We circled our wagons and began a frenzy of activity, trying to decide what to do first. Eventually we would establish a routine, but for now everything was disorderly. Finally, Karl unyoked the oxen and led them off to the creek calling over his shoulder, “Rika, you take care of Baya.”
Every bone in my body ached, and I could barely stand. “I’m too tired,” I muttered. “Besides, I hate that horse. Let him starve.”
Karl’s eyes burned with anger. He started to retort, closed his mouth, and after a moment’s silence said, “You’ll have to do it anyway.”
Mutter turned from rummaging in the food box. “Let Emil do it.”
“Mutter, Emil isn’t here.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he joined the army.”
For a moment she remembered. “Oh, yes. That’s why I feel hollow.”
I noticed her repetitious, unthinking movements, dull and lifeless eyes, and her frozen expression. In one day, the life had gone out of her. Or had it been only one day? I recalled the unusual sarcasm and general grouchiness as we packed for the trip. Of course, I had earned the sarcasm. A little guilt crept over me. Perhaps I was partly the cause of her hollow feeling.
“Let me help you find the cornmeal,” I said.
She wandered aimlessly away from the food box without answering, drifting toward the oxen, then to a tree, and staggered back to the wagon.
“Sit here.” I led her to a shady spot near the wagon.
Her body was limp as a rag doll; her eyes stared ahead vacantly. She was no longer grouchy, just docile.
The little scene had been played out before a silent Sophie and Karl, who still held the oxen’s lead lines. His eyes met mine.
“You help here,” he said. “Later, I’ll show you how to groom the horse.” Our eyes lingered for a minute, and he opened his mouth to say more, but, with a jangle of harness, he left.
I sent Sophie to hold Mutter’s hand to keep her from wandering, then tried to organize myself to get supper.
But my mind kept going back to Karl. What had he wanted to say to me but couldn’t? I hadn’t heard him laugh all day, and he seemed changed in ways I couldn’t quite name. Was it the long, hard walk? the unasked-for responsibility? the money? Although we would repay him when we got to New Braunfels, he had spent all his money for Baya, our wagon, and the oxen without knowing that we had no money to repay him at Indian Point or that Emil would be gone. Suddenly the carefree soldier of fortune who had come to Texas for excitement and freedom, like the oxen, had been yoked with heavy responsibility. His situation was probably terrifying. A lump came to my throat as my heart reached out to him. I knew exactly how he felt. I hadn’t chosen to be here, either.
Somehow I got a meal together with the help of Engel Mittendorf, who urged me to thoroughly cook the dried vegetables Mutter had cooked the day before. His comical pantomime of how sick he had been from eating spoiled vegetable mush made us laugh, and Sophie’s giggles got louder and louder.
“Engel, get over here this minute!” his mother squawked like a frightened hen.
Engel flapped his arms imitating a chicken and silently went back to his own campfire, leaving me with a smile on my face.
Morning brought cheerfulness, and as we packed to leave, the usual German proverbs were called from wagon to wagon: “Well begun is half done,” “A sleeping fox catches no hens,” and “No rose is without thorns.” Karl told me more than I wanted to know about oxen as we carried extra water from the creek for them. Oxen do well on low-grade food and pound for pound can pull more than a horse, but they can’t sweat so they become overheated and have to be rested until they cool off. This had slowed the wagon train, so Karl’s plan was to carry extra dousing water to help with the cooling down. Of course, the water made the load heavier, slowing the oxen even more, but it was the best we could do. If this didn’t work, we had been warned by Frederich Mittendorf that our wagon would be placed last in line. If we lagged behind, we would be unprotected.
We were already lagging as the wagons pulled into line. I had been told that an authoritative tone and a short grip of the reins would discipline Baya. So, clutching the reins up short, I stepped one foot on the wagon’s axle and threw my other leg up toward Baya’s back. In an instant, his tail swished violently, his head and neck pumped up and down, and he sidestepped, leaving me with my leg dangling. I screeched angrily. Eyes wide and angry looking, Baya turned his head and nipped the front of my blouse with his sharp teeth.
My face burned with embarrassment as I tried to ignore the laughs around me. I glared at the rear driver who then lifted his hat, smiled, and said, “Senorita!”
The wagon train moved away from us, and finally I walked Baya until we caught up with the Mittendorf wagon. Engel jumped down to walk with me.
After a while I asked, “What wise proverb have you for this horse?”
“The egg often claims to be smarter than the hen,” Engel said.
“So now I’m a hen?” I laughed.
“No. In your case the best proverb is: ‘The wisest one gives in.’”
“That’s not supposed to mean with horses,” I denied hotly.
“All right. Try this one. ‘Must is a hard nut to crack.’ You must ride the horse.”
“Would you call this nut a pecan or a walnut?”
With that we both convulsed with silly giggles until Frau Mittendorf cackled, “Engel! Get back up here this instant.”
Engel flapped his arms and clucked like his mother hen. Then he grabbed the bridle, stared into Baya’s eyes, and shouted, “Whoa, Baya! Stop right now, you stupid animal, you Dummkopf of a horse, you walnut and pecan of a horse. Let this girl on your back! Do you hear me, horse?” He offered his knee for my foot, and I clambered on to the surprised horse.
But Baya had the last word. Tail swishing and head weaving, he sidestepped into every bush or small tree he saw all morning. By the first rest halt I was covered with scratches and leaves but dared not get down to help drench the oxen because I feared getting back up. Karl watered the oxen and brought Baya a handful of hay. In return, Baya laid back his lips and nipped a hole in Karl’s uniform shirt with his razor-sharp teeth.
Karl swore a string of soldier words I had never heard. Everyone within earshot gasped. Except me. I wondered what they meant.
The Spanish driver behind me laughed, and I glared at him. He dipped the big brim of his sombrero and smiled. “Señorita. Señora.”
The misery of sweltering in the August heat and trying to outsmart Baya took concentration, so I didn’t notice Mutter huddled in the floor of the wagon seat until the oxen lurched out of line and fled toward the shade of two small trees. Karl ran alongside, whacking their backs with a stick, but it had no effect until they reached the cool shade and stopped so abruptly that Sophie and Mutter were shaken and bruised. That’s when I noticed she was wrapped in her shawl and two blankets.
“Tell Emil to help Sebastian get my feather comforter,” she said. “I’m so cold I’ve turned blue.”
Sophie’s eyes grew wide. “D-don’t you know Emil is in the army? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter. I’m just cold,” Mutter said.
Nevertheless, her pallid skin, dazed eyes, and wandering mind told me she was very ill. I felt useless. I had no idea what to do for her.
The Spanish driver nodded his huge hat and called “Senorita” as he followed the wagon train out of sight. We had been warned to keep up, and now we were alone on the vast plain. I scanned the horizon for Karankawas and felt goosebumps all over my body as I imagined a flesh-eating Indian behind every bush.
After much nudging and calls of “Haw! Haw!” Karl headed Buck and Bright up the trail. I followed, leading Baya. Walking churned my anger at the uncaring people on the wagon train.
“What kind of people go off and leave us to the Indians?” I yelled to Karl, who didn’t answer.
“And what about the sneering Mexican pulling off and leaving us?”
>
“You mean the m-man in the b-big hat who s-smiles at you?” called Sophie.
I didn’t answer.
“And you, Baya, why do you step me into bushes and trees?” I shook his bridle angrily, and he swished his half tail and pumped his head up and down, flinging hot, rancid sweat on my clothes, a stench my nose would endure for days. I tried to remember some of Karl’s angry, dirty words.
The afternoon marched angrily on with Karl shouting orders to the oxen while I shouted accusations at the strange, wild horse, and Sophie shouted, “Do something for Mutter!” every few minutes. But as we scanned the horizon and watched the packed trail we were following, we knew we had to keep moving.
The sky was streaked red and pink with sunset as we pulled our wagon into the circle at Agua Dulce. After Karl unyoked the oxen and hobbled their front legs with rawhide thongs, he showed me how to unsaddle and brush Baya. Reluctantly I took care of the wild horse because, as Karl explained, the animals were our future. Only then could I turn my attention to Mutter.
By this time she cried out with leg cramps and begged for more and more water. When I talked to her, she didn’t understand me, and her answers to my questions made no sense. I looked down at her pain-wracked, shivering body, and wondered what to do. More water? More blankets? Or would the water set off a cycle of more fluid loss? I wished for Oma or Aunt Eva or, even crazy as she was, Oma Gunkel. I felt helpless and stupid and swollen with fear.
In a panic, I ran to the next wagon and asked Frau Mittendorf what to do. She stepped back from me a few paces and hurled her answer. “Don’t come over here spreading your disease, young woman,” she squawked at the top of her voice.
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t get my breath, and the pain of realization felt like thousands of needles sticking in my skin: Mutter is contagious! No one will help us, and we will all die from the disease as so many did at Indian Point.
“Rika—hey, Rika,” a voice whispered from behind the Mittendorf wagon. “Come here.” Engel kept his distance but quickly said, “Frau Kellerman in wagon four has nursed a lot of people. Ask her what to do.”
“Thank you, Engel,” I said quietly.
“Engel! Get here this minute,” his Mutter cackled.
Engel flapped his chicken arms and grinned. “I’d help you if I could.” And he was gone.
Chapter 9
I found wagon number four and in the gloom of darkness stood just outside the ring of light from Frau Kellerman’s fire while I studied the shadowed angles of her face. She was tall with blond braids coiled around the top of her head. A shapeless, patched dress covered her thin, angular body. She bent to stir a pot full of thick gruel that sent steam spiraling into her face. Something about the ramrod straightness of her back made me hesitate. Could I trust this stiff-looking woman? Would she, fearing sickness, send me away? If she agreed to talk to me, could I trust what she said? I had trusted Vater, and he had brought us to this terrible place. I had trusted Oma, and she turned out to be crazy. I had trusted Emil to take care of us, and he went off to get killed. But Mutter’s life hung in the balance.
“You, in the shadows, come on in.” Frau Kellerman motioned.
I ran to the fire and, like a small child, blurted out my predicament.
Frau Kellerman stopped stirring the contents of the pot and studied me. The delicious smell of oatmeal made my mouth water. I had last tasted oatmeal in Galveston. I scuffed my heavy shoes, nervously waiting for her answer.
“You’re the courageous girl on the strange horse.”
“Strange horse, but I’m very lacking in courage.”
Frau Kellerman reached for a bowl, spooned in a generous serving of oatmeal, and poured molasses over it. As I ate, she removed the pot from the fire and handed her husband the spoon. “Herman, this pretty girl needs help. Will you serve yourself tonight?”
“Of course. God go with you.”
Why was Herman not surprised?
“Do you do this often?” I asked as we walked toward our wagon.
“Yes.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Oh, no. I once worked in a hospital in Bremen.”
“You’re a nurse then?”
“No. I merely changed linens and cleaned messes.”
My silence betrayed my disappointment.
“Don’t worry. I learned a lot by watching and listening. I can at least help you find out what is wrong with your Mutter. Then you will know what to do.”
“But I don’t do anything.” My voice trembled. “I don’t know how.”
“You must learn.”
Once again the words of a proverb came to mind: “Must is a hard nut to crack.” But this time, with all my heart, I wanted to learn what to do. Mutter’s life depended on it.
Confidently, as though she had done this a thousand times, Frau Kellerman made the diagnosis. The low body temperature, blue skin, leg cramps, and acute thirst, she said, indicated the first stages of cholera, which Mutter had probably caught from contaminated food or water. Within the next two days she would probably worsen with diarrhea, vomiting, and complete body cramps.
“W-will she d-d-die?” Sophie stammered.
“We don’t really know. But we will do our best.”
Without looking up, Karl poked the ashes of our fire and said, “We ate and drank most of the same things.”
For a long time only Mutter’s moaning filled the silence.
“It’s entirely possible you won’t have cholera,” Frau Kellerman said finally. “We must not think that way. Fear has a way of paralyzing us.”
Frau Kellerman comfortably slipped her arm around Sophie’s shoulders, hugging her close. That’s when I noticed she had no hand. She dismissed my stare as nothing and continued, “We must do our best and pray a lot.”
Clusters of crudely made crosses marked the trail we had traveled so far. Had the loved ones of those persons done their best and prayed a lot? Suddenly the balance had gone out of everything. A dizzy panic swelled behind my eyes, and my knees felt weak. Lord, help me, I prayed silently.
Then, leaning against the wagon, I asked weakly, “What must we do to help her?”
Frau Kellerman told us, and doing it took most of the night. Quietly so not to awaken our neighbors, we rearranged the contents of the wagon to make a bed. The anvil had to be left behind, along with a large black cooking pot that just wouldn’t fit. We boiled water and cooked a pot of watery corn gruel, and, in the dark of night, I went to the creek to wash Mutter’s clothes. Dunking my hands in that cold, black water was almost as hard as taking the last wet steps off the lighter into Texas.
“Don’t be afraid. I know you can do it.” Frau Kellerman stooped beside me to help.
“How do you know that?” A tinge of defiance must have been in my voice.
“I’ve been there,” she said simply. “I have come through the blackest time of my life.” She paused, seeming to gather courage. “Four months ago at Indian Point our two children died. How I survived I do not know. But I did, and you can.”
“But I don’t know how to cook or take care of Sophie or even ride that horrible horse.”
“Frederika, you can do it. What is, is. What you must, you will.” We had finished wringing the clothes. “Straighten your hair and blouse before we go. That handsome soldier is waiting by the fire to be fed.”
It was when I bent to stir honey into the cornmeal mush that Karl chuckled.
“Is there anything funny?” Sarcasm tinted my voice.
“Nah, I was just thinking that you may become the fat Housefrau.”
“What I intend to do in Texas certainly does not include becoming a fat Housefrau. I have other plans.”
But later, as I handed Karl another bowl of mush, my hand stopped in midair with surprise. Although I enjoyed feeding this handsome soldier who made me feel all tingly inside, I felt trapped by responsibility. This was my family, and I had indeed become the Housefrau.
T
he next morning Karl made all the arrangements. First he convinced Frederich Mittendorf that if we isolated ourselves to lagging last on the wagon train, the others wouldn’t become contaminated. Next he had to convey this message through a series of gestures to the Mexican drivers behind us. Before they pulled away, they loaded the cooking pot and anvil on their wagon.
The larger driver tipped his sombrero, smiled at me, and said, “Thank you, Senorita.”
I glared at him. Imagine taking advantage of our misfortune!
“Wait!” called Karl. “You speak English?”
“Yes, hombre. You also?”
I couldn’t understand most of what they said, but they laughed a lot and pointed at the horse. Karl was laughing when he turned back to me.
“His name is Carlos. We have twin names,” Karl said. “Carlos says that unless he has to discard the anvil because of its weight, he will return it in New Braunfels. He also says Baya in Spanish means ‘berry.’ The horse is well named.” He laughed again.
“I see nothing funny about it,” I said.
“But he earned his name from backing people into berry bushes.”
“So?” I said acidly. “How does that help me stay out of bushes and trees?”
“Don’t you see? His name is Spanish for his bad habits. He is known in Spanish, and he knows Spanish. Baya is a Spanish-hearing horse. You speak German.”
“So, I don’t know Spanish.”
“But Carlos will teach you.”
I glanced back at Carlos, who lifted his sombrero and smiled, showing his straight, white teeth.
“Quit scowling at him. He has already nicknamed you ‘the dragon baby.’ At least smile and nod. We need his help.”
I smiled and nodded.
There were calls back and forth in English and Spanish with explanations in German and my trials of the Spanish words that brought howls of laughter from Sophie and the men. I hated it, but I had to conquer Baya before he conquered me.
The Long Road Home Romance Collection Page 45