another stack off the port bow.”

  This had to be bad trouble. But despite an order from the captain to look sharp for people in the water, there was no further sign whatsoever of a wrecked steamboat.

  In less than an hour, boatmen began to point out an occasional chunk of ice floating in the river.

  As the day wore on, the chunks were bigger and more numerous. The steamship captain assembled the passengers on board. “We’re about two miles south of Lexington, Missouri on the south bank. I’m going to try to make it to Lexington so you folks will have a place to get out of the weather until this ice clears, but going on to Independence or West Port Landing right now is out of the question. This ice may have been what caused us to see those two smoke stacks this morning.”

  “How far is Lexington from Independence, Captain?”

  “It’s about forty-five river miles, but I don’t know exactly how far by land. There are plenty of facilities available in Lexington. For about ten years, it was the jumping off point for the Santa Fe Trail. Lots of that traffic is now departing from Independence and West Port, but there are still several hotels and entertainment emporiums in Lexington.” The captain paused to look upstream. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  The boatmen were now very busy. Two lookouts were posted to advise the pilot about the location of ice coming downstream so that he could attempt to steer clear of it. Four men were stationed on the bow with long, stout poles. Their responsibility was to push any ice well away from the steamship.

  The passengers began to realize they were in grave danger, and all were apprehensive at the sighting of every ice floe. Most realized if they were thrown overboard in a violent collision with ice, they could not survive the frigid water, let alone the powerful current.

  The men at the bow possibly saved them all from disaster at least five times in the next twenty minutes. Once they were able to just barely push aside a huge piece of ice that was at least eight feet long and was as high as the main deck. That one would surely have torn a terrible hole in the hull if it had struck the boat. The passengers watched it intently as it slid silently past the boat. There was no doubt in most minds that thi
s ominous white monster could have killed them all.

  Finally, the captain barked to the pilot to ease the steamship behind a cut in the bank that would allow them to avoid any ice coming down with the current. With a skillful maneuver, the ship was throttled in behind the embankment while ropes fore and aft were made fast to three sturdy trees. A cheer of relief went up from all aboard, including the crew. About that time, pieces of ice completely filled the main channel of the river. It would have been impossible for the boatmen to avoid all of them had they still been pushing upstream.

  The sight of over a hundred chunks of ice at one time in the river had an immediate effect. The captain called for quiet, but already a hush had fallen over the boat as they all stood watching on the starboard side, mesmerized by the thought of what had almost happened to them. “We all need to have a prayer said over us. Is there a reverend on board?”

  No one stepped forward until a diminutive woman spoke up, “I am a deaconess in the Episcopal Church in Lexington. My name is Prudie Rice Ingram, and my husband, John Ingram—rest his soul—was a deacon.” Missus Ingram moved in front of the people, paused for a moment, and raised both her hands high above her head.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for protecting us in our time of peril. Thank you in your wisdom for sending us a wise captain and a brave crew. May all of us be made better for this experience. Help us to find our way to your church and to your side, and glorify your name. Today we all learned the truth of your hymn—A Mighty Fortress is our God—a bulwark never failing. Amen.”

  Those who had not been particularly religious earlier in the morning all found themselves fervently adding to the chorus of “amen.” It was downright convenient to be able to quickly find one’s religion when the situation demanded it.

  The captain apologized for not tying up at the dock directly below the town, but his intention was to keep his boat safe from the sea of ice that was now sweeping past down the river. A gangway was placed across to the bank and made fast, and passengers began to gratefully ease their way over to dry land. Ben positioned himself near to Missus Ingram. He was worried about the safety of his money, but he knew if he could stay close to her, he would likely be able to reach the town without being in danger.

  Nine

  Not Bad For A Boy From Indiana

  Lexington, Missouri 1849

  She was dressed all in black, with a black hat and ribbon tied under her chin and a long black dress. She couldn’t have been an inch over five feet tall and probably didn’t weigh a hundred pounds. She wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and it was impossible not to notice the reddish, dried skin on her cheeks. It made her look like she was sun-burned, but only on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose in what appeared to be a butterfly pattern.

  There was a long hill of at least three-fourths of a mile from the steamboat up the riverbank to the town. Although Missus Ingram was undoubtedly close to fifty years old, and carrying a bulky travel bag of her own, she was a strong walker; and it was all Ben could do to keep up with her with his own smaller bag. About halfway up the incline, she turned to him. “Are you following me, young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I guess so. I’m traveling by myself, trying to catch up to my pa at the head of the Trail before he takes off for California. I heard you say you were from this town, so I was hoping you could tell me who to talk to.”

  “Maybe I can help you, but first I’m going to the church to say another prayer. I’ve never been as scared as I was on that riverboat! I don’t know how to swim a lick, and I just knew we were all going to end up in that frigid river.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know how to swim, but I don’t think that would help much in that river.”

  The track from the steamboat gradually turned into Tenth Street, and they passed by a number of warehouses and granaries. By the time they reached the top of the hill, they began to walk by a line of substantial homes. Ben was surprised, as he had expected something like frontier shanties instead of examples of fine Georgian architecture on almost every street. Coming into the business district, he sighted two hotels and at least three saloons on the right and a large courthouse on the left. They turned south on Franklin Street, and within a block had reached Christ Church. It was a large brick edifice with an eight-sided steeple tower. Again, Ben was not expecting the church to be so well constructed.

  He and Missus Ingram entered through a side door and stepped into the sanctuary. A man, not much taller than she, entered the room from behind the elevated pulpit. She turned to Ben, “This is my brother, Reverend Rice. But I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “It’s Ben Windes, Reverend. We just got off a steamboat from St. Louis. Missus Ingram was nice enough to bring me here with her.”

  “Ben is hoping for some information to help him get to West Port to meet his father. I’m afraid our steamboat is marooned here because of all the ice on the river. Can you suggest someone in town that he can talk to about getting to the trailhead?”

  “Normally I would suggest that he travel with one of the wagon trains headed toward Santa Fe and simply separate from them when they get to West Port. But I haven’t noticed any trains forming up yet this spring. It could be dangerous if you travel alone. The trip is about fifty miles by land. I don’t suppose you own a horse do you?”

  “No, Reverend. I don’t. But I believe I’m in the market for one.”

  “It’s probably a good idea to buy a horse here rather than wait until you reach West Port. I hear that prices out there are quite a bit higher than what you can find here. Do you know anything about trading for horseflesh?”

  “No, Reverend, we didn’t own any horses back in Indiana. Do you know someone who can help me? I sure can’t afford to pay very much.”

  “Let’s find some supper first. You spend the night here in the church. Tomorrow we’ll go see a friend of mine—a farrier—over at Tinsley Crowder’s place. They buy and sell horses and mules every day. If Joshua doesn’t know how to buy horses, nobody does.”

  My story. On March 31 year of 1849

  My last day on the steamboat was a God fearing one that showed what a coward I truly am to find ourselves in the middle of the Missouri River surrounded by large chunks of ice. My fright was hard to hide as the boat narrowly missed being struck. A fate that would surely left us all to an icy grave at the bottom of that fearsome river. When my feet touched soil I was truly grateful and aim to buy a horse and strike out for the town of West Port Missouri where I hope to find my pa at last.

  Early in the morning, Ben and Reverend Rice left the church and walked over to Main Street. Ben had his traveling bag in tow. The Reverend was dressed in a black hat and a long black coat that almost reached the ground, and it was hard to keep from noticing that he had a strange way of walking. He extended both of his hands in front of him at about chin height and held his fingertips together, as though he was prepared to pray at the drop of a hat. Indeed, the only movement left to him was to simply close his eyes!

  They passed a large frame building that proclaimed, Russell, Majors, and Waddell—Suppliers of the Western Pioneer. The store was busy, and Ben noticed several customers that had been passengers on the steamboat. The Reverend pointed (with both hands). “This store has been in business here for about ten years. The settlers heading out on the Santa Fe and Oregon Trails have made the owners very wealthy men.” He spoke wistfully, and mostly to himself. “I surely do wish they believed in tithing.”

  Directly behind the store there were at least twenty factories and warehouses on both sides of Commerce Street, almost all engaged in business directly related to the Trails. In the low-lying river bottomland just north of Commerce were four large corrals for horses, mules, cattle, and oxen. All of the corrals seemed to be only partially occupied with animals. The annual settler push would not begin in earnest for another month or so.

  The reverend entered a door that was simply marked T. Crowder and Sons. A very large Negro man stood up quickly, holding a curved-blade
farrier’s knife and a whetstone. “G’mornin’ Massa Reverend. How you do today?” A boy about Ben’s age stood behind him, peering from around the man’s huge legs.

  “Hello, Joshua, my friend. I hope you and Merriweather are doing well today.”

  “Yas, suh. Mistuh Crowder prob’ly won’t be here t’day. His wife, Missus Charity, jes’ had nuther little one last night. Dat be number fifteen, I reckon.”

  Reverend Rice shook his head. “Fifteen children—what a blessing! I’ll get out there and see the new baby in a day or two when things have quieted down. But it’s you I wanted to see anyway, Joshua. I have a young gentleman here, Master Ben Windes, who is out to find his pa, and he’s in the market for a horse to ride from here to California. I’m afraid he doesn’t have much experience in dealing for horses, so I was in hopes that you could help him find the right animal at a fair price.”

  “Well suh, long about ten year ago ’twas easy to find a good ridin’ hoss for ’bout six or seven dollars around dese parts. But since t’everbody started headin’ out to that Oregon, a reliable hoss is mebbe twelve dollars.”

  The reverend turned to Ben. “Are you prepared to pay that kind of money?”

  “Well, I didn’t expect to. Would that price also include a bridle and saddle?”

  Joshua winked at the Reverend. “It peers this boy already know how to hoss-trade. We got three hosses back here in the stable I shod yestiddy. They ain’t for sale, but I kin show you some things to look at on these here animals when you trade for one you want.”

  Ben followed Joshua and Merriweather through the back door. He had seen lots of Negroes back home in Indiana, as well as working on the steamboats up and down the river, but he had never really carried on a conversation with one. The man was almost as tall and wide as the doorframe, and in fact ducked his head and sort of turned sideways just to pass through easily. He was not sure of Joshua’s status. After hearing all the political talk on the riverboats, he knew that Missouri was a slave state, but it appeared to him that Joshua acted like a freeman rather than a slave. As far as he could tell, Joshua and his son were the only people in the business, and certainly, there was nobody watching over them in any way. He decided to ask the reverend about it later.