This Road We Traveled

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “I didn’t realize the altitude would make someone delusional,” Virgil said. “Of course with some people it might be hard to tell.” They had laughed together then, and Pherne remembered just how long it had been since they’d shared a lighter moment. She hoped for more of that.

  16

  Waiting on Guidance

  They crossed the Continental Divide and had more basins and mountains to trek. Wagons broke down—not the Pringles’ or Tabby’s—and they suffered bug bites and sore feet, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Orus had said it would be. They resupplied as much as they could at Fort Hall on the Snake River. Currency was limited. Tabby had none left, so she hoped the bacon in the barrel and the cornmeal she carried would be enough. They were on the last leg of the journey, Virgil told them, and the rest would be easier than what they’d been through. Tabby thought they’d done well. One thing about that high altitude: anything seemed possible.

  “So who is he, exactly?” Tabby asked. They’d passed America Falls when new men approached, riding fine horses and mules. It was Sunday, August 8. Virgil had not felt well, but the wagons had continued to roll, and he’d rallied, easing Pherne’s concerns. “The stomach upset could be altitude sickness too,” Tabby told her daughter. The news of such an effect had resolved a discomfort to Tabby as well. She had a little trouble breathing sometimes, especially as they’d made climbs into the shining mountains. And she’d been forgetful, letting Beatrice out of her cage but not tying her leg to a yarn tether. Judson had spent an hour looking for the bird while John walked beside the oxen. John had now ridden over toward the men and, along with Virgil, had chatted for some time. A large dark-skinned man joined them. They’d ridden in from the south, the direction of the Mexican and Texas violence. Were they escaping that?

  “Mr. Applegate, he says he is,” John told her when he came back to their wagon. “Judson, you need help there?”

  “No sir. You take a rest. I’ll get the oxen watered fine. Not much grass here along the river though for your horse.” He patted Schooner’s chestnut neck.

  “Virgil called it ‘indifferent grass.’” John giggled. “Sorry. Something about ‘indifferent’ just tickles me.” He cleared his throat, put gravitas on the next words. “Those men are the Applegate brothers. Came out in ’43.”

  “Are they now going to Oregon, again?” Tabby hobbled around to poke at the fire. A kettle of beans had soaked the day and now cooked in her black Dutch oven, sending aromas that gnawed at her stomach. She had quite an appetite in this country, but she didn’t seem to put on an ounce. She stood barely taller than Sarelia and weighed less than two fifty-pound bags of flour. With her long-handled spoon, she lifted the cover, adding bits of bacon pieces to the steaming water. Her bacon supply had waned, but judging from what the men said, they were but two months from Oregon. She’d make corn pudding later, using Beatrice’s eggs and milk from one of Pherne’s Durham cows. It had been a long, hot day and her back ached, but they would eat well that evening—as they had most days.

  “Applegate never went back to Missouri. Has a new southern trail staked out and wants us to go with him and a Captain Levi Scott into Oregon that way, instead of down the Columbia River. That big man with them they call Moses Harris. He’s been trapping these parts and back and forth across the divide. They seem like reliable sailors for this sea we’re on.” John pulled the saddle off his mount. Even almost eighty, his arms showed good muscle. He stood the saddle on end so the breeze could dry the lamb’s wool matted from the horse’s sweat. Those oxen, those dear beasts, didn’t sweat at all. Tabby wondered how they cooled themselves.

  John reached for his ivory-handled cane and moved to the fire. He needed that cane less often, as far as Tabby could tell. This trail had invigorating side roads, it seemed. Judson returned, motioned he’d take Schooner to water next. “I’ll bring him back and do the brushing.”

  “Applegate says that we’d head southwest like we were going to California, then when the trail forks, we start north toward the Willamette Valley, they call it. Virgil seems interested. Not sure what Orus would say if he was here.” John scratched at his beard, a combination of salt and pepper.

  “Is it shorter, this route?”

  “So they say. And we won’t have to raft down that Columbia River, which even Orus said was fraught with danger. Applegate brothers each lost a child to that stream. One reason they want the alternate route for folks. And too, if we had to leave the country in case of warring, we’d have a way out that’s not under the watchful eye of the British across the Columbia.”

  Tabby handed her brother-in-law a tin cup of hot grain coffee and a small piece of one of Virgilia’s cakes. He smiled up at her and she smiled back, a tiny tingling on her skin she attributed to the thin air. He popped the cake into his mouth and chewed. In the distance she heard Judson shout after Schooner, and quick as a lamb’s tail, the horse bolted toward them.

  John pushed and stood, put both hands out, dropping the cane. “Whoa, whoa, now.” He grabbed at the lead rope. “You rascal, you. High spirits, he has. Just like his owner.” John rubbed at the animal’s nose, kept him from Tabby’s bean pot as the horse pranced. He waited for Judson to retrieve the horse from him. John was still in good physical form for a man of seventy-eight. Quick when necessary. He could be entertaining. Maybe . . .

  John sat then, his cane on the ground before him.

  She shook her head. “An unpredictable horse isn’t the best traveling companion.”

  “But a quick-thinking man can be.” He winked at Tabby.

  Her face grew warm. She hadn’t flirted for decades and wasn’t sure she liked being the target of it either. “How’s your dessert?”

  “That girl is a cake-baker’s dream.” John smacked his lips. “I hear she’s trying pies now with that new little friend cheering her on.”

  “I like that Nellie.” Tabby was happy he moved on. “It’s a pleasure to my heart to see Virgilia smiling and enjoying herself a little. And I notice Judson’s paying a bit more of attention when she comes around. The lad is still so tongue-tied he hardly speaks to anything in skirts, including me.”

  “Oh, he’ll do all right. He seems to fancy Nellie Louise—but don’t tell Virgilia.”

  “At this point, with a good friend, I don’t think she’d care.” Tabby leaned against the wagon, seeking shade, then jerked away as though she’d been shot. She turned to look, stuck her hand out. “That shovel blade is as hot as the fire.”

  John walked over, removed the tool. “We’ll need it later anyway for our latrine duties. So you think her shine to young Judson is wearing off?”

  “I think Virgilia’s coming around to herself, finding another side of her she likes, and that makes trying to interest Judson less important. She can rely on herself to move forward and not have to wait for a young man to set her course. She’ll act as her own pilot.”

  “Never worried about her setting a course. She’s a Brown, though young ladies aren’t meant to pilot.”

  Tabby scoffed. “I’ve directed my own way from day one with your brother and even before. Being headstrong’s no crime. Serves one well. Look at Orus. He’s out there guiding this massive body of wheel-carrying adventurers, selected by his peers. He’s convinced a fair number of folks to come along on this trip. He has to have confidence in himself to do the job people elected him to do.”

  John groaned like Pherne’s old hound as he leaned against the wagon wheel. He handed his coffee tin back to Tabby. “Orus. I do wonder what he’d say about that new way Applegate touts. They say while they’re here recruiting us, men are working on the road. They’re seeking single men not otherwise occupied to go ahead and help chop.”

  “What young man isn’t occupied?”

  Judson returned, washed up, and Tabby served her beans and coarse bread baked from the day before. “Pudding follows. What thoughts do you have about taking that new cutoff, Judson?”

  “Don’t have one. If that’s the way you
want to go, I’ll take the oxen. No matter to me. Whatever you decide.”

  “You’re a part of my family, Judson Morrow. Your opinion matters.”

  He nodded, ducked his head. With his finger he wiped a piece of bread stuck on his tooth.

  “You’re one of my essentials, young man.”

  And he was.

  Here they were again, families making choices. Go with the new route or stay with the old. “We’ll chat with Virgil, some of the others. See what people think. Nobody knows the best choice,” Tabby said. “We gather facts, then listen to our hearts and live with the results.” Wasn’t that the way of life? Nobody knows what lies ahead. And if they did, truth be known, they might never have started out.

  The girls scrubbed dishes while squatting at the stream they’d camped beside, decisions about the alternate route not yet finalized as grown-ups sealed the girls’ fate. Dusk drifted over the water, turning the river to a shade almost as dark as Virgilia’s school slate. “My parents have decided to take that southern route.” Nellie’s dark curls poked out from behind the bonnet she wore more often now, the sun hot as desert rocks.

  “I don’t know what my family will do yet.” Virgilia had overheard little of the discussion between her parents, getting most of her information about the alternate trail from her grandmother, who hadn’t yet decided either. But if Nellie Louise went and Virgilia’s family didn’t . . . “I hope we’ll go that way if you are.” Virgilia changed the subject toward something less painful. “I saw Judson watching you the other day.”

  “He’s cute. He’s easy to tease, but I have to be careful not to do that. Boys are intimidated by a girl’s quick wit. How old do you think he is?”

  “Maybe seventeen. Why don’t you ask him?” Virgilia encouraged her, though she didn’t know why.

  “Because I want him to be older, so my pa will see him as someone ready to make his way in the world, with a wife. Preferably me.”

  Virgilia blinked. “A wife? But you hardly know him.”

  “Say, you aren’t interested in him, are you? I mean, he acts more like a brother around you and like you’re his big sis.”

  “Do you think so? But—”

  “He’s under the care of your family, so that gives him status. Besides, he’s interested in being a blacksmith. That’s a good trade. He could support me and the children with that occupation.”

  Virgilia laughed, surprised she felt no jealousy. Nellie Louise hoped for heights, and that meant if it didn’t work out, she’d have farther to fall. Was that why Virgilia didn’t push herself into risk? She was afraid of the fall? Virgilia stood and stretched her knees as she dried tin plates in her apron. “If you’re planning a marriage, my gramo better choose the cutoff. I wouldn’t want to miss it.” They headed for the pale shade of the Pringle wagon. “But my uncle Orus didn’t take the route, and he has a lot of influence on our family even when he’s not present. He’s still expecting we’ll be a week or two behind him, heading down the Columbia before long. When will you pull out?”

  “If we go, tomorrow.”

  “So this might be our last evening together. We should do something special.”

  “Like what?”

  Virgilia was thoughtful. “Let’s write a letter to ourselves as though we were living in our future after we’ve arrived in Oregon. We can speculate five years ahead and give ourselves advice from our youth.” She giggled with that term, “youth.” “Then I’ll give my letter to you and you give yours to me. When we’re settled, we’ll mail them. We can see how close we came to predicting our futures.”

  “How will we know where we each are? To mail them, I mean.”

  Virgilia hadn’t thought of that. “We’ll send them to Oregon City, that’s the main town in the country, my father says. Surely after we’ve been in the territory for a time, we’d both have a reason to go there and we’ll pick up our letters. But we shouldn’t only send those letters. Wherever we end up, we’ll send word so we can write about our everyday. I think it would be fun to get a letter from myself when I’m twenty or twenty-one.”

  “Don’t tell me what you put in yours and I won’t tell you what I put in mine. We won’t read them . . . will we?” Nellie’s eyes held a pleading look.

  “It’s okay with me if you know what I hope my life will be like and whether I give myself sage advice or not.”

  “I guess I can share my secrets with you. You’re my best friend.”

  “All right.” Virgilia hugged her. “Let’s go daydreaming. Even if your family does take the cutoff, we’ll still have wisdom from our own mouths to look forward to.” This was what having a good friend meant, someone to help fling imagination into the future. Virgilia grabbed foolscap to share with Nellie Louise.

  Tabby, John, and Judson made their way to the Pringle fire later that evening. Someone played a harmonica in a wagon across the circle. Sarelia and Emma ran out to meet her, and Tabby let Sarelia take Beatrice’s cage from her. When they arrived, she handed the yarn attached to the bird’s foot to Emma. “You let her peck.”

  Tabby noticed Virgilia and Nellie Louise writing away on thin paper. The girls stopped when the company arrived. Virgilia moved over on the wagon tongue so Judson could sit between the girls, which he did after shaking Octavius’s and Clark’s hands. Both boys drank from tin cups. Judson tipped his hat to Albro too. Those boys leaned against the sideboard, drinking ginseng tea, Tabby supposed, from the spicy scent.

  “Are you still writing your stories down for me, Gramo?” Sarelia’s cheery voice called to her as Emma handed her the chicken’s tether.

  “Not as I should be. I have to keep making up schoolwork for you children.” Tabby had taken to teaching “feet classes,” she called them. She prepared questions on history and mathematics and gave them spelling words that each child learned as they walked along, trying to create sentences for each new word. They recited back to Tabby the following day. Some days she read to them from the few books she’d brought along as they hopped up to sit beside her while the wagon rolled. Tabby even planned a spelling bee, and several children from other wagons wanted to take part. She’d found good use already for her brass school bell. Her class would change, depending on the decision about whether to go on the new trail or stay on their chosen route following Orus.

  “Guess we’re going to have a confabulation.” Tabby let John help her to the milk stool that Virgil pulled from the wagon bed for her. Her son-in-law looked tired, not yet recovered from that illness he’d had. She was sure glad she’d whipped her cold.

  “I guess so, Mrs. Brown. Your daughter and I have had a few confabs ourselves about this new route.”

  “It’s almost as important as the decision to come in the first place.” Pherne bit her words.

  “And you’ve decided?”

  Virgil shrugged. “It’s a tough one.” He ran his hand through his hair, his floppy hat stuck on the end of the shovel handle at the side of the wagon. “It would be good to make headway, maybe even beat Orus and the other wagons into the Willamette Valley.”

  “This is not a competition.” Pherne sounded as she did when she scolded Buddy, who lifted his head to her even though she hadn’t used the dog’s name.

  “You know what I meant. I don’t want to come in weeks later than he expects.”

  “We’d likely never hear the end of that,” Pherne said.

  “But on the new trail, we wouldn’t be traveling in the dust of so many others. Might find better feed for our animals that way too.”

  “Which is why we shouldn’t take such a chance. What if there isn’t good feed? What if there are Indian tribes that Orus hasn’t already encountered, that we didn’t feed for our security.”

  “Life’s full of chances.”

  “And some should not be taken.”

  “Nellie’s parents are going.” Virgilia raised her voice. She wiggled her bare feet stretched out before her.

  “But we don’t know if these men can be trusted. Is n
ot our first obligation to make wise, safe choices for our children?” Pherne wasn’t knitting or stitching or drawing, her hands instead wringing worries out of each other. “Orus, I’m certain, would want us to follow his lead. It’s the route that’s proven. Why take an unknown one?”

  “Because we have new information. The cutoff could help Oregon become a state one day.”

  “We’d take it for a patriotic reason?”

  Tabby heard fear rising in her daughter’s voice. “It is always good to think larger than oneself, Daughter.” Pherne brushed her hands toward her mother’s supportive comment.

  “The wilderness has a lure to it, Phernie. It can test a man’s mettle.” Virgil put his arm around Pherne’s shoulder, pulled her closer, but she stood stiff as a long-handled spoon.

  “Test your mettle at your own expense, not that of your family’s safety. I’d think you’ve had enough testing anyway. Double-teams? Lost animals? Indian gatherings? Illness.”

  “And a frosty wife,” he mumbled.

  “What do you think, Gramo?” Clark asked.

  “What do I think? I’ll go wherever you Pringles decide to roam. I’m not leaving any of you.” Sarelia sat now with her knees pulled up to her nose. Her new pocket held a wilted wildflower. “I like thinking we might be helping out by proving that a new route shortens the trip. And I feel that mettle pull too. It’s not just for men, Virgil Pringle.”

  “Mrs. Brown, I didn’t mean to suggest it was.”

  “So you think it’s worth the risk, Gramo?”

  Tabby nodded. “I figure Orus has his ways and I have mine. I’ve been known to start a long journey before and didn’t always do what my firstborn wanted. He got over it.”

  “But you knew there was a safe route from New England to St. Charles, Mother.”

  “Yes. And I had both my boys and you with me and Uncle John’s knowledge of the waterways.” She nodded to her brother-in-law. “But things can happen on a steamboat. Or on the trail Orus picked for us. Danger is everywhere, but fear, that’s a choice we make.” She lifted her finger to the air to make her point. “It’s a shorter route and no river floating. I like those odds.”