When Winter Comes

by V. A. Shannon

  Most of our Cincinnati party were Germans, some of them already acquainted with the Kesebergs. These included a fine gentleman named Mr. Wolfinger and his wife, Dorisse, who were newly married. She spoke hardly a word of English and he not much more, and he was elderly and ugly and rich, and she was young and pretty. She was done up very fine with white lace gloves for everyday and gold earrings with red jewels in, which caught the light when she turned her head.

  I looked at these with a right greedy eye, thinking how much they would earn me in the pawnshop.

  That little thought of home twisted inside me, and I put it away from me and tried to think of something else. I did not wish to wonder if Ma missed me any, or even thought of me at all.

  * * *

  Most evenings after supper the Wolfingers came to visit with us, and Mrs. Wolfinger and Mrs. Keseberg would sit together with their mending or some knitting. Mr. Wolfinger made himself comfortable by our fire alongside Mr. Hardkoop and Mr. Keseberg, and they would be joined by two of the single men riding along on their horses: Mr. Spitzer, who was very close about his past life, and his companion Mr. Reinhardt. The men would smoke their pipes and talk over their plans for what they would do in California, and the women would add in their comments, and there would be some laughter here and there.

  I would wash the cooking pots and clean out the wagon, all in silence, wishing that someone would invite me to sit by the fire and join in the conversation. But no one ever did.

  With so many brothers and sisters, I had never lacked for company, albeit of the arguing and fighting kind; indeed, it had mostly been the dream of my life growing up to have no company at all. It seemed, now, that my wish was granted, but as the old folks say, “Watch out for your wishes,” and it was true for me. I had wished to be alone, but I had never understood what it was to be lonely.

  Mr. Hardkoop was kind enough, but he seemed content with his own thoughts, and spent a deal of time reading and paying no mind to me at all. Ada prattled on, but it was not what I would call a conversation. The person who spoke to me the most was Mrs. Keseberg, and I could not get the measure of her. She had a way of looking at me when I spoke to her—sort of thoughtful like, half-smiling and with a little tip of the head to one side—that made me stumble over my words, and feel like I was all elbows and knees. In front of other folks she was pure honey sweetness but she had a right sharp tongue on her to give me an order when other folks were not around.

  No one else in our little train spoke to me at all. Why should they? I hardly crossed paths with another soul, spending all my time at our wagons, painfully aware of my shaved head and my poor appearance. And the folks in the other wagons were the same folks that had turned me away only a few weeks ago in Cincinnati. They didn’t like the look of me then, and their opinions had changed not a jot.

  I overheard Mrs. Wolfinger remark on it to Mrs. Keseberg, surprised to find me traveling with them. Mrs. Keseberg laughed, clearly embarrassed, and made some comment that it was a moment of weakness on her part and she had come to regret it pretty quick. She said that I was a shining example of something she called “dumb insolence.” I didn’t know what it meant, but had a pretty good idea it was something unpleasant.

  Then she said that she had felt pity for me, and it was her weakness to try and help unfortunates.

  “I ask only for a little gratitude from the girl,” she added, “but I guess I will wait a long time for it. But she is good with the child, I will grant that, and Ada seems mighty attached to her.”

  I allowed myself a little gleam of pleasure at this, but her next words startled me plenty.

  “Mr. Keseberg thinks most highly of her. Though I fail to see why.”

  I didn’t have time to reflect on the matter. Mrs. Wolfinger made some other quiet remark that I did not hear, but I heard Mrs. Keseberg’s reply—the honey vanished away in an instant, and vinegar took its place.

  “My goodness me! How can you say such a thing? Do you think I would take that sort of girl into my wagon? And, jesting or not, I thank you to mind your remarks about my husband!”

  6

  At the beginning of May we crossed into Missouri. Here were no forests or woods, for the land to each side of us was plantations, acre after acre of land spreading to the horizon, and dozens of folks sowing seeds for hemp or tobacco. They paid us no mind, being too engrossed in their work or just too used to the sight of wagon after wagon passing along the trail. Or maybe just not allowed to look away from their task—for these laborers were black, and Missouri was a slaver state. I saw a white man pass by the nearest row, with a whip held in his hand, and shivered at the sight of it.

  In the middle of one afternoon we finally arrived in Independence, and pulled into a field that must have been ten times the size of our Cincinnati meadow. There were too many wagons to count—row upon row of them as far as the eye could see—and folks working all around them, making repairs, leading off horses to be shod, or oiling the canvas covers for waterproofing.

  Mrs. Keseberg appeared out of the back of the wagon in a fresh skirt and blouse, wearing a straw bonnet with a ribbon round it. She told me to mind Ada, and make her dinner for her and to put her to bed, for after they had strolled around the town, she and Mr. Keseberg were going to eat their dinners in one of the eating houses.

  Off they set, Mrs. Keseberg with her arm linked through that of her husband. I stared after them in openmouthed outrage.

  I had supposed I should go, too, and see the sights!—and I wanted to, more than anything!—but here I was, left to sit in a field with their child while they went gallivanting about and enjoying themselves!

  I could not be still, and stamped backward and forward with my fists clenched. My thoughts whirled round in my head in a fury. What were these people to me? Circumstance—well, maybe my pa—had forced me to set out on my journey whether I wanted to or no, and the Kesebergs were simply what fate had thrown my way.

  I said to myself, “I owe them nothing! I will not stay with them another minute to be treated so shameful! I will find someone else to take me along the route to California, and see how they like that! And Mrs. Keseberg can look after her own child, and make her own coffee! And carry her own pots down to the creek and wash them, too!”

  I imagined the Kesebergs coming back to the wagon and finding me gone, and thought how it would serve them right. And I laughed out loud at the thought of the surprised look on their faces. This pleasant thought calmed me some. My thoughts stopped whirling round and settled themselves into a plan, and I turned my attention to Ada.

  There was some leftover corn bread from breakfast, and I soaked it in a bit of milk and drizzled a little molasses over it and she ate that, with a slice of cold meat. I settled her to sleep and drew the wagon cover closed, and went round to where Mr. Hardkoop was sat leaning against one of the wagon wheels, his pipe in his mouth and a book in his hand, reading.

  I said, as casual as I could, would he mind Ada while I walked about a little to stretch my legs and see some of the other wagons. He nodded, hardly looking up from his book.

  I strolled away, humming a little tune and as casual as you like. Then, when I was sure he could not see, I changed direction, and ran out of the field and into the town.

  * * *

  Independence was just as thrilling as I had expected. It was busier by far than I could have imagined and as unlike Cincinnati as could be. There were no factories throwing smoke into the sky, and no river filled with ships, no grand brick houses and no rich folks driving along in carriages, and no avenues of shops selling fancy goods. Instead, the whole town was a ramshackle muddle of wooden buildings that seemed to have sprung up just where they liked, all given over to provisioning the wagon trains. Every other building was a dry goods store, and in even the smallest gap between buildings there would be a wagon pulled up selling eggs or cheeses, or heaped with garden produce.

  I had to keep my wits about me as I made my way along. There were no boardwalks, and
such a quantity of folks everywhere that I was in constant danger of being pushed into the roadway, to fall under a horse’s hooves or be knocked down by one of the carts that rattled past in every direction. There were saloons and eating houses, and boardinghouses, too. I thought I could find employment here. I could clean, and by now I could cook some, and I thought it would be a fine thing to earn my own money to spend at the end of each week. But even as I thought it, I realized that this would never happen. For every other face around me was a black one, and of course in Missouri the black folks worked for free.

  It was growing dark, and by now I had walked quite some distance. My legs ached, and I was hungry. I hoisted myself up onto a hitching rail, and sat there, swinging my legs back and forth, while I considered what to do next.

  In front of me was a group of men standing outside a saloon. They had been made merry by the drink, laughing at some joke and paying no mind to what was happening around them. They would have coin in their pockets, I knew that. It would be the work of a minute to knock against one of them, and walk on with a handful of coin to show for it. A few weeks ago I would have done it in a heartbeat. But now I found I could not.

  “I have money of my own,” I thought, pretty pleased with myself. “I will find a room for the night in one of these boardinghouses, and order myself a fine supper—with someone else doing the cooking!—then in the morning I will decide what to do next. I might even go back to Cincinnati.”

  That tiny thought was all it took. I was decided. I had seen Independence, which had been my wish, and now the thought of home pulled at me something fierce. Ma needed me, and I smiled at the thought of telling my brothers what a fine adventure I’d had.

  I jumped down off the hitching rail, and walked across the street to a house I had seen that had a notice in the front window, ROOMS AVAILABLE. I banged on the door, and as I did so I put my hand in my pocket to take out my money—and found only empty air.

  I had tied my silver dollars in a scrap of cloth for safekeeping and tucked them away in a corner of the wagon. All fired up with temper, I had quite forgot about them. They were still there, back in the wagon and not in my pocket at all.

  It was full dark by now. I was in a strange town where I knew no one, with no bed for the night, and no money. I had passed the sheriff’s office with posters tacked up outside with descriptions of those wanted for robbery and murder and the rest. With a sickening rush of fear, it occurred to me that maybe my own name was on one of those posters.

  What a fool I was! How could I have forgot my reasons for being here? I could not go home, no matter how much I might want to. The Kesebergs were my salvation, their wagons my only place of refuge, and I had thrown my salvation away for no more reason than having my nose put out of joint.

  Mrs. Keseberg was pretty sharp with me, but it was only words, and I was stupid to let myself be so cut up about them. I remembered how Mr. Hardkoop had shared his candy with me, and thought how Ada clutched hold of my hand and giggled when I swung her round and round. And I thought again of Mr. Keseberg dropping the pink kerchief into my hand, and how I had wondered why he did it, if it was for pity, or if he chose the color deliberate, thinking it would be pretty on me. He had never told on me about the coffee, but had give that great shout of laughter instead, and I remembered how blue his eyes were when he looked at me. Pulling the pink kerchief off my head I clutched it to me, twisting it round and round between my fingers for comfort.

  I began to run this way and that, looking for the route back to the wagon field. All the buildings looked the same. I turned left and then right and then back on myself, getting more and more frightened as I plunged between the crowds of folks, all laughing and chattering.

  What if I never found my way back at all? What if the wagons had pulled out already, and they had not waited for me? What would I do? Where would I go?

  I rounded a corner, and ran slap into Mr. Keseberg. He gave a shout of surprise, and dropped the packages he was carrying and caught me in his arms. A little black lad was following him, pulling a cart loaded up with provisions, and Mrs. Keseberg was there as well.

  “Good gracious! Whatever are you doing here? You were told to stay with Ada! Where is she? And cover your head, for heaven’s sake.”

  Her words were as sharp as ever. But I gave a little skip from one foot to the other with the relief of hearing them, sharp or not.

  “Mr. Hardkoop is minding Ada. I came to find you. To see if you needed any help.”

  “How thoughtful of you!” Mr. Keseberg’s words were nothing out of the ordinary, and his tone was dry. There was no reason for my cheeks to flame, but they did. I felt as if he could see right into my head, and know how foolish I had been. My blush spread and spread, and the more I wished it away, the worse it got.

  He handed me some parcels to carry. When his fingers touched mine, I jumped. I scuttled away to walk behind them, looking at the way Mrs. Keseberg had her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

  My pa’s attentions to my ma had been with fists and slaps only, and I’d never had any lad back home be sweet on me, or me, him. I knew what I was—a plain girl with a sharp tongue. When I was younger I’d maybe wished myself different, so that some lad would wink his eye at me, or catch ahold of my hand as I passed him in the street. But as I grew older I’d come to see that a wink one year was a black eye the next, and a hand-hold now would be a fist in the future; sweet-heart one time was broken-heart another. Now though, looking at the set of Mr. Keseberg’s shoulders as he guided his wife through the busy street, I could not help but think that it would be nice to have someone take such care of me. I imagined the day when a handsome gentleman—in my imagination someone very like Mr. Keseberg, tall and strong—seeing me as quite the young lady, would offer me his arm.

  So caught up was I in wondering what it would feel like to have a man’s arm round my waist to see me across the road, that I didn’t notice that the little black lad pulling the cart had stopped to tie his bootlace. I walked straight into the cart, banging my shins and letting out a yelp of pain. The Kesebergs didn’t notice, but the lad, and a couple more who were lounging against a wall and saw me do it, let out a great roar of laughter, pointing at me and smacking their knees with their hands in a frenzy of mirth. I hobbled furiously onward, hating the lad, the cart—and myself, for being such a fool—in equal measure.

  * * *

  If only I had gone round to the back of our wagon and put my hand into the little hidey-hole I had found, and taken out my five dollars and put them into my pocket. If only I had lost my footing and stumbled against some man outside the saloon, and righted myself with a fluttering smile and a fistful of coin. I would have found someone to take me back to Cincinnati, to take my chances with the hangman’s noose or my pa’s fists. I would have been better to have done so; and if I had known what lay before me, I would have done it, too.

  7

  School starts back today, and right glad I am of it. Meggie will turn thirteen in a month, and since Christmas week my sweet child seems to have turned into a most unpleasant girl, considering herself an expert in all matters and fluttering her eyelashes at her pa to get her own way. She treats me as a mix of servant and simpleton with a toss of the head and a way of sighing at anything I say that makes my hand itch to give her a good slap, though this is something I would never do.

  I know she is just acting her age. It will do no good to take issue with every silly thing she comes up with. All the same I have spent a considerable amount of time out in the yard this last week, rehearsing the smart retorts I would like to make to her in a below-the-breath mutter, and pulling the weeds—and any unfortunate vegetable that happens to get in my way—with considerable vigor.

  We have some new pupils in school. The two McGillivray boys, eleven-year-old Matty and his eight-year-old brother, Thomas, turned up this morning barefoot and possessing no lunch pails. Mrs. McGillivray and these two, a babe in arms and another expected, or so I surmise upon s
ight of her, arrived in town a day or so since, with nothing more to their name than a cart and a spindle-shanked mule to pull it.

  Mr. McGillivray and the older boys are away working a claim up in the hills, making a little bit of a living from washing gold out of the streams. I guess the family sold up all they had in the East, in the belief that they would strike rich in the West. Like so many, they have been sadly disappointed. The great days of the gold rush are well behind us now, and those who struck lucky have moved on, leaving this broken-down trail of beggars and speculators in their wake.

  The rainy weather at the beginning of the week has given way to sun, with a bright, high sky full of little scudding clouds driven onward by a brisk breeze. At this time of year it’s a bitter wind, blowing down off the mountains, and at dinnertime, when the rest of the children are rushing about outside in a game of tag, I keep the two McGillivray boys indoors. I set them by the stove over in the corner and give them what I had thought to eat myself, some cheese and an apple, and a couple of slices of sourdough, and they eat up a storm.

  While they are eating, I open my copy of School and Family Geography and turn to Mr. Young’s map of the United States. Our lesson after lunch is to be geography. With my finger I find Cincinnati, and then I trace the journey I made, across the whole great Continent of America.