Walk Away West

by J. F. Collen

  “One might have overlooked those oddities, had one not noticed his strange method of carrying, and his frequent caressing, his shiny new breech-loading Winchester rifle.” He lowered his head and touched his nose to Emma, whom he still held tight in his arms. “My two cherished cherubs, listen, we have embarked upon the greatest of all adventures. Think not on the possibility of danger. That responsibility shall be my mantle, alone. I shall rout out any and all hazards and thwart peril before it afflicts or distresses my family. Think only of this grand adventure we encounter, united,” Obadiah said.

  They gazed at him with trusting eyes.

  The Wright family walked on. Obadiah hoisted the girls back onto the bench, and Nellie and Obadiah walked side by side next to them.

  “Who was that peculiar little man?” Nellie asked.

  “I am ignorant of his name,” said Obadiah. “Have no fear, I predict very little time will pass before we are spoon fed, in agonizing detail, not only his name but his whole life’s history.”

  They laughed and continued their forward motion.

  “Mercy!” Nellie exclaimed as she looked toward the horizon. “Our gaze encompasses the most splendid of scenery.”

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat! Cornelia Rose, your utterance is the highest form of praise—a statement against interest. ‘Most splendid’ is an unqualified superlative from one so enamored of her Hudson Valley,” said Obadiah.

  Nellie blushed. “I realize I have spent my life praising the beauty of the Hudson River and Highlands and its surrounding landscape. Its scenery is imprinted upon my heart. Howsoever, I do believe I have never trod upon such a picturesque expanse as this prairie,” Nellie remarked. The sun warmed her back and the view that stretched out before her was beautiful in an exotic way, different from any other landscape she had known. “We walk over hill and dale, one more resplendent with wildflowers than the next.”

  “Mama, this looks like the biggest flower garden in the world!” shouted Emma.

  “The biggest flower garden in the boundless sea of grass,” Cornelia agreed. She helped the girls down from the wagon and they ran with glee through the fields of wildflowers, stopping to pick armfuls. Nellie marveled at the overabundance of the early spring flowers. “See Mama—thorny roses, sunflowers, and asters, just like at home,” said Emma, holding up the different bunches.

  Perhaps this passage from civilization through the wilderness shall be a lark, she thought, just as she spotted a crude wooden cross.

  “Obadiah,” she whispered, tugging on his sleeve. She looked at her daughters now riding on the lazy board Obadiah pulled out from under the wagon, arranging the wildflowers they had gathered. I must not arrest their attention. “Can that cross be naught but a grave marker?” she asked in a soft whisper. “Or that roughly scratched stone?” The words caught in her throat, for she knew the answer. As they plodded forward, she saw the trail was pockmarked with graves all along its way. She began to count.

  “That’s twenty, within about three hundred steps!” she exclaimed, still keeping her voice low, so her daughters would not overhear. Obadiah whispered back, “The talk in Council Bluffs was of the cholera that plagues the emigrants and follows them down the path, leaving grave markers in their wake.”

  Nellie shook her head. “This is grim news.”

  “Surely not news,” replied Obadiah. “We have anticipated, and prepared for, this disease. You yourself have equipped us. Armed with your medical knowledge, we shall scrutinize all the water we consume, vigilantly boiling it, to ensure its purity, before ingesting.”

  “Aye, true. But still, the sight casts a rather melancholy pall over our journey,” Nellie murmured.

  “‘Tis a grave sight,” Obadiah deadpanned.

  Nellie smiled at his play on words and sighed. “As in all life’s journeys, I suppose we must simply trust in the Lord to keep us safe.”

  Obadiah smiled and squeezed her hand.

  “‘Tis a pall we shall bear, watching it wither in the full sun of our good health,” Nellie offered, in a weak attempt to lighten their melancholy with her own pun.

  Obadiah wagged his finger at her, “Pallbearer, grim shall be the fruits you reap from that pun.”

  She grinned.

  Nellie watched the sun sink lower on the horizon. They walked on. They saw the lead wagon turning off the trail, as if to make camp. “I see no abrupt banks,” Nellie said with a giggle.

  With the site chosen, the men scurried about, settling the wagons, finding pasture for the cattle and picketing the horses and oxen. Nellie removed her engraved shovel from its place of honor, hung on a nail next to Obadiah’s Winchester rifle, and dug her first small trench. I suppose I must supply my own fanfare! she thought with a grin. Rubbing the now aching small of her back, she sprinkled a confetti of kindling into the trench, smiled, and started a fire. Beans soon bubbled in a wrought-iron camp kettle, releasing a delicious aroma of molasses.

  After cooking, and eating, supper, Nellie said, “Our first true night of encampment on the westward trail.” The excitement in her voice caused her daughters to look up from their stick drawings on the ground and grin. Nellie plopped on top of the log in front of their fire and leaned on Obadiah. “Smell the lingering fire.” Nellie inhaled a deep breath. “Feel the budding spring blossoms. Listen to the faint sound of the roaring Platte River far below these majestic river banks.” She winked at Obadiah. “Find comfort in the slight bend of the river corralling our livestock. Mercy! The air is so fresh. Prithee, I do believe we shall be infinitely more comfortable sleeping here in our wagon than upon our shelf berths on the Erie Canal packet. Here we shall snuggle all together, so cozily.” She turned around to smile at Obadiah. With a quick hug, she nestled into his arms. They gazed at the fire, and at their children, and Nellie counted her blessings.

  The terrain changed again as they left the high plain for the low bottom of the Platte River. They walked through a flat basin and Nellie looked back at the high bluffs of the sandy plains on either side of the Platte River Valley. The well-worn trail unspooled through sandy dirt, covered only by a thin layer of new green grass. The only visible vegetation, clumps of cottonwood and thickets of willows, clustered long distances apart, dotting the shores along the Platte. Emma picked up a stick, and soon, Nellie and her girls retrieved every stray piece of firewood they spotted, collecting sufficient kindling for not only this night’s camping, but for the unknown, woodless campgrounds they anticipated ahead.

  “Emma put down the spyglass.” Nellie turned from inspecting her churning butter to see Emma spying out the back of the wagon’s cover. Emma jumped.

  “Mercy, Mama. You needn’t worry. I tender far more care in handling this valuable instrument than even Papa.”

  Nellie smiled. “I’ll concede you do. However....”

  Emma interrupted, “The tribe of Indians walking parallel to us along the higher ridge stopped!”

  “Tarnation, you see Indians following us?” Nellie exclaimed, so startled she did not watch her tongue. “Why have the scouts not alerted us?”

  Nellie grabbed the telescope and looked. But she did not see anyone on the ridge. She looked at Emma. “Are you quite certain?”

  Emma looked offended. “Of course, Mama. I have been watching them all morning. Why would you doubt me?”

  Nellie realized her oldest daughter, in spite of her tender age of four, was observant, and a reliable source of information. She searched the ridge again. Far in the distance behind them she saw barely discernible figures, clustered together. So distant now it would serve no purpose to sound an alarm. I shall question Obadiah about the tribes residing in this area when we are alone tonight. I fear I only recall hearing of the presence of bellicose Pawnee in this region. I pray my recollection is faulty.

  As their path climbed back up the bluffs, Nellie’s anxiety increased. I fervently pray we do not disturb any tribes encamped atop these bluffs. Especially hostile ones! she thought, as they walked along.

 
But the wagon train’s turn in a southerly direction caused her to forget her unease. Nellie breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the wagons travel back down the sand bluffs toward the Platte River.

  “What a blessing. All the sluices, streams, and crossings along this well-traveled part of the road have been bridged,” Obadiah remarked to Nellie.

  “After all, it is anno Domini 1857,” Nellie said. “Emigrants have been traveling West since the ‘40s—the trails are now well marked, with forts, trading posts, and many additional signs of civilization along the way.”

  As they trudged across a bridge, Nellie took one look at the swift, rushing water and averted her gaze. She shuddered as visions of the roiling Hudson River during the Henry Clay disaster flashed before her eyes.

  Obadiah said, “In crossing the Platte via bridge, why, we barely break our stride. Even in this remote territory, cultivation protects us from the full force and effect of nature.”

  “I pray all our river crossings pass as smoothly,” Nellie replied, with another little shudder, eyes now fixated on the rapids in spite of herself. Obadiah let his raised eyebrows convey his skeptical opinion of Nellie’s wishful thinking without uttering a word.

  The trail along the south bank was much the same as the terrain on the north, and onward they marched.

  ‘Tis quite the grand spectacle!

  At the major fork in the road much publicized in guidebooks, she stood on the wagon tongue, rotating 360 degrees. The great visibility afforded by the emptiness of the plains allowed Nellie to view the junction of the two trails behind them. Packed end-to-end, wagons teeming with emigrants processed up the southerly trail, a path already conjoined from trails originating in St. Joseph and Independence Landing, Missouri. That merged trail met the long line of prairie schooners streaming along the westward emigration road beginning in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Fleets of white-topped prairie schooners sailing through the plains like Mutter’s painting of a convoy of British militia sailing up the Hudson, she thought, blinking away a surge of tears at her own simile.

  Shan’t be helped. ‘Tis incumbent I arm myself with positive thoughts, or my sorrow shall have no moderation. She inhaled deeply and gazed at the mass migration. She looked down at Obadiah, still walking alongside the oxen.

  “From here I can see first-hand all manner of pioneers answering Horace Greeley’s call to go West. The sheer volume staggers the imagination. They heed the expert advice and depart, en mass, in early spring to attain California or Oregon before the first snowfall.” A thrill raced through her at the massive number of travelers thickly crowding the two roads. She turned to look ahead, seeing before her an unbroken line of wagons slowly winding their way westward across the waving grass of the broad plain. Even attending parades in New York City, I have never seen such multitudes of people. Mercy! They trek in all manner of vehicles and conveyance. Could any of the population remain behind?

  Chapter 29 – Southern Man

  New Fort Kearney, Nebraska Territory, April 1857

  “Behold the first dwellings we have seen since leaving the United States,” said Nellie, shading her eyes to block the sun glare unimpeded by her bonnet and staring at the dark cluster on the road ahead.

  The site of the fort does not disappoint, Nellie thought, as they entered the little civilization called New Fort Kearney. Sod walls, cut in adobe style blocks, formed a few large barrack buildings, and an earthen embankment. Forsooth, this rather unremarkable group of buildings hardly deserves the hawkers’ appellation ‘impenetrable fortress’. The sod embankment perimeter, formed around the low multipurpose buildings with grassy sod roofs, offered the sole protection against invasion. Yet the formation shapes quite a pleasant place. I rather expected a stockade fence and a military aspect. Instead, here I discover one lone tower in the midst of the traditional stock depot, blacksmith, and trading post. She looked to the left of the fort where a handful of colonial style houses branded the vast plain with cultivation. The Platte River winds through a bountiful countryside supporting several neat gardens and ploughed fields. Genuine houses of wood construction! The world has turned too many times since we have last seen such a sign of society.

  The weary travelers drove the livestock past the sod embankments and circled their wagons around a parcel of land selected for its lush green grass. About a quarter of a mile outside the buildings of the fort, their livestock would feast on the excellent feed, in safety.

  The girls flew out of the wagon, joyful at the opportunity to run. The men gathered to discuss the particulars of their stay. After digging the trench for their cooking fire and fetching water from the river, Nellie and her daughters scurried to the fort’s buildings. Five unpainted wooden houses stood around a parade ground, where both traders and Native Americans bustled about. Nellie glanced at some scruffy-looking trappers bartering pelts of fur in exchange for new traps. She tightened her grip on her daughter’s hands.

  At first, Nellie and her daughters clustered together in the square, watching the thriving community, overwhelmed by all the activity.

  Gradually, they moved toward the post’s store for a closer look at its wares. Soon, they wandered down the street off the square, from building to building, past the Officer’s Quarters and the barracks.

  The tempting aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted past Nellie’s nose just as Elizabeth cried out. “Bread baking!”

  Nellie smiled and the ladies followed their noses to the post’s bakery. They walked inside, the little girls chattering with delight.

  “Mama, fresh bread,” Elizabeth said. “Want some?”

  “Hush,” Nellie whispered. “I believe these loaves are for the soldiers.”

  Embarrassed, Nellie looked up at the baker, dumping loaf after loaf out of their pans, on to wire cooling racks.

  Red-faced and looking harried, the man did not even glance at them.

  “Mercy, Mama, do not fret,” Emma whispered in reply. “The scent is heavenly! ‘Tis a treat just to smell it. We needn’t taste it.”

  Sadness at the depravation their journey forced upon her children replaced Nellie’s embarrassment. “Excuse me, Mister Baker,” she said. “Might it be possible to purchase one of your temptingly aromatic loaves?”

  “They look so lovely, crusty and brown,” agreed Emma.

  “And smell good,” Elizabeth piped in.

  The man looked up, a frown on his face. His eyes took in Nellie and then he leaned all the way over the counter to see her little girls. His features broke into a broad grin.

  “What have we here? Two little ladies fresh in from the East Coast?” he asked.

  “Yes, from Sing Sing New York,” said Emma.

  Before Nellie could extend some pleasantries of her own, Emma continued. “I am Emma, and this is my sister Elizabeth.”

  A hearty laugh escaped from the burly man. “I am Zebulon. From Nebraska Territory. Here, have a bit of dough.”

  The girls giggled and jumped up to grab the tiny fist-sized bit of dough the baker leaned far over the counter again to give them.

  His face must have been red from the heat of the oven rather than ill-temper. One mustn’t judge a book by its cover.

  “Mama, can you bake this bread and make it smell as delicious as these loaves?” asked Emma.

  “Elizabeth, take that out of your mouth!” exclaimed Nellie. “This is dough to knead, not to eat.”

  Elizabeth looked confused.

  “But we do need the bread, Mama,” said Emma, with a puzzled frown puckering her eyebrows. “We haven’t had a single bite since we left Aunt Agnes, way back in Chicago.”

  The baker threw back his head and laughed. Emma looked startled and Elizabeth started crying at the loud, sudden, outburst.

  The baker grabbed something from the shelf and ran around the counter. “This shall never do,” he said with a stern expression on his face, towering over the girls. Elizabeth cried harder, and Nellie put her arms around both girls protectively.

  The bake
r opened his hands, revealing a currant scone in each. The girls sorrow immediately changed to joy. Elizabeth took one and said ‘thank you.’ Emma looked at Nellie for approval, and when she smiled, Emma reached for one, curtsied and thanked the baker.

  Through full mouths, her daughters murmured words of appreciation. Nellie again felt embarrassed. But the baker was smitten by the charms of the two girls.

  “We can’t be having girls, magically appearing in my bakery, disappear without sampling some of my first-rate crusty bread. You’ll not taste bread this exceptional again until Californ-y, my little ladies.”

  “I fear we shall not taste any bread at all,” Nellie said in agreement. “I imagine the closest thing I shall have the wear-with-all to cook on the trail may be some biscuits, boiling within a stew.” Nellie offered some money but the baker waved it away. She took the bread with many expressions of thanks.

  They lingered at the counter, the girls savoring their treats and peppering the baker with questions. A garrulous man, he talked as quickly as he worked. In just a few short minutes Nellie knew the history of the fort and the baker had another round of dough kneaded and in the oven.

  Finally, full of sugar from the scones, the girls bounced outdoors and ran across the parade ground. Nellie scurried after them. They made a beeline to the fort’s tower.

  Her daughters clamored to climb to the top of the observation tower. Nellie hesitated. I must remain vigilant, and assess the dangers that lay ahead before my daughters cause themselves injury. But, curious herself to see the view, she nodded her consent. The girls skipped up the ladder, and Nellie tucked the prized loaf of bread under her arm and climbed after them.

  “Cornelia Rose?” a male voice drawled.

  Nellie’s stomach did a strange flip-flop at the sound of her name carried by a familiar voice. She was unsure whether it was from joy or dread. She turned, one hand still on each of her daughters’ shoulders, and looked around for the source.