All Together in One Place

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “Maybe I should encourage it,” Jeremy said. He held her elbow now, to steady her as they moved toward the commotion along the bank. “That way we'd end up alone on the trail at last, just our wagons and Pig, and I could blame it on the dog.”

  Mazy looked at him from the side of her eye, wishing she could be more certain of when he jested.

  Suzanne lived inside uncertainty. If someone touched her elbow, she startled. If she heard a swishing, she assessed: animal scratching or a man breathing? The wind sighing or water rushing? A dozen questions for every scent or touch or taste or sound. The effort fatigued her, and yet she needed the sounds, to tell her where she was. Now here she sat on a hard wagon seat, her son, Clayton, bouncing beside her, his soft fingers clinging to her neck. She could smell his diaper. It needed changing. Bryce stood below her. She could hear him talking to the ferryman, hear the rush of water splash against the logs that carried them farther and farther into uncertainty, deeper into her darkness. She had no “sentinel” as Cicero called them, no eyes to be her guide.

  The cracking sound broke into her mind, then the shouts. “Hold it! Hold ‘er back, man! Check the chock!”

  It wasn't Bryce's voice. Her skin charged the silky hair on her arms as though she stood in a field during a lightning storm. Her husband's voice, raised to the oxen—she heard that next, then felt the vibration of the wagon moving and shifting. She grabbed for the sideboard, clutched for Clayton, his chubby knees poking her side with each half squat he made.

  “Bryce? What's happening?” She started to stand.

  “Oh, Lord,” she heard him say, away, near the lead team. “Whoa, Breeze! What now, what now. My wife, Clayton! Someone, get them off there!”

  She felt vibration, pitch, and yaw, someone wrenching Clayton from her side. She heard the child wail, smelled tobacco on whoever grabbed him, felt the weight of the wheels and wagon shift. “Clayton?” Strong fingers reaching for her, her dress tearing; then the splintering of wood, the heave of the wagon, shouts and cries and animals baying, her own body sliding and the smell of wetness and the flap of wind against canvas, her hands wet and slippery, and the putrid, cold water sucking, pulling her deeper into darkness.

  Mazy and Jeremy counted. Their wagon was number eleven to roll onto the ferry the following Sunday morning, May 23. A makeshift rail had been pounded onto the side by the Mormon operator to repair the damage done when the load had shifted the day before. It was the Cullver wagon that had gone through and hung up, causing more delay.

  Mazy shivered at the sight of the splintered section. The ferryman watched her and spoke out loud. “Their oxen startled and rolled right through it,” he said. “That the dog, then? He's yours?”

  “He is.” The dog panted, sitting beside her, staring out at the water, turning to look up at her when she talked. Mazy scratched at Pigs ears.

  “Headed from so far out. Think he heard that woman? Thought the whole ferry'd go. Her husband almost had her in, but the wagon went and threw her like a stone Who'd a thought a dog could have dragged her?”

  “Drowning people often bring their rescuers down, I've heard.”

  “Panic,” the ferryman said, nodding his head. “Kills the same as a lead sinker.”

  “Pig's a strong swimmer,” Mazy said.

  “Don't envy any that'll be traveling with that man and his wife,” the ferryman said. “Greenhorns. Oxen just two-year-olds. Shouldn't think about making this crossing with animals less than five. Too unruly.” He slapped at a horsefly biting on his thigh. “Guess they got money to replace it, though a good hand with an ox'd be worth more.” He held the rudder of the ferry against a blast of wind, settled it, then said, “Woman like that, pitiful. And her with a babe at her side. Bad omen, you ask me.”

  “Nonsense,” Mazy told him. She pulled at the short jacket covering her bloomer costume. The wind whipped at the full pant legs that made her think of pictures she'd seen of Persians. “That's pure superstition. The woman has enough to worry over without carrying a belief that she's cursed in some way.”

  Mazy looked around. Jeremy stood beside the wagon, his eyes lifted often to the shoreline where their oxen waited. Since the accident, most were unhitching now and swimming the stock across, just using the ferry for wagons. It delayed things even further, but the risk of accident and injury lessened. The Cullver incident decided for several people that speed was less important than survival.

  The ferryman grunted. “Women wearing pants don't bode well for river crossings neither,” he said.

  “These bloomers would keep me afloat if I fell in,” Mazy laughed “You might consider that, spending as much time on the water as you do.”

  He grunted. “No wonder the dog did what it did. Spent too much time with an addled woman.”

  Mazy waved at her mother perched high on the seat in her wagon behind theirs. She looked like a child, Mazy thought, her eyes sparking with excitement, pointing and twisting in her seat, calling down to Tyrell to draw his attention to some bird, some rush of water that raced past them. She looked younger, her eyes less tired. Mazy hadn't thought of it before, but her mother appeared inspired by the very excitement that pulled others under.

  The river splashed up onto the decking over the logs. Mazy jumped back, but not before the water soaked her boots and darkened the crimson of her bloomers. They were her only pair. She'd seen a few other women wearing the practical garments, inviting a flutter of Jeremy's irritation.

  The ferry bobbed, sloshing up more water. She bent to scratch Pig's neck, and the dog leaned into her leg.

  Land jolted them. They rehitched their team as soon as the stock came over, water still pouring off the oxen's broad backs. The animals pulled the wagon to the far side, rolled onto the second ferry. They unhitched the team again. Jeremy did well with the detail of harnessing and unharnessing, checking the load of their wagon, conferring with Tyrell about Elizabeth's wagon Both the brute and the cows had bobbed through the water along with the oxen and the Schmidtkes’ cattle. Once on the far side, Jeremy and Tyrell headed back to push stock into the water for the next wagons, helping as others had for them.

  It was nearly dark when the final wagon of their small grouping rolled off onto the west side of the Missouri. Men like shadows, their eyes adjusting to the dark, continued hitching and rolling the last of the wagons into a circle then unhitching again.

  Mazy stood, exhausted from the watching and worry, from reshifting the loads. The guidebook had made the river fordings sound like an adventure with high drama ending in joy, not a day that strained. Someone like her mother must have written it. She noticed her mother reach into the flour barrel and started to ask her if she wanted to keep a piece of china safe there when she saw Pig s ears stand up at attention.

  Pig trotted toward the woman, her arm gripping her husbands. A toddler preceded them, stooping to pick up pebbles as he walked. Suzanne Cullver s thick, straw-colored hair was tied back with a simple wine red ribbon She wore a brown wrapper with buttons stretched across the bodice and a full skirt without an apron She couldn't have been more than mid-twenties, Mazy guessed. A striking beauty. Round glasses covered her eyes, so dark Mazy couldn't see behind them.

  “I'd like to thank you,” Bryce Cullver said, “for your dog's quick…for saving Suzanne's life. Everything was so hurried…we didn't do it proper earlier. Don't know where he came from, but I couldn't be more grateful.” He had a deep voice, resonant when he spoke though his speech was marked by caution “Suzanne Jane would…she'd like to thank you too ” He patted her fingers. “Careful, Clayton.”

  “Speak for yourself,” the woman answered and pulled her arm free of him.

  “Suzanne, please, these are nice folks. Their dog—”

  “Didn't mind his own business,” she finished for him She had slender fingers though the nails were bitten to the quick She fluttered them at her neck, and then she rested them around her throat above her white collar, as though to choke herself. “It would have sett
led many a question if I'd been left to be, to let the elements take me as they would. Drown or not, since fate made the ferry break. But no, he had to come and pull me free.”

  “I'm sure, in time shell change her mind…be grateful for your dogs actions This…it's been a hard year for us ” Bryce shrugged his shoulders then, palms out in resignation. The child approached Pig.

  “Don't think I don't know you're doing things with your face and your eyes to tell them to indulge me, pat me on my head,” Suzanne said She had a voice like a crosscut saw that didn't need sharpening. “I don't need anyone's pity. Had enough to last a lifetime, which would have been short enough but for your dog. Let's go, Bryce. See to Clayton”

  Despite the rage of her words, her face looked blank. She thrust her hands out in front of herself then, stepped forward and stumbled, said something beneath her breath. Mazy surmised she had not been blinded long. She still used the tools of the sighted that no longer worked. Suzanne kicked at the sitting log and would have fallen but for Pig, who barked and set himself before her.

  “You again,” Suzanne said.

  “Not the dog's fault, Suzanne.”

  “No, my own. That's what got me here in the first place. Isn't that what you're saying to yourself? Can we go now, Bryce? I've a headache.” She pressed at her temples, all the color drained from her nails.

  “I have some golden seal that might help,” Mazy offered.

  “Best not that,” Bryce said. He shook his head and lowered his voice. “She's…we were worried she might have lost—”

  “Tell everyone, Bryce, why don't you. Let them all know. So they can wonder all agog about how a stupid blind woman will birth and raise a baby along this wretched trail.”

  “Mint, then,” Mazy said after a pause. “In a hot tea That's good for headaches.”

  “I despise gentle people,” Suzanne said, turning her body toward the direction of Mazy's voice.

  “I'm sorry,” Mazy said. “I'll just get the leaves from my herb box When's your baby due?” Mazy reached for her mint at the wagons side cupboard. “It was thoughtless of me not to notice. Your Clayton looks to be a pretty healthy soul. He's how old?”

  “Bryce looks after him,” Suzanne said. “I really do want to leave now. We've done our duty.”

  The next big river crossing would be the Platte according to the guidebook, but that was miles away For days, they'd travel north beside it, in the valley it carved heading west. Mazy had the guidebook in her hand as they sat on the log, awaiting the meeting.

  “Won't be needing that, now,” Antone Schmidtke said as the group clustered around the fire. “My map's the recent one ” He nodded toward her guidebook. “Will be sharing it after our vote. Hope you'll be joining up with us, Mrs. Bacon,” he said and tipped his hat. “Got ourselves a regular town rolling out tomorrow. Like to have you. The dog, too.”

  Even in Kanesville, the women had found the evening gatherings strengthening, a word her mother used. “A place to share berries or biscuits and exchange information,” she said. Tonight, Mazy heard voices speak of recipes and ways to add variety to the corn cakes or the tiresome wheat-berry coffee. Men boasted of the crossing and finally being on their way. She supposed these gathering times were important, to discover who had what tool, what supply might later be offered. But the conversations tired her, all the people, so constant.

  They held the vote first at dusk, men only. Antone Schmidtke earned the honors as captain. The time they'd waited to take the vote hadn't given anyone but Mazy a chance to change her mind. Jeremy hadn't made a speech and in fact seemed indifferent to the proceedings. A feeling like a spider crawling under her collar made Mazy wonder if they'd have another argument later about going on alone.

  “You lost but won your independence. We Cassville folks ought to stick together,” Hathaway Wilson told Jeremy after the group had begun to disperse.

  “How many others are joining the Schmidtke train?” Mazy asked.

  Hathaway combed his dark mustache with his fingers. “The Bar-nards, some Missouri folks, some others, can't remember their names. Oh, that Martin woman.” Hathaway shook his head. “Determined one she is. The blind woman and her man, they'll go wherever your dog goes, I expect.” Hathaway laughed. “Sister Esther and her Marriage Association girls agreed to travel along too, though she may change her mind if we decide to travel on the Sabbath.”

  “And will we?”

  “Depends on the trials we face. Antone says if things go smooth, then we can rest. Trouble, and we've got to keep rolling even on a Sunday.”

  “I'd say resting a day could only gain us strength to live with the trials,” Mazy offered. “And it sets a good example for the children, too.”

  “What about you, Jeremy?” Hathaway asked. “Still deciding?”

  “You're heading to California. We aren't,” Jeremy told him.

  It was the first time Mazy knew for sure that her husband had chosen Oregon, and she felt a flash of irritation that she had to overhear it—where he'd set his sights.

  “But until we turn south, it makes sense to have you with us,” Hathaway told him. He pounded his clay pipe against his boot. “You started this, after all—this westering of the Wisconsin clan. And while Tipton's not needing to share your mother's wagon, Mazy, I believe she likes her company still.”

  “Tyrell's contract is to teamster my wagons, regardless of where they go.”

  “Don't doubt he'd like to keep his word,” Hathaway said. “It'll create a wail from Tipton if he does.” Hathaway cleared his throat. “I was hoping.…haven't said, of course, that maybe in Laramie you could hire on another teamster. And that way, free Tyrell up.” He pulled on his mustache that draped ragged edges over his upper lip. “Hope my not paying for Tipton's keep doesn't muddle this.”

  “I'm quite sure we can survive without the ‘Tipton-watching money’”

  “That's what you called it?” Hathaway asked. “Guess it was, at that. She'll still need watching, but her mama likes that job.”

  Hathaway threw a few pebbles into the fire. “Think about freeing up Tyrell, will you? Could make my life…smoother.” He clapped Jeremy's shoulder in that way men have of parting. Tired, Mazy thought, he's tired and defeated.

  Jeremy helped Mazy step up into the wagon later and then lit a candle. He removed his glasses, splashed his eyes with water from the bowl, dabbing his long face dry before sitting on a plank chair. Without speaking, he lifted his foot to her, and she turned her back, reached between her knees and pulled at his boot. His other foot rested on her bloomered backside for added grip.

  “It is the Lord's day,” Mazy said. “We didn't keep it all that well.” She grunted with exertion, set his boot down, and waited for him to lift his other foot. “Your feet are cold.” She set the second boot beneath the narrow bed. “What are you thankful for?” Mazy asked, washing her hands now in the porcelain basin.

  “Safe answer is to say I got a wife with warm feet and strong hands.”

  “No, really.”

  Jeremy sighed. “I'm thankful you've decided to come with me and that I'm out of the fire and back into the spider. And you?” He put his arms behind his head and looked at her. Drops of water from where he'd splashed his face glistened on his hair. Little red marks on his narrow nose told of glasses that didn't quite fit. A prickly chin hinted that he had begun to grow a beard.

  “I'm thankful we'll be ended of this journey and in a new home before the New Year. Especially this year.” She picked up his glasses and, with the edge of her bloomers, rubbed at the lenses.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Because?”

  “It seems we'll be adding a Bacon to our family's frying pan.”

  It reminded her of Indian country, this land beside the Platte. Ruth had seen plenty of Indians back in Kentucky. They'd been fierce at one time, warring, her father said, forcing her and her sisters to practice drills using a Kentucky long rifle. The drills were followed by a sneak and crawl on their bellies to the pot
ato cellar dug out of the damp earth on their isolated farm. Ruth thought the snakes they had encountered in Kentucky much more dangerous than the Indians she saw once or twice through the door cracks. The Pawnee simply lifted a basket of apples or pulled at tobacco leaves hanging from the drying shed rafter or found a bolt of cloth they draped around them as they left.

  None of the items taken seemed worth a life, though her father said what belonged to them was worth killing for.

  Justice was a word her father used often. She wondered how his justice would fare in this place, with wagons owned by some and driven by others; with travel made without permission across uncharted lands; decisions made not by any standard law nor by the wisest, but by those who could convince the others of their certainty through the power of their words or might. Her father had been good at that, using words to convince. He had not convinced her, and that had been her loss.

  Ruth slapped her hand on the shoulder of an ox. It was good to be on the trail, to be actually heading toward something instead of just running away. New sights and sounds and smells, that's what she needed to replace the past. She didn't mind a sky the color of pewter either, the way some did, or light misty rains that kept the dust down. Those kinds of days felt like quilts around her, comforting and close.

  Zane had liked those heavy days too. It was just one of their many commonalities. She supposed that was what deluded her in the end, the belief that only those meant for each other could share so many finely tuned details like the rub of wool against skin or relishing the taste of caviar without it having to be acquired.

  She shook her head. The neck string holding her hat pulled against her throat. He'd been a good man—hadn't he? She would not think further than that.

  Ruth walked beside the last wagon. On either side and to the front rolled wagons hoping to avoid the puff and spurt of prairie dust by branching out at an angle from the other teams. She pulled the neckerchief up over her nose, straining the dusty air. Ruth would not rotate toward the front as the others would throughout the journey, a decision that had been voted on by men—and only men.