His enthusiasm was absent this year though. Outside the window, the fields turned bright emerald in ripples of moving sunlight and then transformed instantaneously to a dull, dark green as clouds skittered across the sun’s face. A living mosaic. He returned his eyes to the half-finished letter:
“May 28, 1855
Dear Reuben,
I trust by now you have received my letter about Father’s death. I’m sorry we are not together to console each other. I wrote you immediately after he passed, and honestly, was not disposed to speak in detail. Father went downhill quickly after you left for America. Beginning three or four weeks after I brought you to Bremen in the wagon to board the Edinburgh, he began to ask me to check for mail every day. He never saw the short note that you sent from St. Louis on March 17th saying all was well and that the next day the group of wagons you had associated with were leaving for Cherry Creek. The letter did not get here until May 2nd.
We received an earlier letter from Uncle Hermann in New York. He said you looked well and were eager to get west to the lands mapped out by the scout he and Father had hired. The third map, the one the scout told Uncle Hermann was a map of where the scout had heard there might be gold in the mountains to where you are headed, never did arrive. The scout’s brother, Mickey, was supposed to deliver it to Uncle Hermann. It remains a mystery. Perhaps in your travels you have learned something.
Uncle Hermann also said you were with a tall, lanky Scandinavian man who Uncle Hermann was certain had military experience and with whom he felt quite comfortable. He wrote briefly of the weapons he had suggested you purchase and of your delight when he gave you Father’s gift, the .52 caliber Sharps rifle, with the special distance sights—I think they call them Enfield ladder sights. I look forward to understanding more about these weapons, holding one in my hands and learning how to use it.”
Erik stared at the paper, his eyes moving to the corner by the kitchen door to their old Blunderbuss hammer pull shotgun. Its nicked and scarred walnut stock and darkly blued, almost black, flare barrel melted into the dark color of the wood wall where it rested, butt down, the tip of its wide muzzle obscured by the hems of their field coats on the coat rack just inside the door. His eyes traveled back to the letter. He dipped the quill in the ink and continued writing, the pen making a scratching sound on the heavy linen paper—the very last sheets of his mother’s store of good stationery.
We have no such weapons here as you know. Only the military is well armed. I fear one day our country will learn the folly of that.
I write you, brother, not knowing when or where this letter will reach you. We are so far apart. Father said it was at least 5000 miles, perhaps more, from this kitchen table to your destination in the Kansas Territories but I have made an important decision.
Erik put down the quill. A critical dangling thought awaiting finality. Forcing his eyes from the incomplete letter, he drummed his fingers again on the tabletop. Through the window, he could see his brother Helmon and the eldest, Isaac, standing by the plow gesturing at it and then leaning toward each from their waists, pointing fingers and waving their arms in the air. Helmon’s large, slightly overweight frame was particularly agitated. Isaac, almost a head taller than Helmon and built like an ox, seemed—as usual—to be getting the best of whatever argument had erupted between them this particular day.
Erik took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. This bickering, constant fighting and continual test of dominance is so tiring. Closing his eyes for a long minute, he thought and then gazed slowly around the kitchen. Although a year prior, the scene was suddenly alive in his memory; everyone had gathered for the evening meal.
“Helmon,” he had said to his brother, “you have been sitting there for half an hour, I told you I would call when supper was ready. The least you could do is help set the table.”
Helmon had risen and fumbled around the kitchen in his usual oafish but well-intentioned way. He put out the dishes and silverware. The uneven placement of the silverware bothered Erik but he said nothing. Erik could hear his own voice calling out, “Supper’s ready!”
Isaac had come stomping in, his frame almost filling the doorway. “If you were a woman, I’d marry you.” His florid face broke into a nasty grin. To a casual observer, his words would have been humorous but Erik felt the underlying barb and it hurt. He quickly busied himself putting the boiled potatoes in a serving bowl. When their father’s health began to deteriorate, as the senior and most belligerent sibling of the four, Isaac had taken it upon himself to act as the head of the household, although the beefy man would often reluctantly defer to Reuben’s careful reasoning. Isaac was a good farmer though and made the land prosper.
Reuben had been his usual supportive self. Erik was far closer to Reuben than his other brothers were. “It does look good, Erik,” Reuben had complimented him as he placed the platters of kosher sausage and boiled potatoes on the table. Reuben’s praises took the sting out of Isaac’s needling. Erik had pointed out the jam, knowing that Reuben loved jam with his rye bread, he remembered Reuben’s smile as if it was yesterday. “My favorite.”
The brothers had taken seats but waited respectfully for Ludwig. His slow but steady footsteps as he made his way in the kitchen indicated both his frailty and his strength. They bowed their heads as their father said the Hebrew blessing over the food. As tradition demanded, he was served first and then, jostling each other, the four brothers filled their plates. The scratch of utensils on plates was the only sound for several minutes.
As they were finishing the meal, Helmon and Isaac, always competitive, teased each other about which girl in the village was the prettiest and who, of the two of them, she favored.
“Saw you walking with Hilda the other day, Helmon. She’s a fine figure of a girl,” Isaac had teased as he sat back wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Helmon had been chewing a huge mouthful of food. Although his response was mostly indecipherable, his tone of voice was not. All of them had laughed.
Squeaking their chairs back, the brothers began to rise from the table for evening chores but waving a gnarled hand, Ludwig motioned them to stay seated.
His memory paused. Erik’s eyes drifted over to the head of the table to the larger chair with the high, ornately scrolled backrest of gleaming, waxed black cherry wood. His father had sat in it for every meal from the time Erik could remember to the day before he died. I miss you father. He took a deep breath and, annoyed, swiped with his fingertips at the wetness he felt on his cheek below the corner of one eye.
His father had asked him to clear the plates. The old man winced as he reached behind him and placed an old, worn but sturdy brown leather map case on the barren surface of the table. The brothers exchanged expectant looks.
He could still hear his father’s strong but calm voice and see the steady, commanding sparkle in his green eyes. The same as Reuben’s, even down to the green turning grey when angry.
“As you know,” his father had begun, “we are unable to expand our land here in Prussia. The gentiles, though friendly, would rather not sell to Jews. Uncle Hermann in New York and I have written back and forth for years. There’s trouble brewing in America between those who want to keep slavery and those who do not. The government wants to ensure federal power and settle the western parts of the country.”
Erik could feel the rapid pounding of his heart as his father fell silent, his eyes moving brightly but slowly around the table. “From what Hermann has written to me and from what I’ve read in the newspapers, the western part of America is inhospitable, almost lawless but there is land and where there is land, there is opportunity.”
His hands shaking slightly, he spread the maps he had slipped from the old leather case across the table. He asked Helmon and Erik to hold the corners down. He traced the maps with a crooked, still calloused forefinger, demonstrating the route from Villmar to Bremen, then across the Atlantic on the steamship SS Edinburgh, landing in New York at a place
called Castle Garden.
His finger paused as he looked at Reuben, and then resumed its movement on the rough textured paper west to St. Louis and then west again from there through an area the map indicated was completely unsettled, to a place called Cherry Creek. Then even further west across what the map indicated was a large mountain range. Erik had not been sure but the final destination seemed to be mountains in an area of the United States designated as the Kansas Territory. The mountains were located above a valley the map called ‘Uncompahgre.’
He remembered as his father’s eyes traveled around the table again, apprising each brother but Erik. The patriarch’s gaze finally came to rest on Reuben, a look of combined pride, love and worry showing in the elderly wrinkles of his face, its features suddenly stern.
“Reuben, I have booked your passage on the SS Edinburgh. The ship will be launched later this year. Its new condition should make the voyage more comfortable. It leaves Bremen in the evening, on January 16, a little over eight months from now. It makes port for a short time in Portsmouth, steams to Liverpool, and then continues to New York. January 16 is a Sunday. You will need to be on the road before daylight that day. I do not wish you to travel on the Sabbath. Erik will take you in and bring the wagon back.”
Ludwig continued with instructions to pack light. He informed Reuben that he had sent money in advance to Uncle Hermann to use to buy equipment, supplies and hire men who Reuben might need.
Erik would never forget the intensity of his father’s eyes as they bore into those of his favorite brother at the end of those instructions, “Your work coat is back from our friend Marvin, the tailor. I have hung it in the front closet. There are six diamonds sewn into the hem. The monies you may use as you see fit to buy equipment and supplies and to hire the men that you may need. The diamonds, however, are to be used for only one thing— to buy our land. They are to be used for nothing else.”
Reuben had looked flushed, surprised and nervous. His eyes were twice as wide as normal. The two older brothers sat, stunned. Slamming one meaty hand on the table, Isaac began to make a scene but ceased immediately after a sharp, stern reprimand from Ludwig. Erik remembered the sinking feeling in his own stomach. My favorite brother leaving, I may never see him again. He remembered looking at Isaac and Helmon, trying to imagine what life would be with them without Reuben’s buffering support. He heard himself laugh aloud in the empty kitchen. I was exactly right to be concerned.
He shook his head to clear the memory, wiped the quill on the blotter, dipped it in the ink well and staring down at the paper, continued to write:
“I’ve decided I am coming to America to be with you. I’ve been reading up on the United States. I think Father was right when he talked about America being the future. But of one thing I am certain—I have no future here, at least, no truly happy future. The farm prospers. Persecution has not increased but neither has it diminished. I know you will put this letter down at this point, look into space and think, ‘but Erik, what about your music?”
Pausing, Erik absentmindedly cleaned the quill on the blotter again. Through the window, his two brothers were still in animated discussion with their faces now only a foot apart. Erik inked the quill,
I’m sure there’s music in America too, but more important to me than my music, is me. Helmon has not been kind and Isaac has been…
Erik’s eyes flicked up to the window as he searched for the right word,
“…unkind. Mywork is not appreciated. My music is not respected. With Father and Mother gone and you in America, I’ve had to spend more time on the farm and less time in school. I really don’t think that Isaac considers me a man. I know they both think I’m too soft or too much like a girl, as Isaac likes to say but I know I’m a man. I think America might be the best place to demonstrate that.”
Erik pinched his lower lip between his upper and lower teeth and carefully read the last paragraph. It is the truth. I will leave it.
“By coincidence I will also be sailing on the Edinburgh and departing from Bremen. The ship sails on a Sunday again, which is good. I’ve made arrangements with a friend of mine at school to bring me there. I’m quite sure Helmon and Isaac would refuse. I have not told them yet and do not look forward to it. But they must have some notice because they will have to find someone to do the work they do not think I do. Uncle Hermann knows my travel plans. I went through Father’s things and have the directions I need to get to Uncle’s house when I arrive in New York. I’m sure he will give me instructions from there on how to find you. I so look forward to seeing you Reuben, and helping you establish the ranch, as Uncle Hermann wrote to me a farm is called in the West. It should be a grand adventure. You haven’t gone off and got married, have you? Gretchen still asks about you. Don’t worry, I never did tell her that was me in the tree watching the two of you at that picnic.
Erik chuckled to himself as he wrote the last line, imagining Reuben’s smile as he read the words.
The Edinburgh sails on June 17th. It is expected in New York on July 25th. Uncle Hermann says it will take a week to reach St. Louis by train and then six weeks to two months to get to Cherry Creek. He was unsure of how long the journey from Cherry Creek would take or what travel arrangements are available to the Uncompahgre. It’s a strange name but I like it. Uncle Hermann says it is American Indian for “where water turns rock red.” How odd. I look forward to seeing why the Indians gave it such a name.
Love,
Your Younger Brother, Erik”
The light slanting in the windows was at the odd angles of late afternoon, its beams across the kitchen dissected by the shadows of the mullion that separated the blown glass panes through which it streamed. The patterned sunlight fell directly on Ludwig’s chair, imparting a cheerful gleam to the antique wood, the grains in the cherry reddish amber and dark brown.
Looking fondly at the chair for a moment longer, Erik carefully folded the letter and slipped it in the envelope, sealing it with wax in three places. He smiled at the chair, still radiant with the fading light from the window. You approve, don’t you Father?
“Reuben and I will make you proud, Father. We will establish a great ranch. I know you will be watching and I will prove to you I am a man.”
CHAPTER 13
May 29, 1855
PHILIPPE REYES
Reuben straightened up from tightening the cinch under Lahn’s belly and turned to Zeb. A thin rim of bright yellow from the rising sun pierced the pale, blue, dawn sky above the higher ground east of the wagons. Johannes was already mounted and he was checking the load in his Sharps .52 carbine. Buck and Lahn quietly nickered to one another and brushed their nuzzles together.
Zeb half-smiled, “Appears our horses get along.”
Reuben chuckled, “Like masters, like horses. I think the best plan, Zeb, is we will meet you at Fort Massachusetts. Randy seemed to think that would save coming back all this way and that route might be a little bit easier with the cattle and wagons than going over Kenosha Pass.”
The weathered leather that passed for skin around Zeb’s eyes crinkled, “Randy said? If his feet ever left that damn store, he might know.” Zeb smiled. “Just so happens in this case he is mostly right. It’s gonna take us a good six or seven days to get to the San Luis with these wagons. When do you expect you might be there with the cattle?”
“Well, first we have to find cattle, then we have to talk somebody into selling some. And until we talk to that Mexican vaquero Randy suggested and that ranch family with the two older sons, we don’t even know how many hands we’ll have.” Reuben paused, glanced at the wagon where Rebecca and Sarah slept and turned back to Zeb, “You going to be okay alone?”
“Ain’t going to be quite alone. The McKinley wagon is going part of the way and they ain’t in no rush to hurry down. Their course is set for somewhere around that Pike’s Peak country. That gets us about halfway,” he paused and looked at Reuben, “and I suspect Sarah and Rebecca will be driving their wagon
s.”
Reuben was silent for a moment. He glanced again at the wagon where the women were still asleep. “Sarah, maybe—but we both know that…” he grinned at Zeb and was sure he saw the slightest uncharacteristic blush color the mountain man’s tanned cheeks, “…but I’m not at all sure about Rebecca.”
“You gonna say goodbye?” asked Zeb quietly.
“Already did. Last night. She told me she would either be with you or she wouldn’t.” Reuben swallowed trying to ignore the empty feeling in his gut.
Zeb was silent. Reuben looked at him for a moment, “If she decides to go back to England, I think you ought to burn that wagon of Jacobs. It has a bad feel. Sarah can drive the prairie schooner.”
Zeb shook his head, “No sense burnin’ a good wagon. I got a couple of Ute friends. One has strong medicine, a great puwa. I think I can trade him some pelts for him to cleanse the wagon of Jacob’s energy.”
Reuben knew the doubt showed in his face and Zeb saw it.
“Don’t be doubtin’ the power of Spirit,” Zeb said seriously, his eyes boring into Reuben’s. “You felt it yourself—when you met Eagle Talon back there at Two Otters Creek.”
A vision of the Sioux warrior, statuesque on his painted mustang, like an apparition in the lingering smoke and dust of battle, his war shield with an eagle’s talon high on his extended arm, his hand palm out, coursed through Reuben’s memory. He was the obvious leader of the four warriors behind him, one slumping in the saddle. “Roo-bin, Ray-bec-ka,” the brave had said while Zeb interpreted.
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