by Lyn Cote
“We have to stop,” Dorritt called to him. “My mother is indisposed. Mr. Kilbride!” She waved toward her stepfather.
Quinn wanted to ask her what exactly indisposed meant, but merely nodded. Kilbride hustled up and then he called for help. One of the Negroes helped him carry his wife to the back of the wagon, and soon she was inside it, lying down in the narrow wagon bed.
Quinn waited. Everyone waited. Finally Quinn ambled over to the wagon and motioned Reva to come to him. When the girl stood next to him, he leaned over and asked, “What is wrong with Mrs. Kilbride?”
Reva pursed her lips and then said, “She’s bleeding. Not a normal woman’s flow.”
He nodded his thanks and then drew apart. He knew little about such things. He would wait until Dorritt came to tell him what was happening and what needed to be done.
Inside the covered wagon, as Dorritt knelt beside her mother, she held her hand. Only moments earlier, her mother had announced she was expecting. One of the slaves, a midwife, had been summoned. But the only help the midwife had to offer was to prop her mother’s feet up higher than her body. After the midwife left, Dorritt tried to absorb the fact that her mother might be pregnant and might be miscarrying. Both were shocking and unexpected ideas.
“It’s not unusual,” her mother said, “for a woman my age to have a change of life baby. I’m only forty-one you know. I know that sounds old to you, but it isn’t too old to have a baby.”
Dorritt squeezed her mother’s hand. She didn’t ask why her mother hadn’t told her this earlier in their trip. Gentlewomen usually did not speak about pregnancy. And what could Dorritt have said? She couldn’t figure out how she felt about this news. As she glanced down at her mother’s skirt, the widening crimson stain was sickening—frightening.
Father, what do I do? Please I don’t want to lose her. The possibility of her mother dying made her light-headed. She bent over her mother’s hand, gripping it tighter.
“Don’t worry, Dorritt,” her mother mumbled, “I’m not going to leave you. I’m going to have this child. And it’s going to be the son your stepfather’s always wanted. Your stepfather knows I really tried to give him a son. But only Jewell survived. I’ve always been a disappointment to everyone. I didn’t give your father a son. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have gone and fought that foolish duel that killed him. My own father wanted me to have born a son. What good are girls he said to me and my sisters over and over. I’ve been cursed my whole life. It’s all my fault that we had to leave New Orleans.” Her mother moaned and twisted, panting. “If I’d given your stepfather a son, he’d have had an heir to leave the land to and he wouldn’t have gambled so much. Please, God, let this be my son. Take away my shame.”
Dorritt tried to follow her mother’s heartbreaking ramblings. They sounded almost biblical, like the barren Rachel begging Jacob to give her a son or Sarah unable to bear Abraham a son until her old age. Each of those women had seen not bearing a son as a shame. Evidently not much had changed. Dorritt had never given a thought as to why her mother was always so vague and disconnected. Was she getting answers to some of the questions she’d never thought to ask? “Have you miscarried before?”
“Yes, you’re old enough to know now—once before Jewell and twice after Jewell. Then I didn’t get with child again.” Her mother closed her eyes, panting as if in pain.
Dorritt suddenly felt like a frightened little girl. She wanted to plead, “Mama, don’t give up. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t leave me.” She breathed in her tears. Father, spare my mother. Please. And if it could be, let this baby be born and let it be the son she wants so badly.
“I want to see my mother.” Jewell’s voice came from outside, fretful and upset.
“What could you do for her?” Mr. Kilbride snapped, unseen. “The midwife has done what she can and your older sister is more able to take care of your mother than you are. And it’s much more appropriate.” Jewell tried to argue with him, but Mr. Kilbride with unusual brusqueness told her to go about her business.
Only one time before had Dorritt heard her stepfather speak harshly to Jewell like this. That day in the parlor when they had learned they were moving to Texas. When he’d accused Jewell of not bringing André to the point of proposing marriage soon enough. What had caused this change in Mr. Kilbride? Was it also the hope of a son? An heir?
“Miss Dorritt,” Reva’s voice came from the rear of the wagon, “I have some tisane tea for your mother.”
Dorritt moved to take the cup from Reva. Then she carefully carried the cup and knelt down beside her mother again. “Here, mother, I’ll help you sip this. It may be of assisantance.” It may not. But I don’t have anything else to do. Dorritt hated feeling helpless.
Ten
Much later, Dorritt sat opposite Reva at the rear of the covered wagon, each leaning back against the high sides. A delicate, cooling evening breeze brushed her face. It made her feel even more hot and sticky. She longed for a refreshing bath—in vain. Even if there had been a stream nearby, shock and worry had rendered her limp with exhaustion.
When the bleeding had finally stopped, the midwife had come, examined her mother, and said she had not miscarried. With this good news, they had helped her mother into clean clothing. Mr. Kilbride had come in and comforted her. And when he left, she had fallen asleep.
“Mr. Kilbride,” Reva whispered, “sure can sweet talk when he wants to.”
Dorritt was so tired she only nodded. But dull anger simmered inside her. Why had her stepfather—?
Reva interrupted, putting Dorritt’s question into words, “If he knew Mrs. Kilbride was expecting, why did he start us on this journey?”
Dorritt merely shook her head.
“Everything hard enough without this,” Reva said with finality. “Now, you lay down next to your mama before you fall out of this wagon sound asleep.” Reva tugged Dorritt into the wagon and urged her to lie down in the narrow wagon bed. But would sleep come?
In the scant moonlight after long hours of waiting, Quinn watched Dorritt’s maid climb out of the wagon. He stepped forward and she turned to him. He whispered, “How is Miss Dorritt? Her mother?”
“Both fine. Sleeping.” She yawned. “Good night, sir.”
Quinn nodded and moved back into the shadows. He knew he should go back nearer the cattle. But he found he couldn’t leave. Then someone moved behind him. He listened and watched, thinking he recognized the man’s gait and faint jingle of spurs. Was it Carlos? He whispered the man’s name, but got no answer. And whoever it was moved away. So Quinn settled himself at the base of a nearby tree to keep watch over Dorritt.
Quinn had seen too clearly how tired, drained she was. He couldn’t leave her unprotected in this weakened state. How could Kilbride just walk away from his ill wife and lie down to sleep? An owl hooted and Quinn squirmed against the rough bark of the tree trunk. It was going to be a long night.
Dorritt woke to the sound of her stepfather’s cursing. His loud words pounded her temples like small hammers. She lay quite still, staring up at the arched unbleached muslin top overhead, praying for some strength, some energy. Another dawn. She heard Mr. Kilbride curse again and then the sound of a strong, stinging slap. She closed her eyes, praying for forbearance. She wanted nothing more than to get up, go outside, and slap her stepfather’s face. Why must he always make a bad situation worse? Every day their provisions and endurance lessened. Would they be able to start moving again today?
She dragged herself up and scooted nearer her mother. Her mother was lying very still, but she was awake. “Dorritt, will you please go out and ask Mr. Kilbride to come to me? I think if we had a few words, he would calm down.”
Dorritt stared at her mother. How could the fact that she was expecting a child change her mother this much? It was as if a rough husk like coconut bark had been pierced and stripped from her mother. Was this the power of hope, of feeling valued? Of no longer feeling shamed? “Certainly. I’ll do that right away.�
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Her mother squeezed her hand and nodded. “I’m going to be all right now. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
Dorritt merely nodded and crawled on her knees to the end of the wagon where she righted her skirts and scooted down.
Her stepfather came to her immediately. “How is your mother?”
“She wants to speak to you. I’m going to go prepare her another cup of tea and get some hominy grits.”
“You do that.” But her stepfather was already climbing into the wagon.
Shaking her head, Dorritt walked toward the cook fire. Reva picked up the large coffee pot on a cast-iron trivet and poured Dorritt a cup. “Thank you, Reva. I also need a cup of tisane tea for my mother.” Dorritt took a cautious sip of the hot coffee.
When Reva had the cup of tea made, she handed it to Dorritt, who carried it to the wagon. Mr. Kilbride took it from her. He glared at her, but said in a mild voice, “Your mother insists she is able to travel today lying down.” He looked away. “Do you think she is well enough to travel?”
Mr. Kilbride asking her a civil question and even for advice left Dorritt speechless. She swallowed. “If we put more cushioning underneath her so she isn’t jounced around too much she should be all right. A couple of the featherbeds should do it.”
Mr. Kilbride nodded. “See to it.”
Still taken aback at his civility, Dorritt nodded and then left to get the featherbeds. Would wonders never cease? As she turned to get the supplies, she noticed Eduardo standing beside his horse watching her, studying her. It made her uneasy.
Late in the afternoon, Quinn was riding near the head of the caravan. He glanced over just when it happened. The first Conestoga wagon suddenly lurched, its right-front wooden wheel breaking loudly. This was the third time they’d had a wagon wheel break. And they had no more to replace it. Quinn rode up to the wagon and joined the driver in surveying the damage. Kilbride rode up behind them and dismounted. Quinn frowned at him. “We’re going to have to make do with the remaining wheel we saved from the gig.”
“That gone to make the wagon ride funny,” the ox driver agreed. “But no other way.”
Quinn waited for Kilbride to say something rude. And he wasn’t disappointed.
After a moment spent cursing the driver for breaking the wheel through poor driving, Kilbride ordered, “Then get on with it. I’m going to go back and sit with my wife.”
The driver nodded and said, “Yes sir.”
Quinn stepped back and let the slaves begin the work of changing wheels. It was a tedious and strength-demanding chore. Quinn glanced around, keeping an eye on what was happening around him. Dorritt was moving up the caravan, speaking to the people. With a sudden rush of pleasure, he realized she was watching him from the corner of her eye.
Then something else caught his notice. Far northward, he saw dust being stirred up and pronghorn antelope scattered. Someone was coming. But who? He didn’t move, but tensed and continued watching. Could it be a Comanche war party this time? Or more Spanish or Mexican soldiers? Or bandits? In broad daylight? Or just another party of travelers?
Ash came up beside Quinn, walking his horse, and motioned with his head toward the north. Quinn nodded. And then the two of them ambled toward the rear of the caravan. They halted outside the wagon where Kilbride and his wife were. “Kilbride,” Quinn called, “may I have a word with you?”
Kilbride stuck his head out from the rear of the covered wagon, looking disgruntled. “What is it?” he snapped.
Quinn motioned for him to come down and then he pointed toward the north. Kilbride just scowled at him. Quinn motioned for Kilbride a second time. This time the man got down and, huffing his irritation, walked away from the wagon to Quinn.
“Someone’s coming,” Quinn told him in a low voice. “I’m going to get everyone ready in case it’s a war party or something else we don’t want to meet up with unprepared.”
Kilbride looked staggered. “But we haven’t met with any trouble so far.”
Quinn shrugged and turned toward the vaqueros to alert them. As he passed Dorritt, he paused. “Company is coming.”
She nodded.
“If I give the signal, take cover under the wagons with the women and children.”
“I’ll tell them,” she said, and hurried off.
“Quick-witted and she is a very pretty woman too,” Ash said.
Quinn ignored Ash. He’d deal with his friend later; tell him to stop saying such things.
Eduardo and Carlos rode up and motioned northward. “You see?”
“Be ready.” Quinn swallowed down his dislike of this man. Just because Carlos had taken a shine to Dorritt didn’t make him bad. Only smart.
“You think Comanches attack in daylight?” Carlos asked.
Quinn shrugged. “If they think we’re an easy target.”
“We vaqueros? An easy target?” Eduardo grinned. “We know how to fight.”
“Good to hear,” Ash commented.
Dorritt stood, looking northward. The approaching party had become identifiable as one similar to theirs, but with only one wagon for the whites and fewer slaves on foot. They had a few farm animals and cattle at the rear. Mr. Kilbride moved forward to welcome them. But Dorritt noticed Quinn, Ash, and the vaqueros still remained on horseback with weapons drawn and ready. She felt just as hesitant as they. That the newcomers owned slaves was already a mark against them—to her mind.
“Howdy!” a man on a horse at the head of the other party hailed them. “Where you headed?”
Kilbride responded, “Hello! We’re the Kilbrides on our way to the Austin settlement.”
“Whoop!” the man yelled. “We’re the Andersons and we’re headed the same.”
Within minutes, the Andersons were shaking hands with Mr. Kilbride. Dorritt watched until she was called forward with Jewell. “This is my daughter, Jewell, and my wife’s daughter, Dorritt Mott.”
Dorritt curtseyed to the Andersons, who looked about the same age as her parents and who had three sons who appeared to be around fourteen to twenty-five and one little girl around ten. Their dress was rough, some homespun and some deerskin. But they spoke good English and observed proper courtesy. Jewell flashed a charming smile at the eldest son. Dorritt kept her place a step behind her sister.
Mr. Anderson looked past her. “I see you got a half-breed and some Mexicans with you.” The man’s tone was disapproving. “I don’t like having half-breeds around. I don’t trust anything but whites and good coloreds who know their place.”
Dorritt imagined herself slapping Mr. Anderson’s face.
“I needed the vaqueros,” Kilbride said almost apologetically. “My people aren’t accustomed to herding longhorns and half-broke mustangs through wilderness.”
“Well, no one knows cattle better than Mexicans,” Anderson allowed, and spat tobacco on the ground.
“Gracias, señor,” Carlos spoke up, his gun still drawn, “for your compliment. We are still trying to discover what it is Anglos know better than anyone else.”
Mr. Anderson drew his gun and held it at his side. “I don’t take sass from anyone.”
“If that means an insult, neither do I,” Carlos said with a smile obviously intended to infuriate the two white men. He lifted his musket, ready to fire.
There was a tense silence, then Mr. Anderson’s eyes slid from Carlos and he switched his attention to Ash. “Do you let your slaves ride?”
Her stepfather’s round face flamed and he muttered, “He’s a free black and came along with our half-breed scout.” Anderson looked shocked and opened his mouth to speak.
“Quinn and I don’t think much of ignorant Anglos, either,” Ash interrupted him. “I’m Ash and I’m not pleased to meet you, Anderson.”
All the white men swelled with anger. And raised their guns. But froze when it evidently dawned on them they were facing six armed and grim-looking men. And these were men of color who would not hesitate to shoot—a completely new and unexp
ected situation, no doubt.
Dorritt struggled with her fury. She wanted to lash out at Mr. Kilbride and Mr. Anderson, but she didn’t want to precipitate actual bloodshed. “Mr. Quinn saved my sister, Jewell, from drowning in the Sabine,” she declared. “While we were still in Louisiana, he also found us shelter from the hurricane. And he has stood us as friend and guide since that night.” Then she glared at her stepfather. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Kilbride?”
Her stepfather looked flabbergasted. And sputtered.
“Yes, he has,” Dorritt’s mother said from the opening in the Conestoga. “Mrs. Anderson, I’ve been poorly for a few days. But won’t you and your little girl come and have tea with me? We will have to make believe this wagon is our parlor or our veranda.” The woman, the little child, and Jewell hurried to Dorritt’s mother.
Dorritt turned away, still shaking but somehow proud. She hadn’t expected the vaquero Carlos to stand up for himself like that. Though I should have. He walks with pride. She hoped suddenly that there would be many such men in Texas. Men who would stand up for themselves.
“Where are you going, girl?” her stepfather demanded.
“To make the tea,” Dorritt replied without pausing.
She expected to hear Mr. Kilbride telling Anderson and his sons what a rebellious and intractable daughter she was. Instead he was explaining that Dorritt’s mother was in a delicate condition and Dorritt had been up all night several nights nursing her. That explained her being unusually quarrelsome. Dorritt almost stopped to ask him what his purpose was for saying this. Then it hit her. He was still planning on marrying her off. I’ll run away like Amos and take Reva with me before I marry a son of that kind of man.
After dark, the sound of singing drew Quinn to the Anderson wagon. Sitting there, Carlos was singing a Spanish song to the little Anderson girl. Quinn had heard it many times before, “De
Colores.” Carlos finished singing it in Spanish and began to sing it in English.