This Road We Traveled

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “I don’t think Orus will allow it. Not likely Virgil either.” He took another bite.

  “But it doesn’t matter what they think. We can do this on our own. We could use the journey to get our feet wet, so to speak. Figure out how we are together.” She felt her face grow hot and she fiddled with the strings on her cap. She had to be firm. Strong. “We aren’t past our prime yet, John.”

  He grunted.

  “Maybe we are, a little. But we’re still here so there must be a purpose for our lives. I’ve prayed about this and I can’t see that staying behind without family is what God intends.”

  “Orus says it’s a dangerous journey. That’s why he doesn’t want you to go, why he summoned me.”

  “But why did you come? Wasn’t it for the possibilities?”

  “I suppose.” He brushed crumbs from his green tapestry vest.

  “Then let’s set up a united front. I’ll sell what wares I have and buy a wagon. Could you furnish it?”

  “Indeed. I have plenty of resources in that regard. I could even make the purchase if that would help. If we decide to do this.” He pointed with his spoon.

  “I’ll pay my fair share. But I see no reason why we can’t travel with our family, make the trek, and show them what we’re capable of. If Manthano’s wife can make it with a new baby—and probably she’ll be pregnant with the next by the time we leave—then surely we are not too old to begin a new adventure.”

  “And you’d consider the . . . other? A marriage, perhaps?”

  Tabby had known he would ask that and she didn’t want to mislead him. “I will prayerfully consider it, John. And regardless of the prayer’s answer I am humbled that after all these years and with all your world travels that you would find me . . . approachable in a . . .”

  “Romantic form?”

  “Yes. That’s not a road I ever imagined I’d be taking at my age. But then I never imagined I’d be heading to Oregon either.”

  He rose, bowed as though to royalty. “My brother loved the delight, the enthusiasm you brought into his life, and now I see that too.” Then, “To Oregon it is.” He lifted his ivory-handled cane and tapped it against her walking stick, striking the deal that would change both their lives forever.

  9

  Sorting

  Pherne Pringle shook her husband awake. “Virgil. There are coons after the chickens. The dogs are barking up a storm.” Virgil rose, rubbing sleep from his face with his wide palms. “And will there be raccoons in your Oregon?”

  “Of course there will.” Virgil lit the lantern. Dawn threatened to make an appearance but shyly hid behind a crescent moon. “We’re taking the dogs and the chickens and pray they’ll keep laying eggs. That’ll lure coons too, I imagine.”

  “We may have to live on eggs from what I hear.”

  “Orus says game is plentiful.”

  “‘Orus says. Orus says.’”

  “Now Phernie, don’t flummox yourself.” His fingers lifted her chin. “I’ll see if we can have coon patties for breakfast to go with those eggs you’re so fond of.” He grabbed the lantern and shouted up to their son Clark, whose reply said he already stood on the landing, holding his small-bore Kentucky rifle, twin to his father’s.

  She heard them thunder down the steps, watched them head toward the barking sounds. Darkness and rifles, a recipe for disaster.

  Her brother and husband and sons had worn her down about Oregon over the last few months. As had her mother. Oh what a ruckus there was when she announced that she and John were taking a wagon and would join the train that Orus and Virgil and Manthano were a part of. Orus had been livid, as though her mother was a child who had defied him. Pherne felt less so. She actually liked the idea that her mother would be with them. The thought of leaving her behind had been one of the reluctant steps she had to overcome in agreeing to join her husband. It was settled now and she was grateful.

  The months had slipped away; Christmas came and went. The new year blasted in with a storm that sent them to the cellar, quite a way to spend the first day of 1846. And sometime during those weeks, after she saw her mother making preparations and pretending that no one could stop her from going, she decided she would step forward rather than let herself be dragged. She spent the next weeks drying beef, sewing socks and crinolines, curing hams and bacon. Now, here it was March. They’d be leaving in less than three weeks. She would mark their departure as a life-altering date.

  Her mother’s telling them that Manthano was going to Oregon too was the last holdout Pherne had. That and her mother’s newfound confidence that she and Uncle John would be heading west, despite what “Orus says.”

  The stage trip had invigorated her mother, and her daughter. It had apparently proved to her mother that she could endure rough travel and found the presence of other travelers exciting rather than invasive as Pherne knew they would be for her. She’d wanted to gauge the effort of overland travel and had delighted, she said, in meeting new people and having time with Virgilia. Her mother had a way of simply ignoring the reality. Even Orus had stopped trying to talk her out of it.

  Six months with strangers! But also with family in a new crucible composed of green wagons and red wheels. Could she and her mother become closer with so much time together? Still, she wasn’t relishing the work that cooking over fires out on the prairie would be. Or bruising her knuckles on a washboard in a stream whenever they might find time. Or being out in the elements with nothing but a canvas to cover them when the infamous prairie storms hit. She wouldn’t let herself think about the mountains or snow or the cold or sickness or Indians. She vacillated between wanting to hear more of Orus’s stories so she could be prepared and yet hating to hear them. So many of his mentions swirled up a bile of fear that settled in her throat.

  Her brother Orus had taken over Western House on more than one evening regaling locals with the stories, and now a great number of families were planning to join them on this journey. The man did have a way of convincing people.

  At least Virgilia was going with them and appeared happy as a lark since Judson Morrow had been hired to drive Uncle John and her mother’s wagon. That too had been a bit of an issue.

  Her mother and John had joined them for supper, and Virgil had suggested his nephew Charles Fullerton, whose parents had died, drive her wagon.

  “Take Charles. He’ll do fine for you, Mrs. Brown.”

  “No, now, I’ve interviewed Judson Morrow. He’s shy and has no kin anywhere to speak of, so this is an added bonus from my part. My dear Clark always said to care for widows and orphans as our first duty. Your Charles has you and your brothers. So I’ve decided on young Morrow.”

  Virgil narrowed his eyes, but Pherne couldn’t tell if it was irritation or anger. She decided he was annoyed that her mother had opinions. But he knew that already. And she was financing her own wagon.

  “You know very little about him and his ability with oxen. That concerns me. You don’t want to lose that wagon because of poor handling.” Virgil raised his eyebrows at Tabby.

  “Believe it or not, John knows a thing or two about oxen, don’t you, John?”

  “I’ve managed a few now and then. Cargo on a ship, but you learn their ways.”

  It was one of the many details of John’s life that surprised Pherne in the very best way, and it had silenced her husband with a final “humph.”

  Her sons were happy in the planning and her daughter excited that Gramo was going with them. And, truth be told, her mother wasn’t dozing as often as she had before. It was as though she had a new mission, something to reach for. Her mother read all she could about the “pioneering” experience, reading out loud to Pherne as she and the girls practiced embroidery stitches. The newspaper ran letters now and then from people in Oregon country, and pilots placed ads to invite people to sign up with them. Pherne supposed they’d be as prepared as anyone could be, and there was the relief in knowing that once they arrived, a cabin awaited them in the midst of a grove
of trees, one her brother had built. There’d be a crop of wheat to harvest as well. She would focus on the fact that others had gone this same way and made it and set aside all the unknowns floating between. She and Virgil had only one big thing left to decide: what furniture they would take with them and what would be left behind.

  She was thinking of that when she heard the gunshot and she jumped. The barking stopped. She waited for the men to return, lifted the lantern as she walked to the second-story porch. Virgilia joined her on the balcony.

  “Raccoons.”

  “Sorry, Mama.” It was Clark shouting up to them from below the porch. He held up a chicken. “Coon got a couple but we got him. And this one is fresh dead.”

  She hated losing chickens, hated the uncertainty of everything despite how much she planned. Her mother said that was what life was, living with interruptions and that no one really knows what lies ahead. “Don’t let events take you over,” her mother had cautioned. “Find a way through.”

  “I guess we’ll be having chicken for breakfast instead of eggs, boys.”

  “And coon.” Albro stood beside his brother. “We kilt a coon too.”

  “Killed a coon,” Virgilia said.

  “Can you heat up water, Mama?” Octavius appeared below the balcony now. Had all her sons slipped out in the night? “We’ll have to tend the dogs. A couple of bad bites on ’em.”

  “Mama?” Emma’s soft voice floated out onto the balcony from the girls’ room. “My legs hurt. Can you rub them like you do?”

  “My tummy doesn’t feel good,” Sarelia now complained.

  “Doesn’t feel well,” Virgilia corrected.

  “That’s what I said. Mama, make her stop acting like Gramo.”

  “I’ll get breakfast started,” Pherne told no one in particular. “Virgilia, see to Sarelia’s upset and then rub dear Emma’s legs. Her feet too.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Find a way through. That’s all that Pherne could do.

  Tabby sorted through the things she treasured, hobbling around her home, deciding what to take and what to leave behind. That silver teapot her mother gave her made by Paul Revere himself—or at least his silversmith. It sat on the sideboard, which was a beautiful piece of furniture but heavy. If she could take the teapot, she would, but the sideboard would need deeper consideration. She set the elegant silver item into the “Oregon trunk,” then took it out. They might need to sell it to buy supplies. That was the truth. She rubbed the silver with her forearm. It would make someone in St. Charles happy.

  The butter churn. She got her butter now from Virgil’s herd. She guessed she could continue to purchase butter when they arrived in Oregon. She just needed things to get her through the journey. All would be well once they arrived. She’d seen a list of required items. She had already decided that she and John and their driver would be independent of the rest, not requiring anything from her children. That way Orus could keep his annoyance about her going with them a little more at bay. The butter churn would go. So would a brass school bell. She rang that bell in a New England school building after Clark died, and she’d supported herself and the children by teaching. That bell was a link to both her past and possibly her future if she had to teach again. She carried a bit of pride knowing she’d raised her children as a widow without having to marry for someone else’s protection. God had provided. The wooden handle felt smooth as glycerin in her hand. It had been a splurge of her income to buy it those years back but a joy finding a way to blend practicality with fine workmanship.

  She picked up a pair of gloves. Soft leather. Strictly sentimental. She’d worn them when she and Clark had married. She wouldn’t need to use them on the journey, as she planned to purchase heavy gloves so she could help with harnessing, loading, leading a horse or ox to water. But the soft gloves would make her feel elegant once they arrived. Who knew in what condition they’d find that cabin Orus had built? They all might need a little something special, not even all that practical, but items to soothe the soul. She already had peach pits she intended to take and plant as soon as she could. And cherry pits too. The lilac starts came from her Maryland home, and while they hadn’t thrived in Missouri, they did well enough. She hoped they’d take on better in Oregon soil. A wooden bucket with dirt would keep the roots moist.

  Of course she’d take copies of Clark’s sermons. And her small, black Bible with print so tiny her eyes had trouble at times reading the words despite her acquiring round-lens glasses. A book of Shakespeare’s selected plays. She knew so many of them by heart. Knitting needles, yes, they had to come along. Yarn. And her scissors. Would someone out there in that country have a knife and scissor sharpener? What would women do without sharp scissors and knives?

  Tabby opened the back door, shook a tin can with corn in it, and watched Beatrice run across the yard. A brisk March wind pushed the bird forward into the room, her reddish feathers ruffled by the breeze. Of course she’d take Beatrice. She already had a cage for her. That bird would swing from the side, or if that motion bothered her too much, she could ride on the seat next to her while Judson walked beside her ox team. Captain John announced he’d be riding his horse across the continent. Tabby thought a mule would be better, but when she proposed that, John had said he’d make his own choices, as Tabby had. John, too, would be sorting and stashing and tossing and selling. It was a good thing St. Charles had a sizable population who could purchase what the emigrants weren’t taking with them. She wouldn’t have much by the time they left but a few coins. The rest she’d need for bartering, at least that’s what Orus had told his family to plan on.

  Bedding. Lace-lined pillow-slips. Dresses, aprons, petticoats. She placed those in the “Oregon trunk.” A pair of wooden skates. She held them for a time, knowing that her father’s hands had been on them, had unlaced them when she had the terrible fall. Why on earth had she saved those? One thing about taking the steamship years before to St. Charles, families could bring quite a few belongings so long as they could pay the fare. Her family had gotten out of the boat business—at her instigation—and Tabby herself had taught school, earning small amounts that added up. Pherne wasn’t married then and she helped at the school. St. Charles had a Catholic school already, the Academy of the Sacred Heart that still served children of all faiths. Her family had begun a new life in a faraway place. She could do it again, even if her sons didn’t think she could. All these things were reminders not of sad times but of how they had persevered and started over, loved, and done good things.

  Tabby had brought everything she really wanted to bring to Missouri. She ran her finger along the wooden blades, the touch taking her back. She felt an ache in her foot. “No sense dwelling on that, Beatrice. Old thoughts can apparently bring on new pain.” Orus said there were lakes in Oregon, but Tabby didn’t know if they froze over. Maybe she’d give the skates to Sarelia. Her feet were about that size. Then Pherne would have to decide about whether to take them or not. Tabby chuckled. “That’s one way to get myself out of deciding, though into trouble with my daughter, no doubt.” This would be a different trip from when they’d come to Missouri all those years ago, as Orus said. This would be a trip to test their resolve, and it began with letting things stay behind. Just not her.

  10

  Divers Seasons, Divers Climes

  “Not the cradle.” Virgil shook his head.

  Pherne started to protest. “But it’s where . . .”

  “And reason enough to leave it behind.”

  She gathered herself. “The harp-back chairs, then. They have to come with us.”

  They’d finished breakfast and now the day’s work included whittling down “the list” of what they’d take with them and finishing loading the rest. Spring rains dribbled across the fields, sometimes stopping before it ever hit the ground. “You can see how little room there is for furniture, especially wide-seated mahogany-heavy dining-room chairs. Be realistic, Pherne.”

  They’d been at the str
ain for more than two hours this time, and each day that passed Virgil, or Orus, vetoed something Pherne felt she must have in order to feel at home once they arrived in Oregon. Each choice felt like a time she’d fallen asleep in the hot sun without her hat on and her face peeled away for days after. She caressed her gold necklace.

  “What’s left for me to take? I like nice things, Virgil. Is that a crime? I love the feel of polished wood on my hands.” She rubbed the arms of the harp-back chair she sat on. “This fine cloth on the seat. Someone spent hours making this chair. It’s a work of art.”

  “Take a piece of art with you. Buy something you like. That artist, Bingham, in St. Louis, who does portraits. He does them in a day. Have one made. It will take less room than the chairs, the table, the sideboard, the hutch, the . . .” He counted on his fingers all the items he’d forced her to say would stay.

  “But that’s not something that is a part of who I am, of my family. I wanted something for each child as a reminder of their babyhood. A silver rattle, the one your parents gave us when Virgilia was born. That leather ball that Octavius loved. My mother’s yarn is wrapped inside that leather. She made that ball for him. Your mother gave Virgilia the toy doll.”

  “Those were given to us as blessings,” he said. “But taking them with us will not bless us any longer. They will be burdens. Choose one item to represent all the others.”

  Tears came unbidden and she wiped at them as though they were bugs annoying her.

  Virgil knelt beside her. “Phernie, please. It breaks my heart to see you suffer so. It’s not like we are saying to our children that they can’t go. These are things that have to stay, things with memories, yes, but they are not you. We’re not leaving you behind.”

  “I believe you are leaving a part of me behind, Husband. Oliver—”

  “Yes. Oliver.” He ran his hands through his dark hair. “We are leaving him, but don’t you think if he had lived he would have wanted us to live fully? To choose to go, to go forward, to go together. And we take his memory with us. That’s all any of these things represent.” He swung his arm wide. “There’ll be new memories in Oregon.”