by John Babb
They had paid their fee and now they sat, waiting on the train of fifty-four wagons to slowly unwind itself and head west. Many of the pioneers had painted their wagon boxes a grey-blue and the wheels bright red. Matched with the white canvas stretched over the frame, they looked almost patriotic.
B. F. laughed at some of the writing people had printed on their wagon canvases. He pointed and read them aloud for Mr. Fitzwater. Last Gasp. The 11th Commandment – Mind Your Own Business. 2000 Miles or Bust. Dreams of Gold. Oregon or Else. Prairie Boat. To the Willamette, Dammit.
B. F. was heartened to see Paddy Dowd riding by on a lop-eared mule. “Top of the morning to ye, B. F. I see you’ve changed animals. ’Tis a fine looking pony yer riding.”
B. F. waved. “Did the ladies appreciate your haircut?”
Paddy couldn’t resist the opportunity and reined in his mule. “They were lovely, they were!” He pulled off his slouch hat, stood in his stirrups, and bowed slightly in the saddle in the direction of Mary and Jane. “I see fortune has been kind to you also, lad.”
Mary couldn’t help but grin. “Cheeky Irishman!”
It was already half past seven. Del had told them to stay in the wagon track for a mile or so, then hold up and wait for everybody to catch up at the top of the hill beyond OK Creek. There was good new grass growing there, and their stock would be happy to stop. Mary was exasperated with what seemed to be no coordination whatsoever in getting the train moving. “If every mile takes this long, we’ll still be on this trail next Christmas.”
From his position standing beside his oxen, George looked back and half-smiled. “I expect you’d best grow some patience, Mary m’dear.” He patted the rump of one of the animals. “I doubt these beasts understand the meaning of efficiency.”
It was probably best that Mr. Fitzwater had his back turned when his wife raised an eyebrow and shot him a look.
B. F. hoped it would quickly get better as men and animals got used to one another, and sure enough, finally the wagon ahead of the Fitzwaters began to move. B. F. couldn’t help but wonder if he should pinch himself. Was he really headed to California?
Fifteen
So Flat It Makes Your Head Hurt
Indian Territory 1849
As the last of the Coggins Train cleared the hill beyond West Port, B. F. looked back to see the first wagons of another train about a half mile back, and that train appeared to be every bit as big as their own. He wondered if they would be able to stay out front.
Del shouted to the group before they moved out again. “Look yonder at that train a comin’. We’re the first out to Oregon this spring. The first train or two always has a good pick of firewood and a decent chance to find wild game. But in a week or so of reg’lar wagon traffic, the firewood is used up, and the game’ll be long gone. So’s if yer smart, you’ll give it what for to stay out front.”
Plenty of cries of, “Let’s get goin.” “Come on then.” And despite the displeasure and resistance of mules and oxen, they moved forward again—still slowly, but not quite as tentatively as before. The first day’s trip took them west by northwest with no obstacles to speak of, but any delay in the train’s forward movement gave opportunity to the animals to taste the new grass sprouting along the trail.
All were grateful when they stopped around noon. A few folks started a fire long enough to heat up a coffee pot, but lunch for most was whatever happened to be left over from breakfast. B. F. hobbled his horse and let her graze near the wagon, but as soon as they finished a cold biscuit and maybe a piece of bacon, most people were ready to go again. They were definitely committed to staying ahead of the train just behind them. Shortly after mid-afternoon they trudged down a long hill, and could tell by the tree line that there was a fair-sized river ahead of them in a broad valley.
Rather than stop for the day when they reached the Kaw River, Coggins pushed on for another four miles, finally halting close to the south bank of the waterway. The train formed into a circle that was over a hundred and fifty feet in diameter, with the wagons pushed close together—the wagon tongue of one lying alongside the back wheels of the wagon in front.
The teams and other stock were turned loose inside the circle of wagons. The primary reason for the circle was not for a defensive posture against Indians but to keep the stock safe in an enclosed space. It would not take long for them to see the main disadvantage of this arrangement. The whole circle was loaded with fresh manure by morning, and required the casual stroller to be ever alert for their next step. Walking across the interior compound after dark frequently included a bootful of a fresh and unpleasant surprise.
Once supper fires were started, Coggins called the men together. “We’ll be stayin’ on the south side of the Kaw for about six more days, then we spend a day on the prairie, crossin’ to the Vermillion. We’ll water up again, then hit the dry prairie one more time and cross to the Big Blue. I’m tellin’ this so’s you’ll know we won’t spend more’n a day away from water for a long spell.”
“They’s plenty dangers out here. You’ll see many a grave along this here Trail. Worse thing is the cholery. Next is crossin’ these damned rivers. You best pay close attention when we’re crossin’. Keep a sharp eye on yore young’uns. It’s a awful thing for one of them wagons to roll over a young’un. Them big iron wheels just ain’t forgivin’. They’s vipers on this here Trail. Don’t go playin with no snakes—they don’t know yore playin’. And don’t go gettin’ kicked in the head by no mule neither. If it don’t kill ye, you’ll likely be stupid for the rest of yore days.”
This was undoubtedly a speech Del felt obligated to give. He probably had no other occasion to speak so much at one time, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of man who looked for opportunities to talk for the sake of talking.
A man from the back. “What about Indians?”
“I doubt you need to worry about injuns around here. Except that they’ll steal anythin’ you got. You can look for them to come inta camp. You might think they’re just beggin’, but it’s somethin’ to steal they’re lookin’ for. The ones you hafta worry about is them about eight weeks up the Trail. The Sioux an’ Crow an’ Pawnee—they’s the ones that want yore animals and yore hair.”
Spirits were high this first night out. Several men retrieved enough firewood from the tree line to set quite a blaze. People migrated to the big fire, and it took very little encouragement for a fiddler to begin to show off his skills. Another man came forward with a jew’s harp, then a youngster proved that he could set fire to a banjo, then another fiddler. Mr. Fitzwater couldn’t stand it and retrieved his old bagpipes from the bowels of the wagon. B. F. was surprised, as he didn’t know the man had music in him. Quickly an area was cleared for dancing, and the orchestra was hard put to answer all the requests for favorite songs. As things died down a bit, B. F. was surprised yet again when Paddy walked over to the musicians and made a special request. They played a short, familiar refrain, and he shared his own gift with them as he began to sing John Newton’s tune in a pure tenor voice.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
At this point, Mr. Fitzwater began to play his pipes.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!
Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,<
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A life of joy and peace.
The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.
When the song was over, it felt like the last note of the pipes kind of hung in the air, as though static electricity was lifting the hairs across the back of your neck. Everybody realized this was the ideal end to a long-anticipated day, and they found their ways back to their wagons with hardly a word spoken. With the bonfire subdued, the crystal clear, moonless night revealed uncountable stars above their heads from horizon to horizon. As B. F. made his pallet, he heard Jane in the wagon above him, “It’s a good sign to start a trip with an Irish voice, ain’t it Pa?”
“’Tis, Janie girl. ’Tis indeed.”
The days became predictable. Up at daylight for breakfast, clean up and load, get the teams yoked, wait on the wagon ahead of you to move forward, travel until noon, break for lunch, keep going until about an hour and a half before dark, have supper, clean up, listen to stories and music, and sleep hard. Two men stood guard all night, rotating this responsibility with others every three hours.
The train progressed an average of twenty miles a day in good, flat country with the river just a short distance away. Their pace would soon slow considerably as they forded rivers and drove the animals up and down steep grades. All in all, a train would wind up averaging fifteen miles a day for the entire trip. The monotony of it all was hard to put aside. The driver spent the entire day staring at the backsides of their oxen, inhaling the dust of those ahead, and listening to the interminable squeaking of the wagon axles, the occasional beller of stock, and the constant verbal harangue of the teams by their masters.
Everything began to get very dirty—clothes, wagons, gear, everything. Most people put a curtain over the back opening of their wagon and tried to draw the canvas together in the front so that the driver only had an opening less than a foot wide to peer through.
B. F. alternated between riding his horse, driving the team, or just walking. The train’s pace was so tedious that he had to force himself to walk slowly, as his normal walking speed was almost twice as fast as the progression of the train. Sometimes he put Ethan in front of him in the saddle. The little boy loved riding and talked almost continuously, if not to B. F. then to the pony. At least twice a day, Jane begged him to let her ride the horse. It had only taken her a short time to get very proficient in the saddle. Now sometimes B. F. would see her off in the distance, toward the head of the train with the horse at a canter and realize she was better at it than he was.
Other times, he, Jane, and Ethan would walk beside the wagon, with the little paint tied at the rear. Jane had started brushing the horse with her own hairbrush, and every evening the pony would stand still and rub her head on Jane’s shoulder, begging for the brush.
The third evening out, B. F. decided to retrieve the book his aunt had given him and spend a little time with The Three Musketeers. He sat with his back to the fire and began the story. But within minutes, he was interrupted by three-year-old Ethan, who curled up beside him and asked what he was doing.
B. F. replied, “I’m reading this book.”
“Me too.”
“Can you read, Ethan?”
“Sure. You say the words out loud, and then I can say them inside my head.”
Realizing he would apparently have an audience here in Indian Territory almost like the one he had back in Indiana with his cousin Sue, B. F. turned back to the beginning of the novel and began to read to Ethan. Before D’Artagnan met his first musketeer, B. F. was surprised to notice Jane and two other girls sitting right behind them, listening to him read.
The next evening, when D’Artagnan challenged his second musketeer, he and Ethan were accompanied by an audience of seven children and two women. And so it went on those evenings when he read to Ethan, he often had ten to fifteen others who just couldn’t wait for the next chapter. Missus Broderick sat at the perimeter of the audience and would kindly help B. F. with a new word whenever it was necessary. But mostly she just sat and enjoyed the story.
When he eventually finished The Three Musketeers, Paddy loaned him a dog-eared copy of James Paulding’s The Lion of the West, whose hero, Nimrod Wildfire, was modeled after the famous David Crockett. As the story progressed, there were more adults than children in his audience, and they hung on every word of the description of Wildfire’s valiant deeds.
Later in the journey, Missus Broderick revealed that she had brought along the first fifteen articles of a serial by Francis Parkman, which had been published in 1847 and 1848 in Knickerbocker’s Magazine, entitled “The Oregon Trail: Sketches of Prairie and Rocky Mountain Life.” As the articles obviously matched much of what they were all seeing and experiencing, almost every member of the train listened to B. F.’s readings and sometimes could even compare what they heard with what they saw on previous days.
As they traveled across the countryside, there followed a great many penny novels in the evening, furnished by a number of travelers, such as The Death Ship, Dead Man’s Hollows, and even Hans of Iceland by Mr. Victor Hugo. The result of these reading sessions was not only an entertained group of trekkers, but also a significant improvement in the reading and grammar skills of young B. F. Windes.
The sixth day out from West Port when they stopped for lunch, they could look across the Kaw River and see a much smaller creek entering from the north. Coggins rode back along the line of wagons. “This here’s the crossin’. The Vermillion River is straight there. We’ll be crossin’ right above and stayin’ on the west bank headed north for another day or so. We’re lucky it ain’t rained in a week, so the passage oughta go easy.”
He shouted to the first wagon before it entered the river. “This here water is only two foot deep, but it might get in yore wagon. Be sure yore vittles is high and dry. Head them damned beasts at an angle upstream, and keep ’em movin. You let ’em stop, and them wheels’ll sink in that sand and muck. You’ll be diggin’ for sure then.”
The first wagons had a fairly easy time of it, but the last half of the train was following in the new ruts of the preceding wagons, and three of them needed help from other men to reach the other side. The crossing took four hours and they only traveled another couple of hours before stopping for the night.
Within minutes of getting campfires going, there was a shout. “Mr. Coggins—Off to the north—looks like wild Injuns comin’ in.”
Coggins walked out to the perimeter to view the rag-tag group. “Them’s just Kaw squaws. Remember what I said about stealin’—them Kaws is good at it. Watch yore cook pots, and keep ’em out of yore wagons.”
The four women were each wrapped in threadbare trade blankets and had apparently not seen a bar of soap in a very long time. Their hair appeared to have been oiled or greased some time in the relatively recent past, and they strolled into camp as though they were walking down the streets of St. Louis. They seemed to feel no embarrassment at walking up to several women and touching their clothing, then making some sort of remark among themselves—perhaps envious, maybe derogatory. The Indian women kept trying to maneuver in such a way as to look into the back of wagons, but people were wary and kept between the women and their provisions.
Missus McCreave was always the first to have her supper cooked, but this night her industrious habit would not serve her well. When she pulled the coals off her dutch oven, the Indian women were quick to hold their hands out in front of them for a hot biscuit. There was an awkward moment when Missus McCreave realized that there was no way out. She was going to have to give up her biscuits and fix another batch later for her family. They also looked to see if any more food was being prepared, but no other pots were on her fire. No thank you’s were said. The women merely accepted the biscuits, turned on their heels, and left at the same methodical, unhurried pace as they had arrived.
It was unsettling. Mary Fitzwater had nev
er hesitated to feed people that were needier than her family back in Tennessee, but this was different. She had enough food to get her family to Oregon. She didn’t have enough to feed Indians—or anybody else—along the way. She resolved to refuse if she was put in a similar situation. The more she thought about it, the more she decided to speak out.
When they gathered around later that evening, she stood up. “I think we best not feed any more Indians. Once we start, those we fed’ll tell the whole countryside. Before you know it, we’ll be feedin’ all of them, and we’ll shortly find our ownselves outa vittles long before we see Oregon.”
Coggins agreed. “The woman’s right. You best say no before it gets outa hand. I seen a whole village foller a train for a week once. The people on the train felt sorry for ’em for a couple days, but by the end of the week, they was ready to shoot ’em all just to get rid of ’em.” There was no objection from the travelers, but the proof of their will would likely be tested.
The next day began a bit warmer, and some hoped for fine weather. Mary Fitzwater’s ague had a different forecast. “Rain’s a comin’ soon.” Mr. Fitzwater had been witness to too many of her successful predictions to question.
His response was simple. “You and Janie use that tarp to get the stores wrapped tight in the wagon, B. F., and check the ropes on the canvas. Make sure they’re snugged up.”
As the train moved away from the river and the line of trees disappeared into the distance, B. F. was amazed at how bare and treeless the prairie was. It seemed to go on and on as far as he could see. The distance, and the sameness, almost hurt his brain. The day wore on like others before it, and they made good time on the rolling land until about five o’clock in the afternoon, when Coggins brought them to a halt. “Those clouds are gettin’ blacker and comin’ faster. We best stop here and get everthin’ tied down. Get the wagons in close so the stock will stay put. Don’t start cookin’ ’til yer ready for a blow.”