A Woman Named Damaris

by Janette Oke

  “Put yer things in the wagon there an’ gather some wood fer a fire. We’ll need to eat before we set off, an’ we don’t have long to be fixin’ it.”

  Damaris nodded again. She moved toward the wagon indicated and hoisted her small bundle of possessions under the canvas. Then she thought better of what she had done and climbed in after her load. She carefully untied the bundle and extracted the smaller packet that contained the watch and the brooch. Slipping it into her apron pocket, she fastened it shut with a pin from the hem of her dress. Then she climbed back down from the wagon and made her way to the small grove of trees clustered beside the road. Mrs. Brown had asked her to bring wood for a fire. She would hasten to carry out her first assignment lest the woman change her mind and leave her behind.

  Damaris hurried with the wood and soon had a fire going. She picked up the two available buckets and headed for one of the town wells. As soon as she was back she took a large kettle from the side of the wagon and put water on to heat. Then she went to the wagon entrance and called to the woman that she was ready to begin meal preparations if she could be given her instructions.

  It was a simple meal that Damaris prepared but no one complained about it, and after she hurried to wash up the dishes and pack them away for the trip she saw a look of relief on the woman’s face.

  “I need to nurse this one,” the woman said, lifting the baby and rising from the stool where she sat. “Thet one needs a nap iffen ya can coax him to settle,” and she nodded her head at the boy who had been crying and hanging on to his mother’s skirts ever since Damaris first saw him.

  Damaris had misgivings as she picked up the young tot and headed for the wagon she had been told was hers to share. He screamed for his mother, but Damaris continued walking.

  She knew very little about caring for children. That was one chore she had never done, having had no siblings of her own. Her reasoning told her, however, that if the child was to be settled for a nap, he first had to be comforted, so when she reached the wagon she crawled aboard and began to gently rock the little one in her arms, singing a song that her mama used to sing to her.

  He continued to scream for a while, but gradually the wild complaining ceased. Damaris continued to rock, continued to sing. She rocked until her arms ached and sang until her throat was dry. At long last the child fell asleep and Damaris moved to gently lay him on the blanket bed that covered almost the entire wagon floor.

  He stirred and started to whimper as she lowered him, and Damaris feared she would need to begin all over again. She wasn’t much taken with her role as nursemaid and figured she would more than earn her keep on the trip west if it meant caring for this wailing child the whole way. And according to the woman, there were three more somewhere. Damaris had been much too busy over the dinner hour to be bothered with counting noses. Now, she supposed that it was her job to round up the rest. From the talk around the fire she knew the train would soon move on, leaving the small town behind.

  Chapter Six

  On the Trail

  The days on the trail were not easy ones for Damaris. Besides hauling water, finding fuel for the fire, and helping with the meals and washing, she was put in charge of four children, including three girls who were independent and unruly. The youngest child, two-year-old Edgar, quickly changed from fighting her to clinging to her. Every move Damaris made he was either hanging on her or demanding to be carried. Damaris gathered sticks for the fire with Edgar hoisted on her left hip, hauled water from the stream with Edgar trailing on her skirts, cooked the dinner over the fire with Edgar crying at her elbow. Damaris soon yearned for a few moments by herself—but they never came.

  Even at night there was no escape, for she had to share the wagon—and her bed—with Edgar and his three sisters. Damaris felt as if she were smothering and often climbed from the wagon in the middle of the night to find a few quiet moments walking in the darkness, even though the captain had forbidden anyone to leave the wagons at night.

  The oldest boy, younger than Damaris, was sullen and sober and far too tired at the end of each busy day to cause any problem for her. They were two weeks on the trail before Damaris even learned his name, and then it was quite by accident.

  Two of the girls, Nina and Trudy, were arguing over whose turn it was to ride on the wagon seat. After a lively spat that solved nothing, Nina turned to Trudy and screamed at the top of her voice, “It is too my turn! You just ask Conrad!” But when the case was taken to Conrad for appeal, he shrugged thin shoulders and spoke not a word. The squabble ended in a hair-pulling match, and Damaris had to intervene. She stated firmly that both girls would miss their turn for the day and that made the quarrel turn against her, as the two fighting sisters suddenly found a common foe and banded together to give Damaris a piece of their angry minds.

  If Damaris had looked forward to the excitement of the trip, she would have been disillusioned. There was nothing exciting about the long, hot, dusty trail they traveled. Nor in the long hours of difficult work. Each day started before sunrise and ended after the sun had sunk into the western sky.

  If Edgar slept well, she could get a good six hours of sleep, but that was not always so. If he awakened in the night, the first thing he did was reach for her. If he didn’t find her within grasping distance, he began to howl before he even had his eyes open.

  I promised to earn my way, Damaris reminded herself daily, and I will keep my word.

  Damaris really didn’t have too much contact with her lady employer. Once her duties had been assigned and assumed, the woman withdrew to her wagon and appeared only when the next meal was ready. She didn’t seem to be too well, and the small baby she always had in her arms was terribly fussy.

  “Don’t know iffen it’s the heat or the constant motion,” the exhausted woman said to Damaris one day, “but he sure isn’t takin’ to somethin’.”

  Damaris nodded in agreement, though she knew nothing about small babies.

  ———

  Damaris had never known that so many miles of nothingness could exist. They saw hills and scrub brush and an occasional deer or coyote. Barren plains shimmered in heat waves, making Damaris feel dizzy and sick to her stomach. Now and then a thunder shower burst upon them, making everyone take cover in the moving wagons. If it rained too much the wagons were forced to sit a spell. Damaris hated these stops, for every delay meant more days on the trail.

  She lost all track of time—but she guessed it really didn’t matter which day of the week it was. Day after tiresome day was much like the other.

  Damaris did not mix with the other families of the train. She had spotted one girl about her age, but the girl seemed totally free of responsibility and able to run about with the younger children. She even had a pony she rode whenever she felt so inclined. The rest of her time she spent curled up on pillows in the back of their wagon, a book propped up on her knees.

  Damaris envied the girl. She didn’t care that much about having no chores to do. She wasn’t even too concerned about the pony, but the books made Damaris jealous. Oh, what she would give to be able to sit and read and read. She had had to leave her own worn volumes behind. They really were her mother’s books, and Damaris hadn’t felt right about taking them with her—but oh, it was hard to leave them.

  After the evening meal had been served, the dishes washed and put up for the night, the water hauled for morning, and enough wood stacked to supply the breakfast fire, Damaris sometimes had a few moments before she tucked herself into bed.

  They were not really free moments, for Edgar refused to go to bed without her, but Damaris often picked up the small boy and carried him as she wound her way around the campsite.

  She would watch people gathered in little clusters, talking around this or that campfire. Sometimes she drew close enough to catch bits and pieces of the conversation. She wanted to learn how many more days they would be on the trail and if the tiresome journey was ever to end.

  She avoided the menfolk, espec
ially the wagon master. For the first few days of the journey she was terrified that he would send her back to the town where she had joined the train if he discovered her.

  About the third day he finally saw her, but he said nothing, just scowled, nodded, then passed her by. Damaris breathed a relieved sigh. She was safe. She could continue her trip west.

  Still, Damaris chose to stay well out of his way, not wishing to bother him or cross him.

  One thing about the journey pleased Damaris. There were no towns—and no saloons. Never once on the whole trail did Damaris see a drunken man. Never once did she see a woman or child bearing cuts or bruises because of someone’s fit of drunken rage. Damaris, as eager as she was to reach a town, also dreaded the thought, sure that once they arrived the men would return to their normal way of life.

  ———

  “If nothin’ slows us, we should be there in three days.”

  The words had been spoken by a tall man resting against the wheel of his wagon.

  Damaris, passing by with two buckets of water and Edgar clutching her skirt, caught her breath.

  Three days! Only three more days. It sounded like a release from a moving prison.

  The whole camp was abuzz that evening. Damaris even heard some singing. She ached to creep close and listen to the revelers, but her duties kept her near the fire. By the time she finished her chores, the music had stopped.

  Damaris was too excited to sleep well that night. The flap of the wagon had been turned back to allow a little cool air to enter, and through the opening she could see the moon hanging silvery overhead. She could stand it no longer. She eased herself out from under the blankets, slipped her dress over her head, grabbed her shawl, and left the wagon. Edgar did not stir.

  The captain’s rule was that no one was to stray from the camp, by night or by day. But if they were close to a town, Damaris reasoned, there should be no danger. Besides, she would not go far.

  She crept past the other wagons and followed the small stream for a short distance. Then she sat down on a large rock by its shore and sighed, taking a deep breath of the clear night air.

  In just three more days she would be out West. She would be free to settle in a new town, forget her short but troubled past, and make a new life for herself.

  Her thoughts turned homeward. Instead of pushing them aside, she let them linger on her mama. For a moment Damaris had a difficult time recalling the well-loved face, and it frightened her. But soon the features came clearly to view and tears began to trickle down the girl’s cheeks—the first tears she had allowed herself.

  She wished there were some way to let her mama know she was doing just fine. More than that, she wished her mama was with her. She hoped with all of her heart that her mama was well.

  Suddenly Damaris felt her chest tighten with fright. What if her going had caused Pa to beat Mama? What if she’d—? A deep sense of guilt seized Damaris. If Mama was in trouble it would be her fault. Her pa always became even more angry if his daughter wasn’t there when he called. She had been selfish! She had been wrong to leave with no consideration for the only person who had ever loved her.

  Now the tears fell freely. Damaris wiped them with her shawl and lifted her head to look toward the east. There was no way back. Perhaps there were wagons that traveled that way, but she had never heard of one. It would take her years and years to save enough money for train fare. By then her mama could be dead. She cried some more. And with her fright and guilt came a terrible wave of lonesomeness. Damaris would have given anything to be back home in her saggy cot in the small loft, listening to the snoring and groaning of her drunken father as the sounds ascended from below.

  Finally Damaris got her tears under control but the ache within her did not go away. She watched the silent water ripple in the moonlight. The night was quiet and clear. Countless stars were visible overhead.

  The sound of a step behind her brought her head up with a jerk.

  Indians! was her first thought, and her whole body prepared itself to flee.

  Damaris turned quickly to view the intruder and saw the wagon master standing a scant five feet behind her. She caught her breath, knowing she had broken the rule—the one, unchanging, indisputable order of the captain. She had left the train. Alone.

  She was sure he would sentence her to immediate and terrible consequences. Should she dart and run or sit meekly and face his wrath? The latter had always worked best in the past. Only once had she tried to dodge under her pa’s arm and avoid the punishment he had in mind. The beating she received that time was the worst one of her entire life. She had never tried it again.

  Now she sat silently, appearing calm, but quivering inside.

  The man moved closer and Damaris steeled herself for the blow that was to come. To her surprise his hand did not raise to strike her. Instead, he lowered himself to a rock a short distance away. Damaris heard his heavy sigh of contentment—or tiredness—she wasn’t sure which. Still she did not move or speak.

  “Pretty, ain’t it?” he said after some moments of silence.

  Damaris finally dared look at him.

  He was taking in the expanse of sparkling night sky, looking quite relaxed, sharing her stream and her moonlight.

  “Ya been pretty busy on this trip,” he observed.

  Damaris hadn’t been aware that he had even noticed her.

  After a few more minutes of silence he chuckled.

  She lifted her head, still not sure if the man was being friendly or cruelly prolonging her agony.

  “Thet there little fella sure don’t let ya outta his sight, does he? Hangs on like you was a dog an’ he was a flea.” He laughed, and Damaris felt a smile curling the ends of her own mouth.

  “Ya enjoy yer night walks, don’t ya?”

  Damaris quickly lost her smile and caught her breath. Now the punishment was coming.

  “Well, I guess they haven’t hurt nothin’. You’ve never strayed too far afield and with thet young’un hangin’ on to you all the time—guess I don’t blame ya none.”

  Damaris let out her breath. Not only had he discovered her tonight but apparently had observed her walks in the past. Why hadn’t he said something before?

  “ ’Sides,” he went on with a glance toward Damaris, “I had my eye on ya.”

  Damaris gathered the shawl more closely about her. It offered little protection from a beating but it was all she had.

  “I decided right from the start thet as long as you stayed close an’ caused no harm, I’d allow ya those little pieces of alone time. Couldn’t bear to be so shut in like you been all the time. Couldn’t bear it.”

  Damaris could not believe her ears. Did she understand him correctly? Was there to be no punishment? Had he actually allowed her to break his one steadfast rule? Before she had a chance to sort it all out, he changed the subject.

  “We get to Poplar Creek in about three days,” he said. “Is thet where yer aimin’ for?”

  Damaris nodded her head, hoping he could see her clearly enough in the moonlight to receive her answer.

  “Not a bad little town—as western towns go. Quite small. Not too much work there fer a young girl, I expect, but ya might find somethin’.”

  Damaris listened closely.

  “Don’t s’pose ya want to go on workin’ fer yer board and room carin’ fer those Brown youngsters.”

  “No,” said Damaris shaking her head. It was the first word she had spoken, and its forcefulness startled her.

  He chuckled again and this time Damaris enjoyed the sound.

  “Don’t blame ya none,” he said. “What kind of work are ya looking fer?” he asked.

  Damaris hadn’t given it much thought.

  “I—I don’t really know. ’Bout anything—for now. Later—later I’d like to do something—well, something like sewin’ or—teachin’ or something.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I know a few folks in town—not many, ’cause I never stop there fer long�
�but I might put in a word fer ya here or there. Not many girls yer age could outwork ya—I’ve seen thet firsthand.”

  Damaris knew she had been paid tribute. She lowered her head in embarrassment. She was not used to receiving compliments for completing assigned tasks.

  He stood then and stretched his arms as though to work some kinks from his body.

  “Well,” he said, “guess it’s ’bout time we both get back to our wagons. Sun’s gonna be up before we know it.”

  Damaris rose from the rock on which she had been sitting. Her own body felt the need to stretch, but instead she pulled the shawl closer about her shoulders and gave the man a polite nod. She wanted to assure him that she would obey his order immediately.

  Without another word she started down the trail that led back to the wagons. He did not walk with her, but when she had taken a few steps she heard his soft call, “G’night.”

  She turned then. He was still standing where she had left him. She lifted her hand, still clutching one corner of her shawl, and gave a bit of a wave. “G’night,” she called back. Then she turned and ran down the trail to the waiting wagons.

  Chapter Seven

  Disappointment

  “Captain has ridden on ahead to make some arrangements in town,” said the tall man with the yellowish straggly hair. Not knowing his real name, she always thought of him as Yellow-hair. Damaris knew he was second-in-command, but she did not know another thing about him. She had always avoided him, not liking his dirty, rumpled clothing or his shifty eyes. Yellow-hair was certainly a contrast to the captain. He was tall and reed thin, while the captain was broad and stocky. Yellow-hair appeared unkempt and careless, while the captain, in spite of the long, dusty days on the trail and the intense heat, turned up each morning in a clean shirt and neatly shaven. He always found a river somewhere in which to bathe and wash his clothes.

  “We should reach Poplar Crick ’long about sundown. Captain says to camp as usual. He’ll meet us there on the crick bank. No one is to go into town tonight. Them’s my orders. Now break camp.”