A Light in the Wilderness

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “Yessuh. You should have.” She opened the coat to the furry inside and pulled it over her arms, wrapped it around her belly, soaking in the warmth. It didn’t stop her body from shaking. He pulled her to him then, his arms a cloak until she sagged, spent. She’d choose tending over being right. “You . . . he goin’ to live with us now? Does he know that we . . . married? Have a baby comin’?”

  “He knows you’re with me. Nothing else.”

  “He think I your . . . property.” She spit the words. “He call me ‘girl.’”

  “No, now, he don’t think that far about it. He came looking for his pa and found me. I don’t know what his plans are. In the morning we’ll figure something out. But now you need to come in and get warmed up.”

  She did need to do that, for the baby’s sake. But she didn’t want to sleep at the Hawkinses’ home now; didn’t want to share a bed with Davey Carson nor have his son see them sharing like husband and wife, either. She didn’t look forward to bearing the stares that men like David Junior gave women like her. And now those judgments would be right beside her hearth.

  “Letitia?” It was Nancy who opened the door. “Oh, good. You’ve got her to come in. Why don’t you folks have some pie and then we’ll play a few games and get everyone settled for bed. We’ve floor room and plenty of feather ticks and lots of quilts. You can make your way home in the morning.”

  Davey said, “Mighty kind of you. Don’t you think, Letitia? ’Spect we’ll fall asleep like logs listening to the rustling of those children.”

  “We stay and thank you.”

  There was safety in numbers and lying nearby another woman who understood things without saying. So much better than hearing Davey Carson play his whistle and acting like life was a jig.

  “You’d already left before your ma died, so don’t you now decide I abandoned you!” Davey and his son had embarked on their feud as soon as the Carson family left the safety of the Hawkinses’ home. Letitia had gone out to the little house and upon returning heard the continuation of the words they started shouting at each other even before breakfast.

  “You sure didn’t come looking for me.”

  “How was I supposed to find you, Junior? You ran off when you was twelve and now you’re what?” He paused. “A young man.”

  “You don’t even know when I was born.”

  “I do so. March 1, 1825.”

  Letitia was surprised that Davey knew the birthday of his son. Why had the boy run off so young? No, she mustn’t let herself think of him as a “boy.” He was a man now, a man who interrupted their lives. But then her child had been younger than twelve when he was sold. Would he have come one day to find her if he hadn’t died? Should she have tried to find him all those years before? The thought softened her toward the man, the boy.

  The blaming continued, each holding up evidence enough to wear down a judge.

  “They may be blame enough to go around.”

  “What’s that you sayin’, girl?”

  “She’s not a girl, son. She’s my wife.”

  The words washed over Letitia like balm on a sore.

  “Not like Mama was. She’s a colored woman. She can’t be saying vows and all.”

  “Well, she did. We did. And you got to accept that if you’re to be in my house. Our house.”

  Junior glared at her. “What do I call her?”

  “Mrs. Carson will do,” Davey said.

  “Can’t.” He looked away.

  “Call me Letitia. I call you Mistah Carson. Or Junior.”

  “Don’t no colored woman tell me what to say.”

  “Junior . . .”

  The younger man shook his head. “Mr. Carson, then.”

  “Lookee there? We’re on the road to working things out. Now let the woman fix us our breakfast.”

  Letitia turned away, felt Junior’s glare bore into her back. She skimmed the milk of cream.

  “What did you mean by ‘blame enough to go around’?”

  She turned to face him. A mist formed above her upper lip and Letitia risked being known. “You leave home for some reason, no stayin’ to solve the problem, whatever it be. Maybe your pa not find you ’cuz you good at hidin’. Then you hear your mama’s died and you come lookin’ but your pa’s gone in his grievin’. Guess you can find fault all around, maybe even win your lawsuit. But stayin’ there won’t get you anywhere you’d rather be.”

  Junior grunted, grabbed a chair, and pulled it to the table. “You lecturing me, woman?”

  “Speakin’ truths.”

  They argued in a hiss so Junior wouldn’t hear them, though he’d gone to the barn to tend to his horse. “He goin’ with us to Oregon?”

  “I don’t know yet. Don’t know that he wants to but I’d like him to. We’ll need a second driver. It’s required. And what better than to have a man’s son.”

  “Maybe you prefer a son along to your wife.”

  “No, now, Tish, you know I want you going. This is our life we’re creating here. But there’s room for more, ain’t there?” He touched her belly but she stepped away, went to scrub at the three-legged spider that needed cleaning. “He’s just a boy, you understand.”

  “Who has man thoughts.”

  “He’ll get used to you. Carsons back in Kentucky and North Carolina all had slaves. My brothers have ’em. We had a few. He’s just not accustomed to a colored woman being free and accepted for who she is.”

  “You owned?”

  She saw Davey’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Things are different now. You know that. I had no slaves in Missouri ’cept the one I borrowed, sort of. Eliza. And you ain’t no slave. You’re my wife and a partner in this Western venture. So don’t go getting strange on me. I need you.”

  “You told him I’s free? That I have papers?”

  “I did.” Davey lowered his eyes. “He wants to see them.”

  “A man can want all he wants,” Letitia said. Then, “You never signed the paper sayin’ you’d look after me if somethin’ happened to you.”

  “I will. I will. Too many things to consider, but you know you have nothing to fear. Remember that sparrow.” He grinned and she narrowed her eyes. “You best decide if you want what I’m offering. Marriage means change, you know.”

  “I knows.”

  “While me and Junior are going to Bethel for our wagon, you best think about what it is you do want.”

  Davey never even considered returning to North Carolina. The farthest east he’d go was where he headed now, to Bethel, to purchase a wagon like Doc Hawkins did. Sturdy oak. Solid wheels. Strong metal bows. He didn’t think his son was all that bent on making him agree to head back to North Carolina. The boy was looking for a place to hang his hat, seeking kin. Couldn’t fault him for that. It would be nice to have him on the trail west, so while the boy might press him to keep heading east, he’d press his son to head farther west.

  Davey would need another driver. Each wagon had to have two men per, as he’d been told. Or he could drive the cows. He planned to take nearly thirty head. Junior could be that second drover, someone to help repair a wheel, push through muddy sections. They had a little over three months before they’d leave and by then Davey and Letitia would work things out. She’d forgive Davey for his omission and see the value in having kin join them. He ought to have told her, he knew that. But he didn’t want her stepping away. Truth was, he had a son. Nephews. Brothers. Even a sister in North Carolina. And now he had another child coming on that he intended to take care of. He’d raise this one different. His son could be a good help, that was all. Letitia would see that. No way would she consider staying behind.

  The trip to buy the wagon would be good for all of them, a little separation from a week of thrashing through the past then walking on flower petals hoping none got crushed. That’s what he’d told Letitia. She’d made noises like she wanted to be a part of the wagon purchase, but someone had to stay and milk the cow and look after things, didn’t they?
/>   “Your son stay. I help make the choice for how some of my money gets spent.”

  “No, now, that’s not practical. Not good for you to make such a trip to Bethel in your condition.”

  She’d harrumphed. “I’s plannin’ on makin’ two thousand miles ‘in my condition.’”

  He grinned at her. “You’re right about that. But truth is I’d like Junior along so he can learn about the wagon and see how repairs are made. Two heads knowing things would be better than one.” Besides, what did a woman—even a smart woman—know about wagons? And he did want to hear about what the boy had been doing all these years. “Me and Junior’ll make the trip, bring the wagon back. Time alone will be good.”

  She’d agreed and they’d headed out.

  The January day they left was cold but clear. Days like this always gave a lift to his spirit. They rode in an old wagon they’d trade in, using the mules to pull the new empty wagon back.

  “I like a good mule.” Davey watched the ears prick forward and back as the team pulled.

  “Uncle Andrew raises fine horses. If you came back, he’d invite you in to the business.”

  “No, now, your uncle and me, we’re different types. He likes the steadiness of a farm and me, I like what’s new out there. That’s why I trapped and traded. Did you go by to see your uncle Smith before you found me?”

  “He told me where to look. He’s feeling poorly. He says you’re going to farm in Oregon. You already have one here. Why leave?”

  “If I play it right I’ll have a section of land there. I’ll raise stock more than crops and that means riding out, managing my herds, meeting people, maybe having a place in the community. I’ll build a bigger house.” And it would be safer for Letitia there.

  “Looks to me like you already have what you hope to have and you’re leaving it.”

  “We can get more land in Oregon. With hemp and tobacco dying off as crops here, not many folks buying up my beef ’cept to jerk it for the trip. Half the county is planning to move west. They got no money except when they sell their property. I’ll be rich in Oregon.” Rothwell moaned as he twisted in the wagon bed, finding a new way to sleep. “There’ll be room for you, son.”

  Junior rode silent beside him for a time. Davey’s eye caught the red berries of the possum haw holly. He wondered if they’d grow in Oregon.

  “Can’t see me living with a colored woman acting like she owns the place.”

  “You can see she’s a loving woman. Kind.”

  “She’s colored and she don’t act like the slave she is.”

  “No, now, lookee here, she’s a free woman.”

  “Uncle Smith says you came with a slave.”

  “Easier than explaining that she’s free.”

  “So she says.”

  “Well, in Oregon she will be free, certain. She’s a good help to your pa. You’ll get used to her.” He kept to himself the fact of his having a little brother or sister before long. Change came by a step at a time—though with Junior’s arrival he’d have to say change sometimes showed up by leaps. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

  Letitia scrubbed her frustration onto the puncheon floor. Now she had to negotiate with two stubborn men. Instead of the joy she’d felt planning for the trip, thinking about her baby, getting ready to change her duties, all the good things the journey promised, she was now cooking and washing for three, sitting back while the Daveys chattered and carried on acting like she wasn’t even there most times, except to serve them their food or sweep out the mud their boots dragged in. She had become “their girl.” The only beating hearts she felt melded with hers were this baby and Charity, her cow. Maybe Rothwell’s heart, but even the hound had gone off with the men to buy the wagon. Only a bit of her money went with Davey.

  She scrubbed Davey’s shirt. It was getting thin. She needed to sew another, maybe two, before they left. She guessed she’d be sewing for Junior as well. Davey overlooked the little ways that Junior put her in her place. Oh, he called her Letitia now, but he said it like he had bitters in his mouth, and when Davey wasn’t around, he called her “girl.” And he didn’t ask her to bring more molasses to the table, he ordered. And her husband never said a word of reprimand. She didn’t know how much influence he’d have over his father and she didn’t like the idea that he had a good week to cajole the man on this Bethel trip without Letitia’s presence even in the background.

  She noticed the quiet when she sat back on her heels and rested, wiping her forehead of the sweat. What if Junior convinced Davey to keep going east? She felt tears form but resisted them. She guessed if that happened, she’d stay right here in Missouri. Then, no. She’d ask if the Hawkinses would let her travel with them. Yes. She could make a new way in the West without Davey Carson if she had to. She had a cow and she had a little money saved; she could pay them for her keep on the journey. She knew how to work hard. Even with a baby she could take care of herself. She didn’t need a husband. And she certainly didn’t need a second Davey to look after.

  Oh, she longed to refuse to go to Oregon if Junior came along, but she wouldn’t. It wasn’t just Davey’s dream. It was hers too, she’d come to see, a solid-colored-dye dream that couldn’t be washed away by anyone or anything. She heard Charity’s cowbell clang outside. Davey had given her that bell. He’d been kind long before he’d become her husband. And she had spoken vows over the Bible. No, if he came back and said Junior was going with them, she’d live with that. But she wouldn’t live under their thumbs. She remembered a Bible verse, one her mother spoke of. “For freedom Christ has set us free; stand fast therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.” She’d make her peace with being this stepparent, as they called it. She’d learn to step back and step aside and step away. Junior could not put her back into being a slave or step on her unless she let him. Only she could put herself back into bondage. She would step up and make the best of it. That’s how she could help her child and best mend this little tear in her world.

  10

  Ready for Beyond

  Sitting in front of her fireplace, Nancy Hawkins scratched at her hot feet while she read the letter from Sarah Bowman. It was already the end of March in the year 1845 and this was the first missive she’d received, but its arrival filled a need. She hoped Sarah would tell her of things to be sure to remember to bring.

  The river they call the Columbia is wider than the Missouri and oh so much deeper. It winds for days through high, bare bluffs until reaching a narrow section where the water falls in a horseshoe shape over and among black rocks bigger than houses. The sound is deafening and you can feel the drumming of the water in your feet. Chubby Indians stand on spindly platforms built against the rocks spearing huge fish. With ropes they tie themselves to the platforms so they won’t slip in, Mr. Bowman says, though someone told me the fish make the platforms slippery and if they did fall in the rush of the dalles they wouldn’t survive. At least their families would have a way to recover their bodies for burial. I traded my mirror for a salmon which is a tasty fish. The mirror was broken in an accident in July when our wagon overturned. I was poorly for a time. People call the town Wascopam, an Indian word meaning the cascading, rushing dalles of the river. We called it “The Dalles.” I held my breath when we were put on puny rafts at The Dalles and set afloat below the falls. I daresay I did not breathe again until we reached the opposite shore and put the wagons back together and rolled on our way toward the Willamette Valley where we are now. Let me tell you what you need to bring . . .

  When Nancy finished reading the page, she turned the letter upside down and read on between the lines where Sarah continued her comments about the Columbia River journey from the Dalles. Nancy shivered at the image of the mighty river falls. It must have been frightening. Maybe there was another way across the mountains into the Willamette Valley. She’d have to ask Zach what he’d heard.

  The 1844 group the Bowmans traveled with had arrived in Oregon in November, but th
ey’d endured more rain than any had imagined. Sarah had not mentioned the infant that ought to have been born by the time they reached Oregon, and Nancy surmised her “feeling poorly” meant she’d lost the child.

  Nancy made sure she wasn’t going to be pregnant with a child on this trip. Nursing Edward hadn’t prevented Nancy Jane’s arrival. So much for that old wives’ tale. The boy had been weaned as soon as she knew. For this hard journey, she wasn’t taking any chances. She’d gotten a sponge, and awkward as it was, it seemed right that something from the sea should keep her from conceiving a child who would float in the sea of her womb if the sponge didn’t work. She’d let Zach know and he had reluctantly agreed. She couldn’t afford to be carrying a child inside while toting another on her hip and keeping five others safe on this two-thousand-mile journey.

  She planned to pass Sarah’s letter along to several other women heading west. Elizabeth Knighton might like to know that they could pick up needed flour or rice at the fort in Laramie. Eveline Martin would appreciate the comments about flannel shirts being used as trade with friendly Indians. Like Nancy, she’d sew extras. There’d be time to quilt another covering as well. They might make good trades to help bring comfort.

  She looked up at the quilting frame hanging from the peeled logs. That frame was heading west. It held too many memories of “needles and tongues,” as Zach described the activity of women quilting the blocks. Fortunately, the dropped pulley had only left a bruise on Laura’s cheek. But the child had daily scratches and bumps. Her garden daisy wasn’t in bloom so she couldn’t use it to reduce the bruising, but Zach had Bellis, akin to the daisy, that worked wonders. She planned to take her daisy plants with her to Oregon.

  Nancy heard a wagon crunch on the dirt outside. She pulled the curtains back, the scent of lavender from the soap drifting to her nose. Several people from places east had already arrived, and men met weekly to discuss this and that, leaving the women to introduce themselves and figure out how it would be traveling together for seven or eight months. Though Letitia had been invited, she never came to these gatherings. It might make the crossing easier if others saw Letitia’s strength and gentle ways. Nancy’s family hailed from Hamilton County, Ohio, and she realized that her abolitionist leanings put her in a rare category as one who could see past color into the heart of the person. She was required to do so by her faith. Just as Zach’s experience in Hardin County, Kentucky, made him an unusual abolitionist in that slave-holding place. She’d pray that Letitia would find a few women friends along the way. Some families might settle near each other once they arrived. She hoped that would happen between the Carson and the Hawkins clans.