“I can’t do this, Nellie. I’m tired and dirty.” Her voice broke. “I want to go home!” Nellie felt compassion for this girl who was like a daughter to her, but she knew she had to be firm. She knelt in front of Emily and looked into her eyes.
“Your home is with your husband now. Where he goes, you must go. Whatever you’ve written in that letter, it had better not be crying over something that can’t be helped. Think about your father. He’s already worried sick about you. Do you want to cause him more grief?”
Emily sniffed loudly. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She found her handkerchief in her sleeve and blew her nose loudly.
“No, I don’t want to worry Daddy.” Her voice was almost a whisper. She sighed loudly. “You’re right, Nellie. It will do no good to complain.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. She belonged to Ernest—for better or for worse, and she had promised to love, honor, and obey him. Those vows spoken at her wedding held a bitter taste in her mouth. The married life she had pictured looked nothing like this. In a way, she felt betrayed.
“That’s my girl. Things may look bleak right now, but remember, every cloud has a silver lining.” Nellie patted Emily’s shoulder and left the tent to finish the evening chores. Emily looked down at the letter in her lap. She thought of her father reading it at his large oak desk in the study. Slowly she tore the letter into small pieces. Maybe Nellie was right. Maybe things would get better.
That night the travelers had time to gather around one of the campfires and talk about the day. Some of the men from the fort joined them. They were familiar with the trail, and a few had traveled it more than once. Many people wanted to know what to expect in the days ahead.
“Will all the river crossings be as easy as this one?” James Cardell asked. He was transporting fruit trees to Oregon to start an orchard.
“Will there be trouble with the Indians?” Thomas Benson inquired.
“Will we be able to restock supplies at the other forts?” Michael Flannigan asked. Many people had read accounts that had been written about the overland journey. There was a lot of discussion and speculation.
Later there was music and some of the women and girls danced. The mood was light. Emily joined in the singing and her voice was clear and strong until someone started singing “Where Home Is.” Then she was reminded of her family and the beautiful farm she had left when she married Ernest. Her melancholy returned, and she left the circle of people and retired to the tent.
As she crawled between the blankets and closed her eyes waiting for sleep, her last thought was that conditions couldn’t get any worse. Buster curled up next to her and licked the chin of the sleepy young woman. Emily resolved to look on the bright side. Tomorrow would be a better day.
The next morning it began to rain.
The Dream
Chapter Six
Mile 427
Michael Flannigan looked across the campfire at his wife. Kate was bent over the pan of water, cleaning up the dishes they had used for dinner. Her riotous dark hair was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, but a few strands had worked free and corkscrewed over her forehead. He noted the dark circles under her eyes. This journey was taking its toll on her. The everyday tasks for a woman of packing up in the mornings, unpacking in the evenings, cooking, washing, gathering firewood or buffalo chips, building fires, and carrying water were hard enough in the best of conditions, but it had rained for a week and this evening’s was the first fire they had been able to build. The rain had been steady and everything was dripping wet or damp. His fingers deftly worked on the harness that needed repairing, and his thoughts drifted far away, back to Ireland seven years earlier.
It had been a cool, wet summer in 1845. That fall the potato crop had failed throughout the whole country. Wet rot, they called it, and few farms had been spared. He remembered having to sell his livestock to pay his rent and buy food for the family. A few months earlier, the British prime minister had resigned. Then the new man in charge had ordered the closing of government food depots to prevent the Irish from becoming “habitually dependent.” Michael’s face contorted as he remembered his county, with every farm and family destitute. His neighbors and friends had sold all they had to buy the Indian corn the British government had been selling for a penny a pound, but soon there was mass starvation when there were no pennies left. He sighed deeply, remembering all the people who had been evicted by their landlords when they had no money to pay their rents.
He watched Kate methodically doing her evening chores. She looked worn out. All the travelers were bone tired from struggling to keep the wagons moving over muddy and rutted trails. Sometimes the mud was like sucking quicksand, and it had been hard to keep shoes on feet. His thoughts returned to Ireland—to his neighbor Maggie Donahue and her two small children.
He found them one morning standing in the rutted road wet to the skin from the rain, their feet up to their ankles in mud. Her husband had recently been imprisoned because he couldn’t pay the back rent, and the landlord had evicted Maggie and her children. Michael and Kate took them in, even though they had barely enough food for their own family.
Michael shook his head sadly, remembering how they had been so hopeful the summer of ’46 that the fall’s harvest would be a good one after the devastation of the year before. He remembered his deep disappointment that September when the new crop succumbed to the blight.
He held the rotten black potato in his hand that he had pulled from the ground, and for the first time in his life, he could not think of what to do. They had nothing left: no money and no food. He knew it was only a matter of time before they would be evicted. He stared at the rotten potato for a long time, unseeing. Kate had been calling his name, but all he could hear was a roaring in his ears like the sound of a train. Then Kate had come up to him and angrily taken the potato from his hand, throwing it as far as she could. She looked at him fiercely, her eyes flashing.
“We’re done here, Michael. We’re going to my sister’s in Dublin, and then we’ll decide what to do.” She didn’t wait for a reply but turned on her heel and packed up their few belongings. Soon they were on the road to Dublin with hundreds of other displaced families.
Michael worked oil into the leather harness, carefully covering both sides. The wagon train hadn’t been making good time in the persistent rain. One day they traveled over a particularly mucky stretch of the trail and barely made five miles. Everyone was either pushing the wagons from behind or pulling them from the front. Michael could see the discouragement on the faces of many of the travelers. He knew they were concerned about the possibility of early snow if they didn’t get to the Blue Mountains in good time. His brow furrowed when he was reminded of the journey his family had made to Dublin six years earlier.
When they reached Dungarvan in County Waterford, the scene was riotous. People were amassing together in angry mobs, shouting and raising fists against British troops that were protecting stores of grain to be shipped out to England. Michael and Kate watched, horrified, as starving peasants picked up stones and hurled them at the troops. Michael saw the enraged face of the officer, and although he couldn’t hear him over the angry crowd, he knew what his shouted orders were.
“Quickly! In here!” he yelled, and Kate and the children ducked into an abandoned building as they heard the first shots and the screams from the crowd. The pandemonium seemed to go on forever, and the shots continued until two peasants were dead and several others were wounded. The crowd fell over each other attempting to get away. Many were trampled, and many others were arrested.
Michael’s hands froze on the harness he was oiling as he remembered narrowly avoiding arrest.
A raggedy man ran into the building where they were hiding. His eyes widened when he saw Michael, Kate, and the children huddled in a corner.
“You’re done for if you stay here,” he said, and darted to the rear window where he quickly climbed out. Michael helped his family climb out that same window as the tr
oops descended upon the crowd. The terrified family fled deeper into the village where they were swallowed by the crowds of starving people.
In other villages along the way to Dublin, they saw British naval escorts guarding the grain on riverboats that passed before the eyes of starving peasants who watched from shore.
Michael bitterly remembered the defeat and hopelessness on his countrymen’s faces. He could see this defeat on Kate’s face now across the campfire. He had worried about her the last few days. She had been uncharacteristically quiet, and even Conor and Brenna had noticed and had tried to cheer her up, but she had been unresponsive. After dinner, Rebecca Benson had come by to invite them to visit. Brenna and Conor had gone to the Bensons’ wagon, but Michael said that he and Kate would visit later. Michael wanted to take this opportunity to find out what was troubling his wife.
“Are you all right, then?” he queried. She didn’t answer him, and he thought that maybe she hadn’t heard his question. She hadn’t looked at him or acknowledged that he had spoken.
“So, are you all right then?” he asked again, a little more loudly.
She raised her eyes and looked at her husband. The firelight did not brighten her dark look. Slowly she straightened her thin frame and her right hand went to her lower back, massaging sore muscles. Her dress was stained with sweat down the front and the back, and a full eight inches of the bottom of the skirt was caked in mud.
“No.” Her voice was almost a whisper, but he heard her. “No, Michael Flannigan, I’m not all right at all.”
Alarmed, he got up from where he was sitting. Kate had always been a pillar of strength, and to hear her sounding so defeated caused him great consternation.
“Kate, the rain has stopped. Everything will dry out now.” He walked over, took her shoulders in his hands, and turned her towards him. He looked carefully at her. Kate was only thirty-five, but she had aged in the months they had been on the trail. Weary eyes looked back at him, not really seeing him.
“I don’t care anymore, Michael. I’m sick of this trail. I’m sick of this wagon and this food—the same thing every day. I can’t remember why we ever thought this would be a good idea. Why did we ever leave New York? We had good jobs and we were making money enough to put some aside. The children were in school. What is the point of all of this? Tell me, Michael. Tell me why we’re killing ourselves going to a place we’ve never been.” Her voice had started out calm, but it had slowly risen to near hysteria.
“I don’t want to be here!” she exclaimed, tears streaking the dirt on her cheeks. “Please, let’s go back.” She had grabbed the front of his shirt, and he realized that she was beside herself.
“Katie, girl, things will get better. Sure and it’s been rough, but the rain has stopped.” Michael drew her close. His voice was gentle, and he rested his cheek on her head. “You’re bone weary. You’ve worked harder than anyone, Kate. You’re the one that’s held this family together through it all.” He held her tightly, and he felt her rigid body go limp as she sobbed softly against his shirt. “You’ve been so strong, Katie. I know you can do this. I never would have started if I didn’t know you wanted this as much as I do. It’s our dream—yours and mine. Remember all those nights in the crowded tenement in New York when we planned this? It’s that dream that kept us going, Kate.” Michael held her at arm’s length and looked in her eyes. “Tell me, Kate. Tell me what our dream looks like. Tell me how we pictured it all those years that we scrimped and saved for this.”
She ran the back of her hand across her nose and took a few ragged breaths. For an instant Michael thought she wouldn’t answer him, but then in a quavering voice she said, “There’s a beautiful green valley at the base of rolling hills. A log cabin sits next to a wandering stream. There’s smoke coming from the chimney.” Her chin quivered slightly, and she paused and took another deep breath.
“What’s behind the cabin?”
“There is a paddock for the horses, and there’s a barn. Every morning I go out to the barn to milk the cows.” Her voice was getting stronger now, and her eyes began to focus on him.
“Tell me about the fields.”
“Well, and they’re full of our crops. Everything is growing and thriving. You and Conor have plowed the rich land and planted the seeds and the sun and rain have made everything grow.”
“And tell me about our neighbors.”
Kate’s eyes were clear now. “If you follow the gentle winding road around the hill, you’ll find our closest neighbors, a family like ours with children that Conor and Brenna will have as friends. The woman of the house and I share recipes and help each other sew quilts and clothes. You and her husband smoke your pipes on the porch and talk about the weather.” She smiled then at her little joke, and Michael took her in his arms and smiled with her.
“There’s my girl,” he said. “Have faith, Katie. It will all happen just as we’ve planned. I promise.” He dipped the end of her apron into the pan of water sitting by the fire and gently wiped the dirt and tears from her face. “Tomorrow we’re going to start late so that you women can do some laundry in the creek, and maybe you can get a bath.”
Kate sighed, “A bath! I can hardly wait for morning!”
The sound of Conor and Brenna’s voices drifted out of the half-light, and soon they rounded the wagon, talking companionably. Brenna trotted over to her parents standing by the campfire. She sensed that something had transpired between them while she and Conor had been gone. There was a difference in her mother. She was animated again, and her father looked relieved and happy. Maybe Conor and I should leave them alone more often, she thought.
“Look, Ma. James Cardell sent some dried apples and apricots. Here, try one.” Brenna held an apricot to her mother’s mouth, and Kate bit into it gracefully, closing her eyes to savor the sweet taste.
“I’ve never had anything so delicious.”
“Here, Ma, eat some more.” Conor put a handful in his mother’s hands and then gave some to his Da.
That night Michael Flannigan lay wide awake thinking about his wife and all she had endured. Their lives had looked so promising when they were just married, and the first eleven years had been happy. Their small holding was enough to support the family and pay the rent, and they lived the life their parents and grandparents had lived in their small, close-knit community. But the past seven years had seen heartache and despair. He remembered arriving in Dublin.
Kate and her sister Chloe hadn’t seen each other in a few years and they threw themselves into each other’s arms, crying, with Chloe exclaiming over Kate’s thinness. Chloe and her husband had little room to spare but readily took them all in.
The situation in Ireland was dire, with no relief in sight. Although there were many cases of death by starvation, most died from typhus or dysentery, and the dead were so numerous there were not graves enough to contain the bodies, or living people with the strength to bury them. Warehouses were full of food, but the masses had no money with which to buy it.
Michael, Kate, Brenna, and Conor lived with Chloe and Donald for over a year while Michael and Kate worked on a public works relief project building stone roads. It was backbreaking work, and they were paid almost nothing, but they were able to save enough for passage to America. In 1848, they boarded a ship and set sail for America and better opportunities.
Michael tossed and turned in his bedroll while Kate slept like a baby next to him. He had found James Cardell and asked him for herbs to brew a calming tea for Kate. She dutifully drank her tea, and when they finally lay down for the night, she sank into a deep sleep. All of his restlessness failed to rouse her, and he was glad of that. She needed the sleep. So did he, but he couldn’t quiet his mind. The emotions of the evening had brought a flood of memories.
When they left Ireland, it was under semi-martial law. British troops were all over Dublin expecting a rebellion. Anyone could be arrested and imprisoned indefinitely without formal charges or a trial. Michael remembered ha
ving mixed feelings when their ship left from the River Liffey: Heart-wrenching sadness over leaving his homeland, anxiety about the long journey to New York, and relief in the promise of a better life.
Conditions on the ship were not good. Hundreds of men, women, and children lived below decks with no ventilation and no sanitary facilities. Many were sick, and burials at sea were frequent, and usually, to the dismay of these devout Catholics, without religious rites. Michael insisted that his family spend as much time above decks as was permitted, and he adamantly refused to allow Kate to minister to the sick. He had watched too many caregivers succumb to the illnesses they were treating. He had brought some food aboard to supplement the pound-a-day they were each allotted, and he kept a close watch on these secret stores. Starvation, sickness, and poverty brought out the worst in people, and he observed otherwise kind and generous people steal and commit other crimes out of desperation.
“But we made it,” he muttered, half asleep. A cousin had taken them in to live in his lodgings in an overcrowded tenement in New York City. The tenement was barely livable but it was a roof over their heads, and they lived there almost four years until they had saved enough money to head west.
“We made it then, and we’re going to make it now.” With those words on his lips, he finally drifted into sleep. He slept peacefully the few hours before daybreak because it wasn’t soldiers and starving people he dreamt of, but a beautiful green valley at the base of rolling hills and a small log cabin with smoke curling from the chimney.
Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 Page 5