by John Babb
B. F. decided to hobble his pony while Jane gathered two good armloads of firewood and stashed it under the wagon.
Within minutes of them stopping for the night, the wind began to blow hard enough that the wagon canvas began to slap and pop under the strain. Rain came in fast and blowing sideways. The sound began to change as hail started popping against the wagons. Everybody headed for cover, and within a minute, the animals were bellowing and braying as the hail grew to the size of quarters. Mary pulled Ethan and Jane down on the wagon bed and lay on top of them, protecting them in case the hail penetrated the wagon canvas.
B. F. looked out from under the wagon, looking for his horse, but he was so low to the ground, he couldn’t see her. All the stock had bunched up at the east side of the circle with their heads down and their backs to the wind.
Within another minute, it was over. The wind turned around from the north and it stopped raining. People gradually emerged from their wagons to find the ground completely covered with hail, some as big as hickory nuts with the hulls on. A few wagons had holes in the canvas, and several of the animals had visible cuts on their backs. The temperature suddenly seemed a good ten or fifteen degrees colder than it had been when they stopped for the day.
B. F. crawled out from under the Fitzwater wagon. He had held one of Jane’s mattresses over his head during the storm and had only gotten hit on the lower legs a couple of times. Neither spot was bleeding, but he knew he’d have a couple of bruises in the morning. Jane came out of the wagon about the same time.
They found his horse wedged between two mules. The mare was still shaking when he got his hands on her. In the dim light, he didn’t think there was any damage, but they stayed there for several minutes, talking to the horse and stroking her neck.
Coggins saw them and walked over. “Hail is hard on the stock. I seen it get big as a silver dollar once, and I hear it can get big as apples. If that happened, we’d all likely be bad hurt. We best call it a day.”
Sixteen
You’ll See The Elephant Soon Enough
Indian Territory 1849
Morning brought the challenge of crossing the Black Vermillion River. From the looks of the water, it would be the biggest hazard they had faced yet. Coggins stood in the middle of the wagons. “Empty yer water barrels on this side of the river. You’ns can fill ’em again once yer across. Those that’re able oughta walk across. Get yer vittles high and dry.”
The settlers couldn’t help but see the group of small wooden crosses in the ground on the other side of the river, near the crossing point. One woman elbowed her husband, and he spoke up, “Mr. Coggins, shouldn’t we wait ’til the river falls some?”
“This here river runs high purty near all spring. We might be waitin’ ’til June for low water. Just do what yer told and you’ll be all right.”
Once the train started across, Mr. Fitzwater took Mary by the hand and waded the river with her. He returned for Ethan, carrying him in his arms, and then Jane. “What about you, B. F.?”
“I’ll stay with my horse. We’ll cross when you take the wagon through.”
The water was lapping right at the bottom of the wagons as they crossed. The fifth wagon stopped square in the middle of the river. The man driving used his whip without let up but made no ground. Coggins was back in the water. “Lay that whip by Mr. Cooper. Them beasts won’t pull no harder if they’re in a strut. Yore wagon is settin’ down in the water more than the others. What kinda load you carryin’?”
“How about rigging up another team to pull me out?”
Coggins looked in the back of his wagon. “Dammit, man. You got a cast iron cookstove in that wagon. You can either set there ’til the cows come home or you can throw the stove out. We ain’t pullin’ yore stove across this river.”
Mrs. Cooper hollered to her husband from the bank. “Clyde Cooper, if you throw that stove in the water, you can forget about me cookin’ a decent meal for you in Oregon.”
Coggins spoke again. “Make up yer mind, man. You gonna see that elephant purty soon.”
Mr. Cooper looked at his wife, then gave Coggins a pitiful look, but made no move toward the back of the wagon. Coggins threw Cooper a look of disgust and motioned toward the bank. “Next wagon, come on through on his upstream side.”
The following wagons seemed to make good progress as they pulled around the stalled rig, but the wagon directly in front of George Fitzwater also seemed to ride low in the water. When it drew even with Mr. Cooper, it too stuck fast.
Coggins didn’t even speak to the driver but went directly to the rear of the wagon. “Johnston, you got a settee in the back of yer wagon. Do you’ns think we’re headed for a damned tea party? You two done blocked the whole crossin’. Either you lighten them loads or we’ll do it for ye. And once we start, we might not stop with just the settee and the cookstove.” He pointed to the wagons waiting to cross behind them.
Cooper climbed into the Johnston wagon, and between the two of them, they pitched the big settee into the water behind the wagon. They then had to get in the water and move it far enough downstream to keep from blocking the crossing.
Cooper then looked at his wife and threw up his hands. He and Johnston struggled with the iron cookstove but were unable to lift it over assorted gear in the back of the wagon. Mr. Fitzwater told B. F. to hold the reins to his oxen, and he waded in to help. Between the three of them, they pushed the three-hundred-pound, shiny black cookstove into the river. There were a few cheers from the people still waiting to cross, but the look on Miz Cooper’s face promised long evenings of silence in the immediate future.
Mr. Cooper then returned to his wagon seat as both Johnston and Fitzwater pushed while his oxen pulled. The wagon began to move slowly forward and finally reached the far bank. Johnston’s wagon followed suit.
Once the crossing was cleared, Mr. Fitzwater didn’t hesitate. He took his team straight in, and across. B. F. went in directly behind him. His horse had to swim for a few feet in midstream, then felt the bottom again, and crossed with no problem. The remaining wagons crossed as well, but not before a determined man toward the rear pitched a large mahogany chiffarobe out of his wagon before entering the water. This was accompanied by an ear-splitting shriek and a hollered. “Yer a true ass, Gilead Bledsoe!”
Knowing they had another dry day waiting on them, Coggins held them on the west bank of the Black Vermillion. “Fill them barrels up again just above where we crossed. We got fifteen miles of dry road ’til we strike the Big Blue River tomorrow evenin’, so we’ll be stayin’ here ’til mornin’. There’s a passable fishin’ hole about a hunnert yards up river. Be sure you take yer guns.”
B. F. turned to Del. “What did you mean back there about seeing the elephant? Are there really elephants out here?”
Del laughed. “That’s just an expression for the day when all these folks finally see just how hard it’s gonna be to cross this whole country. It may not happen anytime soon—maybe not ’til we get in the mountains. But they’ll all come to that point. They don’t believe it when they hear about it. But one o’ these days, everybody finds out that this here trip requires more than what a human being ought to be asked to do. They only believe it when the day comes that they see the elephant for themselves.”
“Have you ever seen the elephant, Del?”
“Every time I been across, and sometimes more than once.”
The next morning brought tragedy. Missus Campbell found Del Coggins before breakfast to tell him. Normally a pretty, petite woman, today her eyes were swollen and her face was twisted with fear. Her husband Liam and her twelve-year-old son Robert, each had terrible diarrhea. They had both wakened with it about four o’clock. Now they were pale as a sheet, and both had been through a rigor that had made the entire wagon shake.
“Mr. Coggins, the water is just runnin’ through them. They must have had twenty passages apiece, and it’s only gettin’ worse. Their skin is so dry it feels like clay. If you press on
it, the skin won’t snap back.” She started weeping again and hurried back to her wagon. She couldn’t stay away from them, they were too sick.
Del followed along behind her as she started back to her wagon. “Ma’am, we hafta keep movin’. Cover em with blankets in back of yore wagon. Make em drink water, and give em a thunder pot. And ma’am, yer gonna hafta hold yer wagon back and stay about a hunnert yards behind us. Could be the cholery. Bless ye ma’am.”
“They’re too sick to travel, Mr. Coggins.” She unconsciously twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “Maybe it’s just the flux. Please don’t leave us here.”
Del got no closer and retreated to his campfire. He sat there for a few minutes, mulling over his limited options. Directly, he and Paddy walked back to the Broderick wagon. Del hated to call for the woman. She had almost as many chin whiskers as he did, and he couldn’t seem to stop staring at them when he spoke to her. It couldn’t be helped. “Missus Broderick, we got a problem. Ye said ye was a midwife.”
“Sure did, Mr. Coggins, you havin’ a baby?” She grinned a brown-toothed smile at her joke, at least until she paid more attention to his face. “What is it?”
Del had not seen her smoking before, and it surprised him. He knew he was old fashioned about some things, as he just didn’t like to see women smoke. She was working on a long stemmed corn cob pipe, stuffed with tobacco she had brought with her from North Carolina. “It could be the cholery. Mr. Campbell and his boy are real sick. I ain’t sure why the Missus don’t have it too. You have any experience with cholery?”
“Well, Mister Coggins, good judgment generally comes from experience, but a lotta that comes from what you learn from bad judgment. I only know that cholera usually means the water is bad. We all filled our barrels at the same place. We ain’t sick. You ain’t sick. I think you need to go to every wagon and see if anybody else is sick.”
Del nodded his head and he and Paddy started their rounds in opposite directions. Del was beginning to feel like they were safe until he reached the Connor wagon. He got no response to his call and stepped on a wagon spoke to peer into the front of the wagon. The smell of sickness was fierce. Missus Connor called out weakly, but her husband made no sound. He jumped backward off the wheel in fear. Had he breathed in any vapors that would infect him too? He breathed out so forcibly that he started coughing.
Paddy made it almost around his half of the circle without incident until he reached the wagon occupied by Mr. O’Rourke and his black slave, Rupert. If possible, the smell was worse here. The slave appeared to be lying in his own foulness and seemed to be dead. He banged on the wagon with a stick and called out for O’Rourke. There was no answer. It was only then that he noticed O’Rourke curled into a ball under the wagon beside his slave. They had died together.
After finishing their inquiry, Del went back to Missus Broderick. “It appears to be in two other wagons. Two or three are already dead. I been around the cholery several times. It always comes on fast and kills purty quick. I cain’t figger why ain’t more of us sick.”
“We need to talk to Missus Campbell. You get all the wagons with no sickness pulled off from them that’s infected. Tell them stay away from the wagons with sickness. And tell them don’t drink no water.”
Missus Broderick walked over to the Campbell wagon and called to her. Missus Campbell came out but was crying. “My Robbie is dead. He didn’t last no time at all. His pa is still hanging on.”
“Ma’am, I’m sure sorry about yore boy. They’s two other wagons with the sickness. I need to ask if yer men had dealings last night with the Connors an’ Mr. O’Rourke?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Rourke invited us to eat supper last night. His colored boy, Rupert, caught some perch and catfish. He said they had more than they could eat. Are they sick too?”
“Yes. What did you have to drink? And what did they eat or drink that you didn’t?”
“Why, we all drank hot coffee. We ate the same thing.” She thought for a minute. “Except for some potatoes—I offered to bring some boiled potatoes for the meal. But I didn’t fix enough to go around. The men were all so hungry that I didn’t have any. Are you saying I fed them poison taters?”
“Where did the water come from that you used?”
“Why, I used water from a bucket that Robbie brought me. The taters were too hot so I poured a little cool water on ’em after they were cooked. I think he got it down below the crossing where it was easy to climb down the bank.”
“Boil some water in a pot and pour it in that bucket whilst it’s still bubblin’. I think that water is what done it.”
“Oh my God! I been giving my husband water from that bucket for his fever!” She hurried back to her wagon—crying again—with realization that her husband was lost too.
By the time the wagons were hitched and pulled away from the three that were quarantined, rumor was about to be replaced by panic. Del got them quieted, and Missus Broderick stood on the front of her wagon so she could be heard. “We got the cholera in three wagons. They all ate supper together last night. All are sick or dead except for Miz Campbell. She don’t have no sign of the illness. The only thing she didn’t do that the rest of them did was that she didn’t use any water from the river down below our camp.”
Del stepped in, “Did any of you’ns draw water fer yore barrels or canteens from below the camp? I told you to always use the water above camp.”
Nobody said a word. “This ain’t no time to hold back. If ye did, ye could git the cholery.” Still no answer. “I’m gonna take that as a no. From now on, don’t never draw your water below camp.”
Mary Fitzwater, though diminutive in stature, spoke with a big voice. “My mam taught me a bit about doctorin’. She told me the best medicine for cholera is the juice of an onion. If you got onions, take a couple spoonfuls a day. Sometimes that works—at least afore you get real sick.”
“We got no onions—would wild onions work?”
“It’s bound to be better than no onions a’tall.”
Missus Campbell walked over to the gathering, obviously in terrible grief. “My husband and my son are dead.” She stood there with her head down, weeping. No one would come close enough to her to offer any real comfort.
Although a bulky woman, Missus Broderick quickly hopped down from her wagon and came to her. “Come with me, sweetie. We got work to do.” They walked off. “You’re gonna take off them clothes and burn ’em, then get in that river and scrub yourself good. We’ll find some clothes you can wear.”
Coggins took over again. “We need to save at least one of them wagons. It appears the O’Rourke wagon will be the one to use. The dead was under it, not in it. One of you men travelin’ by yerself can drive it for Miz Campbell. I need volunteers to pull what ain’t been touched by sickness and bile out of them other wagons. Then we’ll put the dead in the two wagons and set ’em afire. We don’t wanna bury that cholery. It might seep back in the river and get the next train. We’ll use them spare two teams when we need extra pull. For sure, we’ll need it soon enough.”
Mary Fitzwater spoke up. “Mister Coggins, if nobody else wants it, I’d like to have the canvas off the wagons.”
The sign they left behind read Cholery in River Down Below. It was painted on a board from one of the afflicted wagons and nailed to a cottonwood tree. Perhaps other lives in other trains could be saved.
Seventeen
The Turd Collector
Indian Territory 1849
My story. On April 30 year of 1849
We lost six travelers today to the cholera. Once they got sick they didn’t last any time at all. The whole train is terrible quiet today. Just the other day I asked Del if we were all going to make it across. He just looked sad and told me there ain’t nothin’ certain in this life. We didn’t bury them. Del said to burn the bodies. I guess we all know it could have been any of us lying back there.
Ever time we top a low hill, it seems that a body can see twenty miles in every direchu
n. And it all looks the same, no matter which way you turn. The grass is green as green can be, and waves all day in this wind that never seems to stop blowing.
The prairie grass was at least a foot high, and the stock ate greedily during every stop. Each wagon used their water barrel to provide fluids for their animals during the dry runs. It was early May, but the afternoon sun, shining right in their faces as they traveled to the west, forced them to pull their hat brims down low over their eyes. From the top of a rise, they could see thousands upon thousands of small brown spots on the prairie ahead. B. F. rode up close to Del. “What are all those brown splotches over there?”
“That’s prairie firewood.”
“Firewood?”
“Yep. Them’s buffalo chips. Another four, five days we’ll all be burnin’ chips. Ain’t no trees to speak of once that Little Blue River turns west.”
“You mean we’ll be using buffalo pies to cook with?”
“Won’t be long you’ll be glad to find ’em.”
They struck the Big Blue River just after dusk. The morning light revealed that the river was too high and too fast to be crossed here. They kept to its eastern bank for two days until they finally reached a place where it was obvious that many wagons had gone before them. Del advised that they would cross the next morning.
The crossing went well enough, and the two extra brace of oxen came in handy in pulling heavier wagons across. Another twenty mile dry run the next day across to the Little Blue River, a crossing there while the river was still little more than a creek, then two days traveling northwesterly on the west bank of the river. True to Del’s prediction, trees were few and far between, and what ones they saw were spindly.