Brenna sighed, feeling the warm wood of the wagon against her back. It was a beautiful April morning. For as far as her eyes could see, Independence, Missouri was a sea of people making final preparations to embark on the overland trail to Oregon. She had never seen so many people in one place before. Not even in New York City. She watched the bevy of activity around her. Teams of oxen and mule were harnessed to farm wagons and prairie schooners. Large rounded hardwood bows held up oiled cotton bonnets that covered the interior of the wagons to create more space. Children, animals, and barrels and crates of tools and supplies were everywhere as the next wagon train was preparing to depart. Brenna’s slender frame was tight with tension. Although to the casual eye, her posture may have given the impression that she was bored or disinterested, her intense blue eyes and furrowed brow belied this and discouraged any passers-by from striking up a conversation.
Her dark eyebrows drew together when she saw Ben Hansson, the blacksmith’s son, walking in her direction. She looked around for somewhere to escape, but she was too late. He had spotted her and his pace quickened. At eighteen, two years older than Brenna, Ben was easily six feet tall and one hundred eighty pounds. His father had started him shoeing horses and mules at twelve years of age, and his build reflected the hard work. His arms looked like the limbs of large trees. Ben and his father Hans Hansson had met most of the people as they made the rounds, making sure the teams were properly shod for the journey. Soon, he was standing next to Brenna, his cheerfulness irritating her on possibly the most important morning of her life.
“Hi, Brenna.” His easy grin extended up into his sun-browned face and slanted his pale blue eyes upwards. A floppy hat covered most of his straw-blond hair. “What’re you doin’ standing out here in the sun?” Ben talked easily and had a quick smile. He had befriended Brenna and enjoyed teasing her. She didn’t feel like being teased this morning. Brenna tucked a stray black corkscrew curl behind her ear.
“Waiting on my folks,” she replied, trying to hide her annoyance.
“What’re they doin’?” Ben asked conversationally.
That’s a good question, Brenna thought. They had left an hour ago with Conor, her younger brother, to get some last minute supplies and talk to the captain. Her anxiety was increasing by the minute as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the tension from the crowd seemed to be rising with it. Ben tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully surveying her, waiting for a reply. Brenna realized she hadn’t answered Ben, and she felt the blush on her cheeks.
“They’re talking to the captain,” she said shortly. Redheaded Tommy Benson ran past them laughing, trailing a blue ribbon behind him. Four-year-old Deborah Benson ran after him complaining loudly, her blond curls flying behind her, trying to catch the elusive ribbon. Fifty feet away, burly Thomas Benson cursed as he struggled to harness a young ox.
“Captain is bound and determined to leave on time whether folks are ready or not,” Ben said affably. “Some are goin’ to have to wait for the next train.”
“Oh, we’re ready,” Brenna said firmly, looking at the teams of oxen harnessed to the well-stocked wagon. They didn’t have to carry much feed for the oxen because the grass would be abundant. It was almost May, and the prairie was already greening. There were provisions in barrels for six months, and the journey to Oregon could take that long. Two hundred pounds of flour took up a lot of room. There was also chipped beef, rice, tea, vinegar, mustard, saleratus (baking soda), and tallow. That along with the bacon, coffee, lard, beans, salt and sugar, and cooking pots and utensils also took up precious space in the small interior. Her father’s Sharps rifle, powder, lead, shot, and some of her mother’s furniture were packed also. Ben looked appreciatively at the carefully packed wagon. The tar bucket hung from the side, ready for caulking the wagon bed for river crossings.
“What’s your pa bringing in the way of tools?” he asked, surveying the jockey box hanging on the side of the wagon. Brenna lifted the lid and they gazed inside.
“Looks like he has most everything he needs here,” Ben murmured. “Bolts, linchpins, skeins, nails, and a jack. He’s got some extra leather to repair harnesses and some farm tools. But what about hoop iron? These wooden wheels shrink from the dry air and dust, and then the hoop iron comes off.”
“He was going to try to find some this morning.”
“We’ve got extra if you need any along the way.”
Brenna imagined what the Hansson wagon must look like. She pictured it full of tools and parts—a conglomeration of metal, wood, and leather. Men seemed to require lots of tools. Her mother left household items behind in order to make room for her father’s “necessary and important” tools.
“Are you pretty good at butchering chickens?” Ben asked playfully, checking out the clucking chickens in the coop slung on the side of the wagon next to the water barrel.
“I’ve butchered a few,” Brenna grimaced. It was a chore she cheerfully left to her mother.
Ben noticed her distaste and chuckled. “I’ll bet you’re a pretty good cook. Do you like to cook?”
Brenna mentally rolled her eyes. She liked Ben, but he was getting on her nerves. She scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “No. I don’t like to cook. Do you?” she retorted sharply. Ben guffawed loudly. His generous mouth stretched across his face and his twinkling eyes almost disappeared behind his cheeks. His laughter was deep and highly contagious. Brenna blinked once and then couldn’t help but join in. It was hard to stay angry with Ben. After a minute, he wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve and smiled at Brenna.
“Actually, I do enjoy cooking. I make a mean chicken pot pie,” he said, eyeing the chickens. His face became serious. “It’s hard to believe we’re about to leave Independence. We won’t see another town ‘till we get to Oregon.”
Brenna had waited for this day for so long, and now that it was here, she could barely contain her agitation and anxiety. Mixed emotions flooded through her as she thought of the family and friends she had left behind in New York and the new life her family would make in beautiful Oregon.
It was over four years ago when her family emigrated from Ireland, and she vividly remembered the journey. It had been difficult and heartbreaking. Many of the passengers on the ship from Ireland to America had been sick, and quite a few had perished during the crossing. She hoped this journey would be easier. Her whole life was ahead of her, across that prairie and all those mountains and rivers she had heard so much about. Ben must have sensed her mood because he suddenly touched her shoulder. “Don’t you worry now, Brenna. It’s a long trip, but I’ll look out for you.”
She looked at the concern on his face and the tension suddenly left her body. Her eyes welled with tears. She hadn’t realized how nervous she had been. “Thanks, Ben. I’ll be fine,” she replied, smiling at him gratefully. “Here are my folks.” Her parents and brother were walking towards them. Her father carried a pick and some extra hoop iron. Her mother had a bolt of dress material and one of homespun. Conor was sucking on a peppermint and playing with a length of rope.
“Good morning, Ben. We just spoke to Captain Wyatt, and it looks like we’re leaving on schedule,” her father said in his lilting Irish brogue. “Conor, let’s check everything over one more time.”
“I’d best get back and do the same thing,” Ben said. “Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Flannigan.” With a quick smile at Brenna, he turned and walked back the way he had come. Brenna watched him go for a few seconds until her mother called to her from inside the wagon. As she walked to the back of the wagon, she looked towards the Hintons’ camp and saw Nellie staring at her. Nellie’s face was twisted into a look of pure hatred. Brenna quickly looked away, and she shuddered as she felt a chill on the back of her neck. What is that woman’s problem? she thought.
Two hours later, the forty-two wagons were organized into the order they would travel over the next two thousand miles. Many more wagon trains would leave within the following week. The wag
on train would travel roughly fifteen miles a day. Oxen were slow beasts, but they could make the trip easier than horses, and they would eat almost anything.
The captain had met everyone in the previous two weeks, and now he rode down the line making last minute checks.
“Everything looks in order, Mr. Flannigan.”
“We’re ready, Captain Wyatt.”
The signal was given, and the first team strained forward under the weight of the loaded wagon. Brenna watched anxiously from her position next to their wagon. Everyone except the very young and the elderly would walk to Oregon, but that was fine with her. She wanted to walk because she didn’t want to miss anything.
Conor was hopping up and down, waiting for their wagon to begin moving. They were the ninth in line, and finally Michael Flannigan coaxed the teams to move forward. Brenna had a huge lump in her throat. This is it, she thought. Here we go. Her eyes were bright as she looked up into the endless sky towards the far horizon. What would she find in the days and months ahead? She inhaled deeply, smiled, and stepped forward with the wagon, the first of many steps taking her into her future.
Second Night
Chapter Two
Mile 25
The campfires glowed warmly in the early evening outside of the large circle of wagons that kept the stock contained. The animals had been fed, watered, and bedded down for the night. Women were busy heating water and preparing the evening meals. Many of the men were sitting around one of the fires discussing the day’s events. “Brenna, dinner is nearly ready. Will you find your brother?” Kate asked.
“Sure, Ma,”
It didn’t take Brenna long to find Conor. She simply followed the sound of children’s voices and found him in the middle of a lively discussion about “redskins.” Brenna tightened the shawl around her shoulders against the chill of the evening. She wandered closer to the fire to listen to what the men were discussing. It seemed that some of them were unhappy about being at the end of the line and having to breathe in the dust from all the wagons traveling over the trail. They were discussing different options and seemed to be coming to a consensus.
“Tomorrow we’ll separate into four lines, and the wagons will be rotated back to front every day. Is that acceptable to everyone?” Captain Wyatt asked. There was unanimous agreement and the conversation moved on.
“The Donation Land Act is why I’m going to Oregon,” one voice stated. “How can you pass up one hundred sixty acres of rich fertile land?” Other men agreed. Indeed, that was the reason the Flannigans were on this journey. When Brenna’s father Michael had heard about the Oregon Donation Land Act two years earlier, it was all he could talk about. Kate would be eligible for one hundred sixty acres also, bringing the family’s total to three hundred twenty acres—enough for the farm her father had dreamed of since leaving Ireland.
Brenna scanned the faces around the fire. Some she recognized, having met them in the weeks they spent camped at the jumping off place in Independence. Others were new to her. There was Ben Hansson next to his father. The resemblance was remarkable. Both men were big-boned and fair. Their faces were friendly, although Ben’s father Hans wore a more care-worn expression, and his light hair was graying at the temples. Ben’s face looked soft in the firelight. His generous mouth stretched into a wide grin over something someone close by said. She watched the way his eyes slanted upwards when his smile broadened. She couldn’t help smiling too.
“Hi, Brenna.” The voice startled her, and she jumped. A girl about her age giggled. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh, hi Rebecca,” Brenna replied. She had met Rebecca Benson at the camp in Independence, and they had taken an instant liking to each other. Rebecca’s large family was from Iowa. They had relatives in Oregon waiting for them.
“My ma sent me to round up the brothers for dinner,” Rebecca said. She looked in the direction of the children’s voices. “Sam, Tommy, dinner’s ready,” she called, and turned back and looked at Brenna, her warm eyes glowing in the firelight. “We made fifteen miles today,” she said.
“Yes, I heard. Are you tired from walking?” Brenna asked.
“No! Compared to all the chores I’m used to doing, today was easy!”
Brenna looked at Rebecca’s face shining with excitement. She felt the excitement too. The walking had been slow and not strenuous, just dusty. She knew Rebecca had a lot of responsibility. She was the oldest of six children, and her pregnant mother, probably in her mid-thirties, seemed older than her years. Rebecca, on the other hand, was robust. Even in the firelight, Brenna could see her ruddy face and eager expression.
“How’s your mother?” Brenna asked. She wondered how Rebecca’s mother would handle the birth of her seventh child on the trail.
A small shadow crossed Rebecca’s face. “She’s riding some in the wagon, but she says she’s feeling fine,” Rebecca replied. “Thanks for asking.”
“Listen, if you need any help with the children, I’d be happy to lend a hand,” Brenna said.
“Thanks, Brenna. I may take you up on that!” Rebecca grabbed Brenna’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Just then, Sam and Tommy ran up to them. Tommy threw his thin arms around Rebecca’s waist. His young face looked up at her, eyes wide.
“Is it true that the redskins will cut my scalp off and stick it on a pole and ride around on their horses waving it and hollering their war cries?” his voice wavered.
“Yes, it’s true,” thirteen-year-old Sam said gleefully, “and they’re going to want your hair ‘cause it’s bright red,” he finished confidently.
“Noooooo!” Tommy cried, tightening his hold on Rebecca. She glowered at Sam and cuffed his ear.
“What are you doing scaring your brother like that?” she said angrily.
“Ow! He’s such a baby. Why does he have to follow me everywhere?” Sam said, rubbing his red ear. Rebecca grabbed the thick red hair at the top of Tommy’s head and gently pulled his head back. She wiped his tear-streaked face with her apron. “And you shouldn’t be believing everything you hear! Now the both of you go and wash up for dinner.” The boys ran off in the direction of the Benson’s wagon. “I’m going to have to talk to Daddy about finding some more chores for Sam. He’s thirteen and he has too much time on his hands. He shouldn’t be hanging out with the young’uns and scaring them like that.”
“Do you think there’s any truth to the Indian stories?” Brenna asked.
“From what I hear, most of them are friendly if you leave them be. Captain Wyatt said there would be chances to trade with them for fresh meat along the trail. I don’t know about your dad, but mine isn’t much of a hunter.”
“Da spent some time at target practice when we got to Missouri, but I think we’d starve if we had to depend on his skills with a rifle!”
The girls giggled amicably. “I’d better get back and help Ma. Goodnight, Brenna. I’ll talk to you tomorrow!” Rebecca followed her brothers into the darkness. Brenna watched her fade into the night. When she turned to find Conor, she saw him walking toward her.
“When’s dinner? I’m starved!” He said.
“Come on, let’s go. I’m sure Ma’s waiting on us.”
As they passed the Hintons’ wagon, Brenna saw Nellie bent over the fire cooking the evening meal. Nellie glanced up and immediately looked away, busying herself with the fire.
“Good evening, Miss Nellie,” Brenna said.
Silence greeted her, and she thought that perhaps Nellie hadn’t heard her. Then Emily emerged from the tent and saw Brenna and Conor.
“Good evening, Brenna, Conor,” she said as she walked up to them.
“Hello, Emily.”
Emily Hinton looked beautiful in a dark blue dress with an intricately crocheted shawl over her shoulders. She didn’t seem to have any of the dust of the trail on her clothing. Her hair was beautifully done up, and her skin showed no evidence of sun exposure like everyone else’s.
“I do believe I will perish if I h
ave to walk another step.”
Brenna knew she had ridden in the wagon most of the day.
“Well, we only have nineteen hundred and seventy miles to go!’ Conor said cheerfully.
Emily gave him a withering look.
“And the captain made me leave some of my most precious belongings on the side of the road!” she exclaimed.
“I’m so sorry, Emily,” Brenna said.
“He said our wagon wouldn’t be able to keep up because it was too heavy. Humph! I don’t believe that’s true. Besides, everyone could just travel a little more slowly. What will I do without my organ?” she pouted. Leaving the organ on the side of the trail had broken her heart. Music had always been a comfort to her.
“That must have been difficult, Emily.” Brenna commiserated.
“Don’t worry! People from the town will be out in the morning to get all the stuff that’s left on the trail,” Conor said helpfully.
Brenna gave him a cautionary look and discreetly pinched his arm.
“It’s true,” he piped. “I heard some of the men say that people from Independence furnish their houses with stuff the overlanders have to leave behind.” He didn’t notice the misery on Emily’s face. “Mrs. Taylor had to leave a big old bed and dresser. She was mad!”
“Well, at least someone will get pleasure from playing my organ,” Emily sniffed.
“Miss Emily,” Nellie called, “Come into the tent now. Dinner is ready.”
“I must go. Do come by and visit in the evenings, Brenna. And you, too, Conor,” Emily said sweetly, her southern hospitality surfacing. “I want to hear all about New York City. I hear it’s very civilized there,” she said, and she turned and walked into the tent.
“She’s pretty!” Conor said appreciatively. “Let’s come back tomorrow night.”
Brenna grabbed Conor’s arm. “Come on, Conor. Ma’s waiting on us.” She had no intention of spending any time with Emily Hinton. There were a thousand other things she would rather do.
Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 Page 2