Letters to America

by Tom Blair

  When Ma saw a two-floored wagon she asked Pa right quick. Asked why we didn’t have two floors. Pa barked and she didn’t say nothing more. But Pa knew we didn’t have the best wagon. Somewhere he got a piece of board and cut and nailed a cupboard together. Hung it on a side right behind the wagon seat. Ma had a place for her pans and such.

  Kanesville is where the Captain led us to cross the Missouri. A couple of crossings there. The Captain took us to the lower ferry at a place called Traders Point. Cost five dollars for a wagon to be pulled across on a flat boat. The cattle and horses went for free. They swam. Pa wanted to try to float our wagon across. Wanted to save five dollars. Captain told him he was a fool to try. Said if he did make it across he wasn’t going any further in the Captain’s train.

  It took us two days of waiting before Pa had to hand over five dollars. Close to a hundred wagons from other trains waiting for their turn to cross on a flat boat. Waiting in front of us. Captain had us camped some miles away where the cattle had plenty of grass. Afternoon of the second day me and Arch hiked a fair way down to the riverbank. Wanted to watch the goings-on. A family’s wagon and its oxen would be driven on this flat boat. Maybe three times longer than a wagon it was. Strung across the river was a rope big around as Pa’s arm. All the way across it went. Further than you could recognize a man you knew standing on the other side. When this flat boat got loaded men pulled and poled it across the Missouri. ’Course the river was running mighty fast. So in the middle the rope stretched out toward the downstream side. Arch and me watched maybe four go across and back. Slow they went. Took better part of an hour for a flat to get pulled over and back. There was three of them flat boats. So’s they could pull and pole three wagons an hour. The sun was starting down so Arch and I headed back. Just then a bunch of commotion. People hollering. The last flat to load up had a wagon and eight oxen. Didn’t have just four. About midstream the oxen get spooked and move right to the front of the flat. So heavy they are the front of the flat dips into the water. But that’s not what drowned the family. The wheel lock on the wagon wasn’t set. So’s this wagon goes rolling right into the oxen. All go a-tumbling into the running river. Some heads for a while. Then nothing. Only thing not drowned was the wagon.

  Arch and I back to our train as fast as we could run. Panting heavy we tell the Captain what we saw. Bent way over he did, so’s he was looking us in the eyes. Said we shouldn’t be telling this story till after our train was across the Missouri. ’Course I told Pa that night. He said he wouldn’t talk about what happened. In the morning everybody saying how awful it was the family drowning and all.

  Took us most of two days to get all the wagons across the Missouri. Got across we did with no hurts or bothers. River wasn’t running as strong as when Arch and I saw the poor family go under. Didn’t stop Ma from holding her Bible the whole time she was on the flat boat.

  Camped one night right on the west side of the Missouri River. Then started off to the Platte River. Captain said six or seven hundred miles we’d travel on its banks. Stories was that the cholera was bad on the Southside. Said whole families dying. So’s we crossed to the Northside and headed west.

  First few days just getting it right. What to do and who should do it. All of us learned the most important thing. Always do what the Captain said to do. A couple of men didn’t want to. Didn’t want to listen to the Captain. Told them straightaway the Captain did. Told them his way or out of the train. Told them that they should write a letter to their families back home before they split off. Said the letter would be the last they’d ever hear from them. No wagon left. No more talk about leaving. ’Cept Mister Akins. That wasn’t till past the Sierras.

  Maybe a quarter of a mile long we were. A quarter of a mile of oxen pullin’ wagons with most of us walkin’ beside. Front of the line wasn’t the same as the back. Front was better. When things were dry less dust in the front. After a spell of no rain everyone in back turned brown from walkin’ and breathin’ in brown dust. If it was raining the trail turned to mud. Each wagon pushed the ruts deeper. Wagon axles started draggin’. Back end of the train had to move off the trail. Had to make a new trail. Had to cut trees and fill in gullies to keep up. Another thing, even if there wasn’t dust or mud, the back wagons were pulling through the droppings of more than two hundred oxen. Back of the train wasn’t no good. That’s why the Captain kept changin’ us up. Moved us around so’s you weren’t always in everyone’s mess.

  Learned a lesson two families did. Every night we’d stake the wagons down. Hard work pounding stakes. Back-aching work in dried rock-hard ground. But gotta do it. Winds come up strong. A sideways wind blows a wagon over. Right over with a crash. Maybe breaks a couple of wheels. For sure a big mess. Real calm it was. Didn’t look like no problem so two fellas didn’t drive their stakes. Went to sleep. Wind didn’t sleep. In the morning there they was. No broken wheels but pots and clothes all over. Men pushed them right side up. Captain said never again.

  Captain did something smart. Always setting a goal that wasn’t so far off. Not far off like California. That way we’d be showing ourselves the Captain was right. Right in telling us we’d make it to California. After crossing the Missouri told us about the Loup River. Maybe five days off if it didn’t rain. Rolling toward the Loup wasn’t much trouble. If I’d known what was ahead of us I’d a said the first days were easy. But at the time they weren’t easy. Weren’t because we all was used to eating and sleeping under a roof. Just like the Captain said on the fifth day there was the Loup. Flowed down from the north it did. Flowed right to the Platte. Crossed at a shallow ford. After the Loup the Captain always had two men guarding the cattle at night. Indians would steal them, that’s what Captain said would happen.

  More times than not a big fire was built at the end of the camp. ’Course if the grass was dry and there was a wind nobody built a fire. But the big fire was where the men met after supper. Pa let me come sometimes. Told me to keep my mouth still. Only thing I could move was my ears.

  Most talk around the big fire was what was right and what was wrong. Captain kept the yellin’ down. Always talk of whose oxen were slowin’ us down. Arguments about maybe we should’ve used horses not oxen. Always talk about where we could find water. And always more complainin’ about how’s some wagons never shot a deer or a bird, or caught a fish. Talk about why we shared our food with ’em. But the Captain always said the same thing. We was all going to end up the same place. If we wanted to make California, we needed to make sure everyone got there.

  Campfire talk wasn’t all about the train. ’Course that was most of it. Captain saying what to do and not to do. Sometimes the men talked. Talked about California. Men going for the gold talked different. Talked about what they’d do with the gold. Talked about big houses. Bragged big they’d never work again. Not my Pa. Said California just more farming, what he always did. Sold a hundred acres in Iowa and with the same money he’d buy five hundred acres in California. Pa said he could make more money with five hundred acres, no doubt about it. But he wasn’t going to buy anything but more acres with the money he made. Wanted to have the biggest farm in California, he did. Funny thing. Learned more about Pa when he wasn’t talking to me. Learned more when he talked like I wasn’t nowhere by.

  At night the women did most of the work. Washing if we were near a stream, but most nights no water. Cooking and making do with whatever we had or killed. Teaching some, but most learning stopped. After a day on the trail and making camp and cooking and washing no time for learning. Picking up firewood, always picking up firewood. Always needed a fire. Later no wood cause there weren’t no trees. Filled burlap bags with buffalo chips for the fire. Mother said she never thought she’d cook on animal droppings. Big job was patching. Making the worn out clothes do. After five hundred miles my britches had parts of old shirts and a horse blanket sewed right in. But it didn’t bother me none. Bothered my sister, but not me.

  Told you we had four oxen pulling. My sister na
med them. Called one Miss Brite. She was the teacher at Des Moines. She taught all the grades. So’s she taught both my sister and me. Didn’t like Miss Brite a bit did we. Happy we were when Pa was swinging his ox whip on a hell hot day.

  Those first days along the Platte we covered a fair hunk of land. Maybe twenty miles a day. So’s I was thinking it would only take maybe two or three months to California. ’Course I hadn’t thought about spending days sitting in mud, not moving a chicken step cause the mud squeezed the wheels tight no matter how hard the whipped oxen pulled. Hadn’t thought about unloading the wagons so’s the straining oxen could pull them up a rocky rise. Hadn’t thought about taking time to make boxes, dig holes, burn names on wooden markers and sing “Nearer My God to Thee.”

  Maybe two weeks after crossing the Missouri we saw our first marker. Stories of cholera weren’t made-up stories. My sister and some other girls put purple wildflowers on the pile of stones that covered the grave. Sticking up from the rocks was a wood headstone with burnt-in writing, “Lived by God, Died by Cholera.” Looked at the grave for a spell. Then off to fetch firewood. That night a thunderstorm worse than anything I heard before rolled over. ’Course before I wasn’t sleeping under a wagon. Then rain. Rain so hard that a river flowed right under our wagon. Soaked everything. Got up into the wagon we did. Nobody slept. Canvas blowing and rain beating. By morning the rain had slowed a bit. But not enough. Captain came by in a slicker, said we weren’t going to break camp. We were staying put. Two days we sat. Not a wheel turning. Never got dry. Never cooked anything. Only bread, salted beef, and cold coffee.

  After two days of rain a blue sky morning. But a wind that would have like’d to blow you over. ’Course not as strong as further into the prairie. But bad enough. Turned all our wet clothes cold, it did. Cold like I started to shiver. Was noon before all the wagons got dug out of the mud and we headed out. Some wagons slipping, but the Captain he didn’t lead us on any sideways slopes. Oxen could pull you up a slope. The wheel lock could hold you back on a downward slope. Get sliding sideways, for sure going to hit something or fall into something.

  Didn’t make more than a couple of miles. Camped by a clump of sweetgum on the top of a rise. It was dry. Just about every place else soaked to mud after two days of rain. Down maybe a quarter mile away from camp a stream. A stream flowing into the Platte. Me and Arch and a couple other fellows headed down to fetch buckets of water. Had to keep jumping gullies. Two days of rains had washed deep gullies right down to the stream. Wouldn’t you know, jumped over one and slipped backward. Thinking right away how dumb I’m going to look covered in mud. Before I climb out I see them. A pair of blue socks sticking out of the side of the gully. Socks with feet and legs in ’em. I give an Indian yell and Arch pulls me up in a rush. Don’t know what I’m looking at. Then I see the marker. Rain waters washed away half of some poor soul’s resting place. Another fella gives out a big yell while pointing. Down the gully a baby. Face down in the mud it is. Ran back to the train. Hardly could speak. Captain had me show him what I’d seen. He read the marker. A young girl it was. Captain walked down to where the baby was. Stared for a spell. Told me to jump down and pick it up. Couldn’t do it, no way I could. Captain smiled. Only time I ever seen him smile. Told me it was a doll. He was right. Probably buried with the young girl. Next morning men did the burying. Laid the girl and her doll under a pile of stone on the top of the bluff. Afterward Captain gave each a gulp from one of the safe-kept whiskey bottles.

  Maybe a day past Fort Kearny when we met up with the three other wagons. ’Course we didn’t go through Fort Kearny. It was on the Southside of the Platte. Some wanted to, but the Captain said no. Only thing Fort Kearny had that we didn’t was cholera. So there we were on the Northside with these wagons fording from the Southside. Captain rode over and talked to them for a good while. Told the Captain they wanted to join up with a train going to California. Said they had come up from Independence. Spoke to Pa and some of the men, the Captain did. Musta all agreed ’cause that night the three wagons camped with us. Next day broke camp with us. Captain put ’em at the back of the train. Made them learn their place real quick.

  Captain had us driving hard along the Platte to reach Ash Hollow. Most days traveled ten to fifteen miles before staking out camp. Couple of times we had to swing North to go around swamplands. Crossed some streams. Slowed us down, but not much. Worst was the mud if it rained. A day of rain was two days of mud. Two days of pushing and shoving stuck wagons.

  Ash Hollow wasn’t nothing but a bunch of trees on the South of the Platte. Right after Ash Hollow in rides these two Indians. Didn’t sneak up. Just rode in sitting tall. Looping behind them a dog. A dog like you’d see at any farm back in Iowa. Quick like the Captain rides up to them showin’em we’re not scared or nothing. Sitting on their horses like they was chairs, the Captain and Indians talk for a spell. Indians all the time pointing this way and that a way. Captain rides over to a wagon and back. Off ride the Indians toward where they came from.

  After setting camp the Captain tells us about the Indians. Sioux they were. Said they are most honest. Not trying to steal when you weren’t looking. These Indians wanted to trade. Asked for some salt. In trade would show the Captain where the best hunting was. That was their trade. Captain didn’t need no hunting grounds. He did want peaceful Indians. So he gave ’em salt.

  Captain told us something else. Made a big speech about where we were headed next. Talked about Courthouse and Jailhouse Rocks and Chimney Rock. I knew he was funning us. Said this stone chimney went straight up to the clouds. Maybe half a mile high. Said it grew out of a pile of sand bigger than anything we’d seen. Couldn’t imagine such a thing. Captain said maybe three days. Took us four. Lost a day ’cause of two broken wheels. It wasn’t the wheels that broke. It was the spokes. One broke spoke you kept going. Had to stop the whole train when two broke. Couldn’t not stop. Couldn’t leave a family behind. But we did leave a family behind. Left three families behind. Left behind cause of the cholera and the lying.

  Told you how the Captain put the three wagons from Independence at the back of the train. But strange thing. When the Captain said they could move forward, so’s they weren’t sloping in mud, said they wanted to stay in back. Nobody wanted the tail end of the train. Then one night when the sun’s pretty much down the Captain sees them digging. Sees some of the men from the three wagons digging fast like. Finds out he does. Finds out they are digging a grave fast cause they don’t want the Captain to know someone died of the cholera. At first they said the poor soul got sick fast. The young boy they was burying. But the boy’s sobbing mother told the truth of the story. They’d been traveling with a train on the Southside of the Platte. They weren’t up from Independence. Left their train cause of the sicknesses. People dying of fevers and constipation.

  Captain didn’t ask any questions after he found out they were liars. Told them they couldn’t have their wagons in our train. Could follow but not close. A fella asked how far back they should stay. Captain said further than his rifle could shoot.

  For two days we could see them. White dots on the horizon. Then only their dust. Then nothing. But in front of us there they were. Courthouse Rock and Jailhouse Rock were like God made two giant buildings out of solid stone. So big you’d think the ground couldn’t hold them. Started to think the Captain wasn’t funning us about Chimney Rock. He wasn’t. Next day Pa halted our wagon on a rise and we stared across the Platte at Chimney Rock. It didn’t touch the clouds. But for sure it was higher than anything I’d seen before. ’Course there was more. Next day we passed Scotts Bluff. Bigger than both Courthouse and Jailhouse together. One fella said the top reminded him of the Capitol in Washington. Think he just wanted us to think he’d been to Washington.

  Something funny. Traveling west along the Platte I got smaller. We all got smaller. ’Course that’s not right. But if the world around you gets bigger you are sorta smaller. Back home if I stood on the hill behind the cow bar
n I could just see the red roof of Drury’s farmhouse. Hills and trees got in the way of seeing far. Going west when morning camp was broke you’d spy some big stone outcropping on the horizon, thinking maybe you’d get there by noon. When you made camp after a hard day it didn’t look no closer. The West was bigger than the East. No doubt about the truth of it.

  Captain told us three days to Fort Laramie. Took us five days. Another broken wheel and a broken wagon tongue. And a whole night of rain. A bad rain and worse mud. But we got there. Fort Laramie was on the Southside of the Platte. Just east of where the Laramie River joined the Platte. Indians camped on the Northside across from the Fort. Animal hide tents with smoke coming out the top from their cooking fires. Captain said smoke kept the mosquitoes away. All whichaway naked Indian kids a-running and bone-skinny dogs barking. A bunch of Indians were selling or trading all sorts of things. Pa told me he saw a scalp on a pole. Funning me I think. From an almost naked Indian Pa bought a skillet. Ma left hers on a cooking fire a few camps before. Pa right steaming mad that she did. Bought a horse blanket Pa did. Cost less than a blanket for a bed. Pa told me to pretend I was a horse when I wrapped it around me in the freezing Rockies. A flat boat took folks across the Platte to the Fort. Cost twenty-five cents a head over and back. Pa didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to spend money. But Ma could see houses along one side of the Fort. After five hundred miles of sleeping on the ground Ma wanted to be around folks that lived like we used to. So’s we went. A whole dollar of us went.

  Just like the Indians, white people at the Fort selling everything you needed and wanted. Mary and I got Pa to buy two cans of sweet lemon water. One for each of us. And I got a handful of hard candy just for me. Mary got herself a bracelet made of three colored strings weaved together in patterns I’d never seen. Pa bought himself a good sized bag of tobacco. So’s he told Ma to pick something. A yellow bonnet with flowers she bought. Hers had blown clean away the first week on the Platte. She’d been wearing one of Pa’s old hats.