The only real difficulty I have encountered, apart from the weight of my pack and my sore heels, was the first night, after the carts were set in a triangle as protection against Indian attack. We were all within and a watch set, so I could not leave the camp. That is when I realized I had forgotten to relieve myself and now could not do so. To be caught would reveal my disguise. Mostly I have found small scrub a short distance off to hide me. I held my breath tightly all night!
June 6, 1862
I had a close call today. I stowed my buffalo skin and pack on a cart, but didn’t retrieve them fast enough at the end of the day, and the two men who owned the cart saw me. Their names are John and Thomas Drummond. They were quite nasty about it, Thomas saying they had paid for the oxen to pull their provisions, not anyone else’s. I told them I had mistaken their cart for my father’s in the early morning gloom when we were packing to begin our day’s travels. John Drummond, who is the younger of the two — he looks about seventeen or eighteen — threw my pack onto the ground. It opened and all my goods scattered.
June 7, 1862
My legs and feet hurt too much tonight to write. That doesn’t make sense, but that is how it is.
June 8, 1862
A day of rest as it is Sunday. Some men wished to go on, but Mr. McMicking said no. As much as I want to hurry to find Father, dear diary, I am glad to sit still, and let my feet rest. The blisters on them are a frightful sight. I boiled some water in my pot and cleaned them as best I could. I’m sitting now with my boots off.
The men had a prayer service and sang a hymn to mark the day, but I kept apart. Ever since Mama died, I’m not too sure about prayers. Waves of sadness keep coming over me today. Missing Mama, missing William and Luella. I expect by now the Owens have discovered that the Schuberts have left and William has told them that I have, too. Every time a scout rides up in a cloud of dust I think it is someone from the fort come to fetch me. Or perhaps Mrs. Owen has said nothing about my going missing. No doubt she has told William and Luella that I am not coming back either, even though I swore to William that I would. I bet she told them I’ve been stolen by Indians, or drowned in the river. I hope William doesn’t believe her, as I told him I’d be back with Father.
I do not mean to cause them worry, but I see now I probably have. Another of my faults that Mama often sighed over — leaping before I look. “Just like your Father,” Mama would always say. Oh dear! A tear just dripped off my nose and smudged the ink. I must think of something else if I do not want to ruin my writing.
I thought it would seem odd to people to see a boy writing, so at first I did it in secret. But some of the men here keep journals, so I now write in the open.
I like this prairie very much. Long grasses ripple like waves towards the horizon, broken by groves of aspen and cottonwood. Delicate pink wild roses dot the land. Ducks take wing above us, and prairie chickens nestle in the short grasses. My fingers itch to draw. I wish Mr. Hind had come with our party, but he travels behind us.
The days are long, stretching well into the night hours on both ends. The men and oxen are now becoming more used to each other, so it does not take as long to get everything in order to start the day. We’ve had to change our travelling schedule to suit the oxen. They are a hardy animal, even tempered and well suited to this land, but they need to be fed and watered constantly. We wake early, at two o’clock in the morning, and travel a few hours before breakfast. (Though sometimes we are so weary from the journey that it takes us until four to get up!) After the animals have taken their fill we commence again for a couple of hours until our nooning. A long rest in the afternoon and we walk again until late at night, but despite being tired, there is still time for some music by the fire and
Later
I’m sorry, dear diary, for leaving so abruptly. It was not my fault. John Drummond, who is a bully if I ever saw one, passed by and suddenly grabbed William’s hat from my head. He held it out of reach while I jumped up and down on my sore feet and tried to get it. Suddenly the boy who had given me the cup of milk was there. “Pick on someone your own size,” he said.
By then a number of men had stopped what they were doing to watch, so John Drummond dropped my hat and stomped it into the dirt before leaving.
The boy picked it up and handed it to me. “Don’t mind him,” he said.
I snatched the hat from him. “I can take care of myself,” I said as I dusted it off. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was terrified of all those eyes turned my way.
June 9, 1862, nooning
If there is anything more disgusting than pemmican, I don’t know what it could be! I am eternally grateful to Mrs. Sinclair for giving it to me, but the smell alone makes me gag. Buffalo meat on its own would be welcome, but roasted and beaten into powder and with hot animal fat added, it tastes very different. And because it keeps a long time, I will be eating it for weeks.
I had a good laugh to see Talbot’s face when he was trying to choke down some of his own. Talbot is the name of the boy who rescued me from John. He is sixteen years old. I rode this morning on his father’s cart. Seeing me struggle to put on my boots, he asked, “Where is your father?”
I said he was ahead of us. It is only a part lie, dear diary, as Father really is ahead of us — already in the gold fields. Talbot thought I meant at the head of the line, of course, but I can’t help what he thinks. Talbot then said my feet were a mess and I should ride on his father’s cart. I told him no, but he insisted. Mama said I was the most stubborn person she knew, but she didn’t know Talbot! He’s as stubborn as I am. Maybe more, as I did end up on the cart. I only had one moment of horror. Talbot asked what my name was and without thinking, I said, “Harri—” then stopped myself instantly when I realized what I was about to say. He said, “Harry?” and as that was a boy’s name I nodded yes. I guess I’m Harry now.
Evening
My bones feel like they have been jolted apart from riding in the cart, and my bottom is sore (though I didn’t say that to Talbot), but my feet are grateful. Riding did give me time to look around. It is quite a sight to see this long procession of ninety-seven carts winding before and after me across the prairie. Joe Morgan walked with us a ways. To get away from his brother, he told us. Joe and Henry bicker non-stop. Never have I met two brothers so different. Joe mulls over his words for a long time before saying anything; Henry speaks quickly. Joe is fair, tall and bulky, with huge hands, while Henry is thin, dark and quick moving. At first I didn’t say much, worried that Joe would recognize me as the girl who spoke to him at the fort, but he didn’t seem to, so I began to relax. I told them the plains were a great sea and our carts were ships sailing upon it. Talbot looked at me as if I were quite daft, and said, “I guess I like the land well enough. It looks good for farming.” He and his Father had a farm near Goderich, back in Canada West.
These Red River carts are a strange affair. They carry 800 lbs. each and are constructed wholly of wood without a nail or piece of iron in sight. They are held together with wooden pegs, and rawhide, and therefore are supposedly easy to repair. The wheels shriek piercingly as they turn, and drivers shout and oxen bellow. My ears ache all the time here. We certainly will not sneak up on anyone.
Another strange affair is the basket cradle Mrs. Schubert has on her saddle horse to carry two of her three children. Gus is five, Mary Jane is nearly four and Jimmy is two. The Schuberts have brought their own Democrat carriage rather than a cart, as Mrs. Schubert thought it more comfortable for the journey.
Mrs. Schubert is the only petticoat allowed to travel with the men. Talbot said that Mr. Schubert was determined to go, and Mrs. Schubert was just as determined to accompany him. Talbot says that Mrs. Schubert is not a woman to be trifled with, but that it is his belief that women should not be travelling to Cariboo, as they have not the stamina. Obviously I could not speak my mind on that.
As we formed camp, Joe came up to me and said he could see how the prairie seemed like a sea. He’d obvi
ously thought about it all day.
June 14, 1862
Fort Ellice
We have forded many streams but none with banks as steep as this. It is a magnificent sight, though, the green valley and the sparkling waters of the Qu’Appelle River and Beaver Creek, with Fort Ellice high on a hill opposite, but such a job to get to it. I told Talbot I had to help my father, then went a little ways off and sat in a grove of trees, and watched the carts be lowered by rope to the waiting scow. Two tipped over and all the goods were strewn about, and had to be packed again. The scow can only take one cart and animal at a time, so it is a lengthy job. Men draw the scow back and forth by rawhide ropes tied on either side of the river. Once on the other bank of the river, the carts have to be hauled up again. I will help Mrs. Schubert with the children and cross with her, as I do not want Talbot to see that I am alone.
June 15, 1862
We stayed today at the fort as it is Sunday. Like most Sundays we had services in the morning with scripture readings and hymns, but I still don’t feel very pious. In fact, I wish I could use some of the words the men use to move an ornery ox, that is how mad I am! I thought to take the time to wash out my dirty shirt and underclothing and found a quiet spot by the river. Just as I bent over, a tremendous push from behind sent me headfirst into the water. John Drummond! Now both my shirts are soaking. Talbot asked why didn’t I just take my shirt off and leave it to dry in the sun. I glared at him until he shrugged and went off, then I started a small fire. I am sitting in front of it as I write, to dry myself.
June 16, 1862
Rain! Rain! Rain! We have delayed our journey. I made biscuits and Talbot said they were the best he’d ever tasted. I told him I often helped my mother with the cooking. He looked at me quite strangely. I must be careful to think before I speak!
We had a music evening last night. There is quite an assortment of instruments travelling with us: mouth organs, clarinets, flutes, violins and a concertina. Joe was singing at the top of his voice as he always does. Henry sat a long time groaning, then finally burst out, “My horse farting sounds better than your singing! Begging your pardon, Ma’am.” (That was for Mrs. Schubert.)
Talbot rolled all over the ground laughing. It was a mean thing for Henry to say, but I must admit Joe cannot carry a tune.
Evening
The rain let up at noon, so we left the fort, but immediately had a mishap. Mr. Morrow’s ox ran away down the slope of the Qu’Appelle River, dragging Mr. Morrow behind him. The cart ran over Mr. Morrow’s head. He lay there lifeless, but Dr. Stevenson saw to him and said Mr. Morrow will be up and about in a couple of days. Dr. Stevenson said the rain saved Mr. Morrow’s life because when the wheel ran over his head, the head sank into the mud and that is what saved him.
Then John Drummond was leading his ox down the slope and it got away from him and overturned their cart, spilling their provisions everywhere. Thomas’s face was like a thundercloud as he yelled at John.
Talbot asked me today to point out which man was my father. I pointed up the line and said the man with the hat. He asked, “Which one?” (They all wear hats). And I said, “The grey hat,” in an exasperated voice that discouraged him from asking further in case he appeared a dolt.
June 18, 1862
We awoke this morning to find ice on the water buckets and the ground white with frost. We are delayed again as our guide, Mr. Rochette, has not shown up. I don’t think Mrs. Schubert minds the delay. I crept away to relieve myself and saw she had done the same, but to be sick. I lay down in the grass as Mrs. Schubert passed so she would not see me. I saw something else while out in the grass, dear diary — John’s brother, Thomas, giving him a beating with the oxen’s whip. At first I felt quite happy to see John getting back what he gives, but as it went on I became uneasy. Father once gave William a sound whipping, but his arm did not strike as hard or as often as Thomas Drummond’s did.
June 19, 1862
The guide never came back! The men are afraid that if he does turn up, it will be with a raiding party of Indians! We’ve heard such dreadful stories of Indians raiding and stealing goods, but decided to continue on our way alone, though every man has his rifle near at hand. I jump at every sound, expecting war cries and arrows! Talbot told me to go stay with my father, so I moved up the line a little and walked with Joe. Keeping a falsehood is very hard work!
June 22, 1862
It is Sunday. A day of rest. I no longer feel sorry for John. Today he kicked over my pan of biscuits as they cooked on the fire at noon. I have so little food, I was beside myself with fury and I almost called him a word I heard Mr. Dyer call his oxen yesterday. I bit my tongue, dear diary. I don’t think Mama would approve of some of the men’s language, but I can’t help hearing it, can I? I try quite hard to let it go in one ear and out the other, but some of the words seem to stick in between. I do notice that the men bite their tongues around Mrs. Schubert. I expect Mr. Schubert’s tongue must be fair bitten through! I don’t know why John torments me so. I’ve done nothing to him. He does leave me alone when Talbot is around, as he and Talbot are of a size, but Talbot hasn’t been around much, as I’ve tried to keep more to myself since letting it slip that I helped Mama cook. I can’t have anyone finding out my secret, as I know they’d leave me at one of the forts we pass. Maybe I’ll stick close to Joe instead. He’s even bigger than Talbot.
My feet have healed and hardened and my legs no longer ache as much at the end of each day’s march. Most days we make 20 miles and on a good day, 30. I am afraid I am going to run out of food, so I limit myself to one meal a day and I am so hungry by evening that even my pemmican tastes good. I have discovered it’s tolerable if fried. My big news, though, is that I found a way to earn a bit of money. I noticed Mr. Bailey flailing about with a shirt in the river as he tried to wash it, but he lost his grip on it and it floated away. I fished it out and asked him if he’d like me to do his wash for him. He said, “Gladly.” I do laundry for him now and for a few of the other men. It feels good to have some money in my pocket.
We have gone through some lovely country of open plains, groves of poplar, wild roses and lakes teeming with ducks. Some of the men complain of the sameness of the land, but if you look close, it is very different. Mrs. Schubert was unwell yesterday and prone in her carriage so I let Gus Schubert walk with me to give her some peace. I tried to show him some of the differences I saw in the land, but he was more interested in gathering buffalo chips. I let him, as I needed them for my fire anyway, but then Mrs. Schubert kindly invited me to share dinner with her family. I told her I’d have to get permission from my father. I ran up the line of carts a bit, waited a few minutes and came back. The idea of the prairie as an ocean and our carts as vessels upon it has stayed with me. I shall make a small sketch of what I see in my mind. Nothing as grand as the real artist Mr. Hind would do, but something to keep the memory.
June 24, 1862
The more I wear them, the more I like these boy’s clothes. I used to tie my skirts up so my legs would be freer, but with trousers, my strides are longer and I can run faster without a skirt tangling about my legs.
As we passed through the Touchwood Mountains, I noticed strawberries growing beside our path. I gathered a pan-full. Talbot said they were as plentiful and as easy to pick as gold nuggets are from the riverbanks in Cariboo. I asked him how he knew that, and he said it was common knowledge that in Cariboo, gold was just lying around ready for the picking. I sniffed my disbelief and he became quite huffy and left me to myself for the afternoon. I didn’t mind at all because that is all he talks about — gold! The same gold that made Father leave us.
Thinking of that makes tears sting behind my eyes. Mama didn’t want to leave our home at all, even when it was just for land in the west. “No woman wants to be travelling,” she told me. “She wants to be settled.” But Father hankered after wider spaces, and new things for his eyes to see. He told Mama the mill was his father’s dream, not his, and so he decided
to sell up, and despite Mama’s grumbles about dreamers and restless feet, we found ourselves at Fort Garry. I will share my strawberries with Mrs. Schubert. She’s looking a bit peaky. Besides, they have a milk cow for the children, so hopefully there will be cream to go with our berries.
June 25, 1862
Quill Plains
We cross the Quill Plains. Not a tree to ease our eyes or shade us from the hot sun beating down from a wide blue sky. The very air appears to shimmer from the heat. I’ve been wearing my coat to save me carrying it, but today am forced to take it off. My pack slips on the sweat on my back and is rubbing my skin raw. The ground here is littered with buffalo skulls. We were told at Fort Garry that there would be buffalo on the trail for food, but we have yet to see a live one. Joe says seeing all the skulls makes him feel uneasy, like walking through a graveyard, but Henry told him not to be so foolish. I know what he means though, as the yellow bones stretching as far as the eye can see make me uneasy, too.
A Trail of Broken Dreams Page 2