by Janette Oke
To Missie, it meant four more days to the point of no return. She tried to shake off her melancholy for Willie’s sake and went about her morning chores with a determined cheerfulness. Today, if she had the opportunity, she might reveal the good news of her coming baby to Becky. They could plan together.
Willie stopped the team often that morning to give Missie opportunities for walking—and then to check that she hadn’t already walked far enough. She humored him by walking for a while and then welcoming a ride when he suggested it. She actually could have traveled by foot most of the morning. The walking had bothered her less each day, but there was no use worrying Willie.
In the afternoon a chill came with the wind, and dark storm clouds gathered on the horizon. The whole wagon train seemed to be holding its breath in unison. It was soon apparent to all that this storm would not pass over with just a shower. Still, the team drivers and their apprehensive womenfolk entertained the hope that the rain would not last for long. The animals seemed to sense the approaching storm, too, and by the time the thunder and lightning commenced, they were already nervous and skittish.
The rain came lightly at first. The women and children scrambled for the cover of the wagons, while the men wrapped themselves in canvas slickers and drove on through the storm.
But rather than decreasing in intensity, the storm with its dark clouds swirling above seemed angry and vindictive as the waters poured down. Soon the teams were straining to pull the heavy high-wheeled wagons through the deepening mud. Those fortunate enough to have extra horses or oxen hitched them to their wagons, also.
The guides ranged back and forth, watching for trouble along the trail. It came all too soon. One of the lead wagons slid while going down a slippery steep slope, bouncing a wheel against a large rock. The wooden spokes snapped with a sickening crack. The wagon lurched and heaved, though fortunately it did not tip over. Mr. Calley somehow kept the startled horses from bolting.
The teams following had to maneuver around the crippled wagon, slipping and sliding their way down the rocky hill and onto even ground. As soon as the last wagon was safely down the badly rutted hillside, Mr. Blake ordered a halt. They should have had many more miles of traveling for the day behind them, but it was useless to try to go on. The Big River would have to wait.
The sodden wagons gathered into their familiar circular formation, and the teams, with steam rising from their heaving sides, were unhitched. Some of the men went back up the hill to help the unfortunate Calley family. Their wagon could not be moved until the broken wheel was mended. The men labored in the pouring rain, attempting to raise the corner of the wagon by piling rocks and pieces of timber underneath. The Calleys would have to spend the night at a little distance from the rest of the camp.
While Willie and Henry were gone, Missie wrapped a heavy shawl about her and went in search of firewood. The other women and children were seeking material for their fires, as well, and the rain meant there was very little to be found. Missie felt wet and muddy and cross as she scrambled for bits and pieces of anything she thought might burn. At one point she heard a commotion and then a voice shouting, “You tell Jessie Tuttle thet once a body is headin’ fer a stick of firewood, thet body is entitled to it.” Missie smiled in spite of herself. The two were at it again!
Only the forward-thinking Mrs. Schmidt did not have to join the others in the dispiriting search. Her ever-abundant supply of dry wood was unloaded from under the wagon seat. Missie wondered why she hadn’t had the presence of mind to plan ahead, as well.
Missie finally had gathered what she hoped would be enough to cook a hot meal, then slogged her way back through the mud to her wagon. The fire was reluctant, at best, but Missie finally coaxed a flame to life. It sputtered and spit and threatened to go out, but Missie encouraged it on. The coffee never did boil, but the reheated stew was at least warm, and the near-hot coffee was welcome to shivering bodies.
Missie cleaned up in a halfhearted manner, and they crawled into their canvas home on wheels to get out of their wet clothing and into something warm and dry. It was far too early to go to bed, even though the day had been a strenuous one. Willie lit a lamp and settled down beside it to bring his journal up-to-date. Missie picked up her knitting, but her fingers were still too cold to work effectively. At length she gave up and pulled a blanket around herself for warmth. Willie lifted his head to look at her and started fretting again.
“Ya chilled? Ya’d best git right into thet bed—don’t want ya pickin’ up a cold. Here, let me help ya. I’ll go see what I can find for a warm stone fer yer feet.” He tucked the blanket more closely around Missie, right to the chin, and started to reach for his coat.
“Don’t go back out in the rain—please, Willie,” Missie begged. “My feet aren’t that cold. They’ll be warm in no time. I’ll just slip on a pair of your woolen socks.” And Missie did so immediately so Willie could see she meant what she had said.
It was too early to go to sleep, Missie knew. She also knew it was unwise to protest being tucked in, so she snuggled under the blanket, and gradually the chill began to leave her bones. She even began to feel drowsy.
Willie finished his journal entries and picked up a leather-covered edition of Pilgrim’s Progress that had been a wedding gift from Missie’s schoolchildren. Missie murmured, “If you don’t mind, would you read it aloud?”
Willie read, his voice and the familiar story lulling her toward a sense of well-being, and the long evening somehow passed.
The rain continued to fall, splattering against the canvas of the wagon. Before lying down to sleep beside Missie, Willie checked carefully all around the inside of their small enclosure to make sure there were no leaks. Then in a very few minutes Missie knew by his breathing that he slept. She wished she could fall asleep as easily, but instead she lay and listened to the rain. Again her thoughts turned to home.
She used to love to listen to the rain pattering on the window as she snuggled down beneath the warm quilt her mama had made. The rain had always seemed friendly then, but somehow tonight it did not seem to be a friend at all. She shivered and moved closer to Willie. She was thankful for his nearness and his warmth. And his confidence.
When Missie awakened the next morning, the rain was still falling. Puddles of water lay everywhere, and the shrubbery and wagons dripped steady little streams in the damp morning air. Willie arrived just as Missie was about to crawl down from the wagon, wondering what in the world she would ever do about a fire. Instructing her to stay where she was, he managed to get a fire going and make some coffee and pancakes. He served Missie in the covered wagon, ignoring her protests.
“No use us both gittin’ wet and cold,” he reasoned. “’Sides, Mr. Blake hasn’t decided yet whether we move on or jest sit tight.”
But they all knew of Mr. Blake’s concern about reaching the Big River before the waters were swollen with the rain. So in spite of the mud, he ordered them to pack up and move out as usual.
Willie was already soaking wet as he climbed up onto the wagon seat and urged the balking horses out. He told Missie to make as comfortable a place for herself as she could and to stay under the canvas.
It was tough going. The wagons slipped and twisted through the mire. Wheels clogged up and had to be freed from their burdens of mud. Teams and drivers were worn out in only a few hours’ time. When one poor horse finally fell and needed a great deal of assistance to regain his footing, Mr. Blake called a halt. It was useless to try to travel farther under such conditions.
Missie didn’t know whether to feel relief or dismay when their wagon creaked to a stop. The rain had slackened a bit, so she wrapped her shawl closely about her and went on the inevitable search for firewood. But when Willie returned some time later, Missie still had not succeeded in getting a fire going. She was close to tears and felt like a complete failure. The wood just would not burn. Willie took charge, talking Missie into changing out of her wet clothes. He dared to beg some hot water from M
rs. Schmidt, whose fire was burning cheerily—as if it were sticking its tongue out at the whole camp. Mrs. Schmidt seemed pleased—though possibly a bit smug—to share her hot water. Missie made tea in the confines of the wagon, and she, Willie, and Henry enjoyed the hot refreshment, along with their biscuits from yesterday.
Still the rain continued. Missie went back to her knitting while Willie mended a piece of harness. When that was done, he pulled out his journal, but this source of activity was soon exhausted, as well. He picked up the John Bunyan volume again and attempted to read, but eventually restlessness drove him from the wagon and out into the rain, muttering an excuse about checking on the teams and the cows.
With Willie gone, the afternoon dragged even more for Missie. She was on the verge of venturing forth herself when she heard Willie return. At his call from the back of the wagon, Missie raised the tent flap. He handed her a bundle, the Collins’ baby.
“Their wagon is leakin’,” he explained. “There ain’t a dry place to lay the young’uns. I’ll be right back with the boy.”
Missie busied herself with unwrapping the baby. True to his word, Willie was soon there at the canvas opening with little Joey in tow. When baby Meggie fussed, Missie cheerfully spent the time hushing her, rocking her back and forth and coaxing her to settle into a comfortable position. Willie entertained Joey, helping him make a tiny cabin with small sticks. Then he read to him out of Pilgrim’s Progress, and even though the young boy could not possibly understand much of the story, he listened intently. Missie finally managed to get the baby to sleep. She joined Willie and Joey, now involved in a little-boy game with sticks and stones.
Sissie Collins came by later to check on her children and nurse the baby. Willie made the rounds of the camp to see if there was anyone else needing a helping hand.
When the long day came to an end, they drank the remains of the now-cold tea and ate some cold meat with the remaining biscuits.
Willie moved into the other wagon with Henry so Sissie and her two little ones could stay with Missie in drier surroundings.
As Missie went to sleep again with the sound of the rain on the canvas, she wondered if it would ever stop. How could they possibly endure another day such as this?
But they did. At times the rain slackened to a mere drizzle, and at other times it poured. Each time the rain slowed, Missie pulled on her shawl and left the confines of the wagon. But actually there was little place to walk around and stretch her cramped legs. The ground around the site looked like a lake with only a few high spots still showing through. At first Missie tried to stay to the high ground, then giving up with a shrug, she sloshed about through the water.
Finally even Mrs. Schmidt ran out of firewood, so the men made a concerted effort to find something farther out that would burn. Eventually it was decreed that one fire, built under a stretched-out canvas, would be shared by the whole camp. The women took turns, three or four at a time, hastily preparing something hot for their families.
The Collins family wasn’t the only one having problems with leaking canvas. Other wagons, too, were wet—inside and out. Families were doubling up and sharing quarters wherever possible.
The rain heightened the tension between the two female antagonists. But the howls of outrage from Mrs. Page and the biting retorts of Mrs. Tuttle were often the very thing that kept the rest of the company sane. It was a nice diversion to be able to chuckle—even at one another.
On the fifth day the sky began to clear, and the sun broke through on the dripping and miserable wagon train.
The travelers, too, came out, quickly stringing lines and hanging clothing and blankets to dry. The ground remained wet, and it could be days before the stands of water disappeared and even a longer time before the ground would be dry enough to allow the wagons to roll ahead once again.
Missie felt somewhat like Noah as she descended from her wagon. There was water everywhere. How good it would be to see the dry land appear and the horses kick up dust. Oh, to be on the move again!
Mr. Blake clearly felt impatient, too, but his many years of experience on the trail no doubt told him it would be useless to try to travel on in the mud. No, they’d have to wait, he told them, explaining that with the rains of the past few days, the Big River would be impossible to cross very soon anyway. They’d been delayed, but they’d just take the problems one day at a time. “We’ll be there a’fore ya know it.” He finished his announcement with a tip of his hat to the glum faces before him.
Missie wondered how much time “a’fore ya know it” actually meant. But her first duty was to collect firewood, wet though it might be, and lay it out to dry for future use. She would not be caught short again if she could at all help it.
Eight
The Big River
For six days Mr. Blake kept the wagons in their camp circle. He no doubt would have held them longer, foreseeing the unwelcome surprise that probably awaited them at the Big River, but the growing impatience to be rolling again made the group restless. The ground in the immediate vicinity was dry enough to travel, and the risk of tempers flaring from tense nerves and idle hands overcame his reluctance to face a swollen river. On day seven he called for the travelers to break camp.
But those six days had not been lost in inactivity. Harnesses had been repaired, wagons reinforced, canvases carefully patched and oiled where the relentless rain had found a way inside. Clothes had been washed and mended, blankets aired, and bodies scrubbed. A hunting party returned to camp with two deer, and the venison fed the whole camp. The fresh meat was a welcome change from their dried and canned diet.
The scent of frying steak wafted over the camp that last evening, bringing a light spirit and unusually intent interest in supper preparations. Some women had found a berry patch and in short order stripped it clean. The tangy fruit made that special meal seem like a banquet. All were refreshed and looking forward to beginning the journey again.
It took the train three days to reach the Big River. When they finally arrived, Mr. Blake found exactly what he had been afraid they would face—a current far too strong and swift to allow safe wagon passage. He again called a meeting and explained the situation to the entire group. Another camp would have to be made beside the river until the waters subsided. The determined but weary travelers were all disappointed, but even the most impatient agreed with the decision.
So camp was set up, and the families again tried to establish some sort of daily routine to keep boredom from overtaking them. The men formed regular hunting parties, and the women and older children again ranged out in search of berries. Missie spent a part of each day gathering wood, as did the other women who did not have children to assign to the task. As she gleaned her daily supply, she also added to her stack of surplus piled under her wagon. If the rains should come again, Mrs. Schmidt would not be the only one who was prepared, she told herself firmly.
Some of the older ladies began to suspect Missie was “in the family way.” Although no comments were made, Missie often noticed the motherly glances of interest and concern that came her way. The birth of her baby was almost five months away by Missie’s reckoning, and that seemed like a long, long time into the future. Far longer than anyone should worry about, she silently told herself.
Missie found herself searching out the company of Becky Clay. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to Rebecca’s condition, and the other women found many little ways to make the young woman’s work load lighter. Dry sticks were tossed onto her pile as the women walked by with their load of wood, extra food was presented at her campfire, and her pail went along to the stream for water with someone who had a free hand.
For Becky’s sake, Missie felt extra concern over the travel delay. She was hoping along with Becky that they would reach Tettsford Junction and the doctor in time. Each day Missie prayed and hoped that by some miracle the swollen waters would be down and the train could be on its way. But just when the river appeared to be receding, somewhere along it
s banks another storm would raise the waters again. Rafting the wagons to the other side was out of the question in this deep, swift river, and day after day passed with the wagons still unable to cross.
On the fifteenth day by the Big River, the whole camp came to life as news of another wagon train’s appearance passed quickly around the circle. Soon they could see it slowly wending its way down a distant hill. Many went out to meet it. Those who remained behind waited in feverish eagerness for any news the newcomers might bring.
When the smaller train finally arrived and made camp near the Blake group, Missie and Willie soon discovered the second train had begun its journey far south of their own area, and they had to be satisfied with only general news. The wagon master turned out to be a good deal more impatient than their Mr. Blake. After sitting downriver for only two days, he decided that the water had receded enough for him to get his wagons across. Mr. Blake tried to dissuade him, but the man laughed it off, roughly declaring Blake to be as skitterish as an old woman. He had taken wagons across when the water had been even higher, he stoutly and loudly maintained. He then turned to the waiting wagons and ordered the first one into the water.
Women and children joined the men on the bank to watch the wagons cross. Murmured complaints about Mr. Blake passed among the observers. “Here we been sittin’ when we coulda been days away from here” was muttered around the group.
Mr. Blake did not choose to watch. With a look of disgust and a few well-chosen words directed at the other wagon master, he spun on his heel and marched off.