Lucinda’ ”
Jesselynn let the silence lengthen. She knew the others were thinking of home just as she was. Somehow she could not erase the picture of the big house. Twin Oaks still lived and flourished in her mind.
The letters from Louisa and Carrie Mae told of Christmas in Richmond, what was happening in the legislature, and the things they’d made for Christmas gifts. Zachary added a note of his own, barely legible with his left hand, but he had cared enough to write.
“ ‘You take good care of those horses, you hear? We need them to start over, but I know you know that and are doing all you can. If I could sneak back to Twin Oaks I would, but I am pretty hard to disguise, missing a foot and hand, let alone the eye.
Louisa is still grieving for her lieutenant, but I keep telling her he is dead, not just missing. She refuses to believe that, since there is no proof, but she must get on with her life. Carrie Mae tries to introduce her to young men, but you know our Louisa, stubborn to the hilt. I do not know where she gets that trait. Of course, none of the rest of us suffer from that affliction. May our God and Father keep you all safe. I trust that one day we shall see each other again—this side of heaven, I do hope.
Your loving brother,
Zachary’ ”
By the time she’d finished reading the letters, Sammy and Thaddeus had gone off to play, and the rest of them, other than Jane Ellen, were drying their eyes. Ophelia rocked gently, then hummed, and finally her song bathed the others in comfort. It was a deep river for sure, between them and home. How many more rivers would they cross before they found a new home, a free home, a safe home?
When the song died away, Jesselynn pulled herself back to the moment. “While I’m searching for a wagon master and train, you get Ahab back in condition,” she instructed Benjamin.
His eyes rounded, along with his mouth. “For racin’?”
She nodded. “But you have to keep it a secret. No one can know about him.”
Now he rolled his eyes, along with shaking his head. “Where we got space for dat?”
Jesselynn turned to Meshach. “I know the chance we’re taking, but I can’t figure any other way to get enough money to outfit us. We need two wagons and at least eight oxen, along with all the rest.” She raised her hands and dropped them again. “Any other suggestions?”
“Like you said the other day, I could find work.”
“I know. And you better do so. Daniel and Benjamin will have to guard the camp.”
“I can graze the horses.” Jane Ellen looked up from the willow basket she was weaving.
“And I can help guard the camp. No one expects an old woman to be able to shoot a gun.” Aunt Agatha laid the shirt she was sewing for Jesselynn down in her lap. “Besides, with you off racing Ahab, Patch will let us know if anyone is comin’.” They’d named the dog that had insisted on joining up.
The dog, lying beside the rocker, raised one ear, the tip of it flopping forward. For some reason he had adopted Aunt Agatha as his mistress, yet at the same time kept a watchful eye on the boys. If Sammy strayed too far from the fire by himself, Patch would go round him up and herd him back. He’d obviously been a cow or sheep dog.
Jesselynn half smiled and shook her head gently. All of them were learning that they could do things they never thought they could or would have to do.
And the dog, who’d shadowed them when they left the burning farm, adopted them so quickly it felt as if he’d always been part of the family.
When Jesselynn thought about the last week, she had to remind herself that God was in control and had a plan for all the goings-on. They’d rushed to get to Independence, and none of the wagon trains were heading out yet, though one wagon master had said “any day now.” She still felt guilty for not burying the woman at the farm, even though she knew that staying there long enough to do the job right could have caused them all sorts of trouble. Ahab’s throwing a shoe didn’t help much either. Cost them a couple of hours. All the rush, and now they waited. And tried to find a wagon train.
For the next couple of days she rode on into Independence in the early morning, talked to as many people as she could, and came home to shake her head again. She had ordered two wagons, longer and sturdier than the one they were using now, and had brought back heavy canvas to make coverings for the hoops. Aunt Agatha, Jane Ellen, and Ophelia had been stitching on the covers ever since Jesselynn hauled it into camp. Meshach had fashioned leather handpieces like sailors used to help force the needles through the heavy fabric. Jesselynn planned to sell the present wagon when she sold Chess.
Ophelia and Jane Ellen dried fish and rabbit, whatever Daniel could bring in above what they ate every day.
One morning she and Meshach rode in to town together, he bareback on the mule, his sack of tools slung over one shoulder, his quilt rolled in a deerskin over the other.
“I’m not so sure I think this is a good idea.” Jesselynn sighed and shook her head. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
“Anythin’ I can bring in’ll buy more flour and beans. Could be I find us some oak for a barrel too. Wish now I made another back at de cave.”
“Pray that I find us a wagon train today. With all the people gathered here, there has to be more trains being organized.” She squeezed Chess into a faster trot. “Keep your eyes open for oxen. I heard there were more coming in.”
“Got money enough to pay for dem?”
Jesselynn shrugged. “We will soon enough.” Checking out the horse racing was another thing to watch and figure how best to win.
She left Meshach at the first blacksmith shop and returned to the store that had been closed the evening before. The proprietor smiled when she entered.
“Name’s Robinson. How can I help you, son?”
“My family is here to head out on the trail, and we need supplies. And a wagon train.”
“You came to the right place. Just this mornin’ I heard of a new train formin’ up under a man named Torstead.”
“Really?” Her heart leaped at the news. “How can I, what do I—”
“Whoa.” He held up both hands. “Got a bargain for ya. Buy what you need here—I got about the best prices around—and I give you a list of suppliers for what else you need. No one on my list cheats my customers, or I don’t send them no more.” He leaned on the counter, propped up by stiff elbows. “Now, what do ye need? Wagons, oxen, feed, flour—I got a list here that most wagon masters go by.” He slapped a piece of paper on the counter.
“Already ordered the wagons. Need most everything else.”
“How many folks in your party?”
Jesselynn mentally counted. “Nine. Two little ones.” She didn’t dare tell him about the horses.
“Hmm.” The man scratched out some numbers on a slate and held it out for Jesselynn to read.
“Now, that is the amount for each person, you understand.”
Jesselynn nodded and returned to her reading. Two hundred pounds of flour, seventy-five pounds of bacon, five pounds of coffee, two of tea, twenty-five pounds of sugar—brown the best—half a bushel of dried beans, one bushel of dried fruit, two pounds of saleratus, ten pounds of salt, half a bushel of cornmeal.
When she started multiplying by six—she counted Jane Ellen as a child—she felt her jaw begin to drop. A keg of vinegar, rope, tools, kitchen things, clothing, a small stove—where would they store all this? And she hadn’t added grain for the mares yet.
“That thar list is mighty complete.”
“I can see that.” She read a section on taking milk cows. How she wished that were possible. “And you say you can supply all of this?” And we’ve got the forge and Meshach’s tools. Leastways we got our guns already, but we need more ammunition.
“Either me or my list of suppliers.” Robinson scratched his chin. “Goin’ west takes all a man has and then some.” He nodded as he spoke. “Better to take extra food and water than trinkets like furniture and things. You can always make your own once you get there.”
“Well, sir, thank you for the advice.” She rolled her lips together and, chewing on the bottom one, slit her eyes in thought. “Guess I better go find that Mr. Torstead, then.”
“Wolf, he goes by Gray Wolf.”
Jesselynn left the store with the name Gray Wolf Torstead branded on her mind and no idea where to find the man who owned the name.
He was a half-breed. What would Aunt Agatha have to say to that? And what if he wouldn’t take them on? The fears hammered in time with Chess’s easy trot. Robinson at the store thought the man was camped southeast of the square. All she had to go on was a name: Gray Wolf Torstead. Even the name intrigued her.
By late afternoon she felt as though she were chasing a will-o’-the-wisp or a swamp light. Many people she asked had seen him, but he’d gone somewhere else and they weren’t sure where. When she finally located his simple camp, she dismounted and took up residence on a rock. Better to wait for the mountain to come to her than hightailing it after a mountain that moved around more than a hound hot on a rabbit trail.
If frustration had a name, today it was Wolf—Gray Wolf Torstead for a full name, but few called him anything other than Wolf. Instead of snarling as he wished, he stood silent, dark eyes blank, body still as his namesake on a hunt. He wanted to be wagon master of this forming train about as much as he wanted to dig an arrow out of his thigh, something he’d been forced to do some years in the past. The scar reminded him of that whenever he stripped to tribal dress.
He listened to the two men arguing and dreamed of home. Of the land of the Oglala Sioux, where the rivers ran clear, not the muddy brown of the Kansas, and the wind blew clean, not fetid as it did in this morass of an encampment. The smoke of cooking fires and blacksmith coals hung like that of a far-off forest fire, burning both nostrils and eyes.
He waited.
“So what do you think, Mr. Wolf?” The shorter of the two turned to the silent third of their party.
“Just Wolf. No mister.”
“Ah, sorry.” The man scrubbed a hairy hand across an equally hairy face. He reminded Wolf of a badger, pointed skinny nose, beady eyes, and scrabbling for a toehold where there might be none. When backed into a corner, as he was being now, he would fight to the finish.
“Can they join us or not?”
“Only if they have sufficient supplies and a wagon that will go the distance. I inspect everything. Anything less will slow the entire train.” He knew from the glances they exchanged that when he spoke the language of his father, white men were surprised. He looked more Sioux than English. Before he died, his father had taught him well. To read, to write and do sums, to speak the good King’s English, as Eviar Torstead called it. He also taught his son smatterings of Norwegian, Eviar’s native tongue. His mother’s people taught him to walk tall on the land and be one with horse and wind.
This would be his last train. The only reason he took the position of wagon master was for the gold it would bring. Gold that would buy guns for his people to hunt the buffalo, knives to skin them with, and blankets to warm them in the winter. Thanks to his father, he believed that whites and Indians could live in peace, learning from each other and sharing the riches of the land.
Everything always came back to the land.
While keeping his thoughts as his own, he waited for a response.
The taller man spat into the mud. “Ain’t no breed goin’ to inspect my provisions.” He turned the last words into a sneer.
“Then you will not be joining my wagon train.” Wolf heard the my and wondered when he had accepted responsibility. Up till then it had been their.
“You gonna let him talk like that?” The spitter spun on the badger.
“He’s the boss. He promised to get us to Oregon, and I aim to follow his good sense. He’s made the trip four times as a scout and knows whereof he speaks.”
“Well, I ain’t lettin’ no breed tell me what to do.” He spat again, this time within inches of Wolf’s boot.
“That’s your choice, mister.” Badger nodded to Wolf and the two walked away, leaving the spitter sputtering.
“Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault. We’ll have enough trouble on the trail without someone like him along.”
“Trouble? You don’t mean Indian trouble—oh, pardon me, but do you?”
Wolf shook his head. “There’s plenty else waitin’ for the unwary. ‘A wise man counts the cost before he begins to build his barn.’ ” Quoting from Scripture came easily to him. After all, he’d learned to read from that one book his father kept with him always.
“You said that right. I’m hopin’ one day to do just that, build me a barn, but out in Oregon Territory. They say the trees are so big you only need one to build a house. That true?”
“Depends on if you saw up lumber or build a log house.” Wolf paused, catching sight of a slim young boy sitting in his campsite. “Looks like I have someone waiting for me.”
“I’ll be goin’ on, then. How soon you think we might be ready to head west?”
“When I’m certain everyone is ready.”
“Oh, ‘course.” Badger sketched a nod and turned away, settling his hat more firmly on his head as he went.
Wolf kept track of the man out of the corner of his eye, all the while aware of his visitor. If someone had sent the boy, he had to know Wolf wasn’t looking for any single young men to join his train. Singles, either male or female, spelled nothing but trouble on a wagon train.
WASHINGTON
“Miss, a box came for you.”
Louisa turned at the clerk’s call. “Thank you.” She turned to Mrs. Hinklen, who appeared to have spent as sleepless a night as had Louisa. “You go on and order us coffee while I take this up to my room.”
Surprised at the weight, she took the stairs as quickly as possible, what with trying to keep from stepping on the hem of her skirt and not drop the box. Only her name and room number identified the box tied with brown cord. Once inside with the door closed, she tried untying the knots, but when they didn’t yield, she snatched up her scissors and cut them away. A note lay on top of a tightly woven bag of something.
“Dear Louisa, take this and do with it as we discussed. Do not count on seeing me again before you leave for Richmond.” The Z told her whom it was from, even though the writing was difficult to read. And the message mind numbing.
“Zachary, where are you?” She covered the box again and slid it under her carpetbag in the chifforobe. “Oh, Lord, protect him, please. I almost lost him once. Don’t let this be permanent.” Knowing that Joanna waited for her, she tucked the note into her bag and, locking the door, descended to the dining room again.
“I have decided to go to Fredericksburg,” Joanna announced as soon as Louisa had sat down. “I will not let them bury my husband in some nameless grave. I will take him home for a decent burial.”
“Surely the army would ship his body home.”
“I’m not counting on anything from the army any longer. They might have owned my husband, but they do not own me.” She sniffed back incipient tears and straightened her spine. “I have cried enough. Would you help me get to Fredericksburg?”
“Ah, how do you . . . I mean . . .” I’ve not told her I’m from the South. How does she know?
“Dear Louisa, my husband and I lived in Kentucky for some years. I recognize your accent, and while you might be living here in Washington, I seriously doubt it.” She kept her voice low and leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. “I will have a pass enabling me to travel to Fredericksburg. Where do you live from there?”
“In . . . in Richmond, with my aunt. My older sister sent my sister and me to live with our aunt in Richmond, thinkin’ we might be safer there.”
“And you are—so far. No one has been able to take Richmond.”
“Not for lack of trying, but you’re right.” Louisa thought of the box upstairs. Without Zachary’s hollow leg and crutch, could she stash all of the powder?
“You could travel as my companion.”
“Or, once we are in Southern control, you could travel as mine.” The two women looked deep into each other’s eyes. “And you could come on to Richmond if you like. We will always have a place for you.”
“Thank you, my dear, and likewise. I’ll contact those in charge and make the arrangements. Hopefully we can leave in the morning, depending on when the trains are running.”
When Louisa returned to her room, she found a note on the floor. The simple message made her sigh in relief. “Do not be worried. Z.” She sank down on the bed and clutched the paper to her heart. “Thank you, Lord, for listening and caring, even when I don’t feel like you are there. I know faith and feelings aren’t the same. I believe. Help, thou, my unbelief.”
By the time she went to bed that night, she had neat packets of white powder sewn into the lining of her traveling skirt and jacket, into the false bottom of her reticule, and into the false bottom of the carpetbag. She hadn’t needed the pocket in her Bible.
While the sun returned the following day, the streets remained a quagmire. Louisa dashed off a note to Cousin Arlington, informing him that she was sorry they were unable to meet, but she was leaving for home within the hour. She kept her tongue firmly planted in her right cheek while she penned the letter and readied it for mailing. Every time she heard footsteps outside in the hall, she paused, hop ing the doorknob would turn and Zachary would enter.
But he didn’t.
Her carpetbag was packed and ready to go. As she scanned the room for anything she might have missed, her eyes fell on the envelope she had placed on the mantel—the letter that had arrived for Zachary. Should she take it with her or leave it at the hotel desk in case Zachary should return?
She made her way downstairs, thankful that she at least had her return ticket. What if it had been with Zachary too? The more she thought about it, the more she realized their preparations had been woefully inadequate. With her mind made up she walked over to the desk. “Could you please hold this for my husband?” At the clerk’s nod she smiled. “Thank you.”
A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy Page 19