“They’ll be fine,” I say. I sound just like Mama, assuring everyone about Daddy. “It will pass.”
“Poor Missus Joyner,” she says. “Her and Missus Lowrey.”
“What’s that?” I can’t imagine what Mrs. Joyner and the preacher’s wife have in common. Maybe the reverend is sick too. Then I remember that Mrs. Lowrey is hugely pregnant.
“Ah,” I say, recalling how often I’ve seen Mrs. Joyner with a hand on her belly. No wonder she’s so tired and troubled.
Mrs. Robichaud smiles sadly. “She has much to worry herself, yes? It is to be very bad if she gets sick.”
“I’ll do what I can to help.”
“I know. I gave the enfants some food for lunch,” she says. “I hope that is good.”
“Very good,” I say. “I’m sure the Joyner children were pleased.”
“My own children are not feeling so well. I think they have, I don’t know the word, la rougeole.”
I have no idea what she means, but her face is grave. “Sorry to hear that.”
“I hope Andy and Olive do not catch it. I sent them back to their mother a few minutes ago, for to be safe.”
“Thank you,” I say. They probably returned by way of the generous Hoffmans, hoping for a treat. “I hope the twins feel better soon.”
I make my good-byes and wander away, my mind still churning over the news of Mrs. Joyner’s pregnancy.
Mrs. Lowrey, the preacher’s wife, is alone on her wagon bench, mending a bonnet.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” I say.
Mrs. Lowrey jumps, startled. She’s a small woman, mousey and plain, with a belly as big as a barn. She almost never leaves the wagon; her husband keeps her under tight rein. He would probably loathe what I’m about to suggest.
“I know you’re busy, Mrs. Lowrey, but with Mr. Joyner sick and all, Mrs. Joyner could use—Well, not a hand, maybe, so much as an ear. It’d be a blessing if you could check in on her, and maybe offer to pray with her.”
It’s like my words are magic. “Well, no one could have an objection to that!” she says.
No, they couldn’t. As she pries herself up from her bench, I hope it’ll be good for both of them.
I check in with the Major, and let him know that some of our folks are sick—Mr. Joyner, the Robichaud children. I don’t say anything about Mrs. Joyner’s condition, because I’m supposed to be a man now. Soon enough, it’ll be visible for all to see, and there won’t be any point saying something now.
I take some jerky and bread with the college men, who are always unstinting with their butter and glad for company. We chat for a long time. Jasper tells me that some of the Missouri men have fallen ill too. “Stay away from them,” he warns. “And from Mr. Joyner, if you can. I expect we’ll lose a few people to the sickness before it’s done.”
I recoil a little. “Like who?”
He shrugs. “People who have eaten unripe fruit, maybe. Or those who drink too many spirits.”
I need to warn Jefferson. I thank the college men for dinner and make my way back to the Joyners’ wagon. Jeff isn’t here, but I find Mrs. Joyner in a much better temper.
“That was a kindness to send Mrs. Lowrey over,” she says.
“She looked like she could use the company.”
“We prayed together,” Mrs. Joyner says. “She prays with sincerity and sound doctrine, even though she is a Presbyterian. I may invite the Lowreys over to our wagon for supper sometime.” After a pause she adds, “She could fall sick any day now.”
“Any of us could. But I don’t think she has the cholera,” I say.
Mrs. Joyner turns her face away. “No, woman-sick. Forget I said anything. You wouldn’t understand.”
Frustration boils up inside me, because I do understand. Mrs. Lowrey’s birthing time could be upon her any moment. And every child on the way is like a roll of the dice with fate. You never know if you’ll deliver easy or if the pains will kill you. Or if your baby brother won’t even draw breath long enough to earn his name.
But men don’t talk about these things, much less hired help to genteel ladies. I start to walk away, boots scuffing the dirt, thinking about evenings on the porch with Mama, when we watched fireflies and drank sweet tea and talked about all the things that men don’t talk about.
Mrs. Joyner says, “Can you run over to Mrs. Robichaud’s wagon and fetch Andy for me?”
I whirl back around. “Andy’s not here?”
“No.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are alarmed.
“What about Olive?”
“She returned more than an hour ago.”
“Mrs. Robichaud sent them both back. Her own boys are unwell.”
Mrs. Joyner sheds her malaise like it’s a second skin. She jumps to her feet, picks up her skirts, and jogs through the camp yelling her son’s name. When Andy doesn’t immediately materialize, I dash over to the Hoffmans’ wagons to find Jefferson.
He and Therese are sitting side by side on a bench. Therese’s hands are folded neatly in her lap, her shoulders not quite touching his. “Andy Junior wandered off,” I say breathlessly.
“Wandered off where?” Jefferson says.
“I don’t know. No one has seen him for at least an hour.”
He rises, plopping his hat back on. “I’ll have a look around.”
Therese says, “I will too.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
She hollers for her siblings’ attention and starts organizing them to search.
My belly is in a tangle. Bad men like the brothers are out there. And quicksand along some of the streams. Subtle changes in the flat landscape that you don’t notice until suddenly you can’t see the wagons any more. And even though I’d never say it aloud to Jefferson, Andy could have been kidnapped by Indians. He might already be miles away.
I can cover more territory with Peony. I’ve only taken three steps toward her when a glad cry rings out from the far end of camp, where the sheep are grazing away from the cattle.
A silhouette manifests in the firelit darkness. It’s Hampton the shepherd, Mr. Bledsoe’s slave, carrying a boy on his shoulders.
Someone reaches for Andy, but he flinches away, clinging to poor Hampton’s head.
“Unhand that boy!” someone else shouts.
I push through the growing crowd, Mrs. Joyner on my heels. Andy starts to wail in panic. He’s covered in dirt or worse, and tears streak muddy trails down his cheeks. Hampton tries to lever the boy’s arms away from his face, but without success.
“Hey there, Andy,” I say, arriving a few steps ahead of his mother. “It’s Lee. Want to come back to the wagon and get something to eat?”
His wailing stills. I offer my arms, and all at once he releases Hampton and tumbles right into them. His tiny hands go around my neck, and he rests his cheek on my shoulder. “I’m thirsty, Lee,” he whispers.
“He’s not hurt,” Hampton says. “Just scared is all.”
“What were you doing with him?” Mrs. Joyner cries.
“For God’s sake, he was bringing him back to you,” I say.
She stiffens, but then the fight melts out of her. She reaches with a finger and brushes a bit of blond hair from Andy’s head.
“I suppose I should thank you,” Mrs. Joyner says to Hampton.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” he says. “I better get back to the herd, or Mr. Bledsoe will be displeased.”
“I should tell him of your good deed,” Mrs. Joyner says.
“That’s not necessary, ma’am.”
The commotion is over as fast as it started. Hampton returns to the sheep, the crowd disperses, and Andy, Mrs. Joyner, and I walk back to our wagon.
“I can carry him,” she says.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look tuckered out.”
She gives a little harr
umph of assent, but she reaches over and strokes his forehead again.
Andy has grabbed the chain around my neck, pulling Mama’s locket out from under my shirt. He opens it and closes it, opens and closes. He has the softest brown eyes, not like his mother’s at all. My baby brother would have brown eyes if he’d lived, for sure and certain.
I get an idea.
Before I can think twice about it, I give Andy over to his mother and reach under my collar to unclasp my locket. I drape it around Andy’s neck and hook it closed. It feels strange not having it tingling against my skin. Like emptiness. Like wind where there should be water.
“This locket has given me strength and courage,” I tell him. “You can wear it now, if you want.”
“All right.” His chubby fingers deftly open it. “What’s this?”
“A lock of hair.”
Mrs. Joyner perks up. “A sweetheart?”
“From my baby brother,” I explain quickly. “He’s gone now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Joyner says.
“So am I.”
“It’s soft,” Andy says.
It’s not, glued in like it is, but I’m glad he likes it. “This is a treasure to me, Andy,” I say. “Do you understand what a treasure is?”
He nods, his eyes big.
When I was his age, Mama would hand me things—mixing spoons or bits of fabric or a whisk broom—depending on the task she was working on. She said that children were happiest when they felt useful. “I’m busy all day and I have to do lots of work,” I say to Andy. “If I let you keep it, will you guard it for me? Maybe it will give you strength and courage too.”
He nods again.
“It’s an important job.”
“I’m big.”
“I know you are, or I wouldn’t have asked. So, will you do it?”
“Okay, Lee.”
We reach the wagon. Mrs. Joyner clutches him to her chest for a moment, but he squirms away and runs to the water barrel to drink and wash up. Olive hops down, and though she stares after her baby brother, she throws her arms around Mrs. Joyner’s waist, who squeezes back.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mrs. Joyner tells me over her daughter’s head. “That’s a family heirloom.”
“Well, I don’t have any family out here,” I say.
“He might lose it.”
“He’s a good boy. I trust him.”
I do not trust him to keep my locket. Not one bit. But the locket is doing its work, and even now, I feel it close by. So long as he wears it, I’ll know exactly where he is.
“Darling?” comes Mr. Joyner’s plaintive cry. “What’s going on?” He sounds even weaker than yesterday.
“I better go see to him,” Mrs. Joyner says.
As I watch her clamber into the wagon, my hand comes up to clutch the locket, but, of course, it’s not there.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Twenty-One
At dawn two days later, the Arkansas crew finds Mr. Bledsoe, the sheep farmer, dead in his wagon.
Major Craven calls off travel for the morning. Mr. Bledsoe’s men dig a grave, and after we all view his earthly body, they wrap him in the bed comforter he died in, which is noticeably fouled, anyway, binding him up with strips of cloth.
I barely spoke two words to Mr. Bledsoe, but my heart is heavy. He did nothing at all to get himself killed. Just pointed his boots west. It could have happened to any of us.
Reverend Lowrey reads from his Bible about death and resurrection and follows up with a prayer. We all think he’s done, and Mr. Bledsoe’s men stoop to roll him into the hole. Mr. Joyner, whose health has improved enough to attend, excuses himself and dashes away to take care of his personal business.
But then the reverend launches into a lengthy and effusive eulogy, enumerating the many outstanding Christian virtues of Mr. Bledsoe, which ought to serve as an inspiration to us all. I can’t imagine he knew the man any better than the rest of us, but he sounds sincere enough, and more than a few people are moved to tears.
The only people not present are the Robichauds.
It turns out la rougeole means the measles. Major Craven broke the news last night that the Robichaud twins were exposed at a trading post a couple weeks ago. He assured everyone that even though the measles spreads rapidly, it’s less likely to prove deadly than cholera. The Robichauds have agreed to quarantine themselves until the sickness passes, and anyone who shows symptoms is to tell Major Craven at once.
The sun is high and heat is rolling off the plains by the time they lower Mr. Bledsoe into his final resting place. They’re about to shovel dirt on top of him when Mr. Joyner returns and says, “Stop. Hold your horses.”
Everyone looks at him expectantly.
“Can it wait?” Reverend Lowrey asks. “This is a Christian burial.”
Mr. Joyner looks to Major Craven. “The Indians are going to dig up this grave, aren’t they?”
This sets everyone to mumbling among themselves. “I don’t think we can stop ’em,” Major Craven admits.
“Maybe we can leave them a gift.” He turns to me. “Run to the Frenchman’s wagon and get the blankets from their children.”
“But they’ve got measles,” I say.
“That’s the general idea. Rub those blankets all over the boys first.”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll give them new blankets,” he says, misunderstanding my refusal. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. Wait until I get back before you fill in that grave.”
I turn to look for Jefferson, but he’s gone.
Though weak from the cholera, Mr. Joyner strides away with purpose. Someone calls out, “Don’t do this, Joyner!” Henry, maybe.
But he ignores the voice, disappearing behind the Robichauds’ wagon. A moment later comes the sound of Mrs. Robichaud yelling in French.
He returns with his arms full of blankets.
I glance around at everyone else. Surely someone will put a stop to this? A few of the men shift uncomfortably on their feet. Major Craven looks down at the ground.
“This is a terrible notion,” I say.
“It’s none of your business, boy,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is gaunt and pale under days of beard growth.
I step forward, but a hand grips my upper arm. “Let him be,” says Frank Dilley.
Mr. Joyner staggers to the grave and throws the blankets over Mr. Bledsoe’s body. “You can finish covering him up now,” he says. “If anybody disturbs this burial, I hope they get exactly what they deserve.”
I don’t hear a word of complaint. A few murmur agreement. Frank says, “I like the way you think.”
Mr. Joyner slumps over, exhausted now. He staggers back to the wagon, Mrs. Joyner and the children in tow.
“Let’s sing a hymn,” Reverend Lowrey says in a shaky voice. He demonstrates, and we repeat it, except I just move my mouth, pretending.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace:
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of ceaseless praise:
Rescued thus from sin and danger,
Purchased by the Savior’s blood,
May I walk on earth a stranger,
As a son and heir of God.
The last shovelful of dirt patters down onto Mr. Bledsoe’s body. They tamp it down, mound it up, and step back. It’s less than any person deserves, but there’s nothing more we can do.
“Let’s roll out,” Major Craven says, and everyone flows away from the graveside and back to their own wagons.
The hymn echoes in my head while I ready our wagon to leave. I’ve never
felt so far from God’s grace. I suppose I am a stranger walking on earth, but I’m no son of God. I’m no son at all.
The wagon train is markedly shorter than before. A glance eastward reveals a handful of wagons going back the way we came. Major Craven comes by to explain things to Mr. Joyner.
“Mr. Bledsoe’s group feel they have neither the authority nor motivation to carry on to California without him,” he says. “Seeing as how we’ve haven’t yet reached the divide, they’ve decided to go back.”
“They’re fools,” Mr. Joyner says.
“Maybe,” Craven says.
“You aren’t leaving with them?” I ask. Major Craven was hired by Bledsoe’s group.
“I reckon I’ll stick around until we get to California. I’ve got my gear, and Bledsoe’s men paid off my wages in food. Frank Dilley will carry it for me in one of his wagons.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it well in hand, then,” Mr. Joyner says.
“Probably.” He turns to go and then stops. “Oh, and you’ll want to keep an eye out for Bledsoe’s slave.”
“The shepherd?” Mr. Joyner asks.
“Hampton,” I say. “The one who found Andy.”
Craven frowns. “He ran off last night.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with Bledsoe’s death, do you?” Mr. Joyner asked.
“Not unless he could do witchcraft,” Craven says.
I jump a little at the word.
“No,” Craven continues. “Bledsoe died from the cholera. But his slave was gone when Bledsoe’s men got up this morning.”
“Maybe the Indians’ll find him,” Mr. Joyner says.
“Yeah, and then they can give him measles,” I say, and I don’t regret it, even with Mr. Joyner glaring at me.
There’s no reason to antagonize people, Mama always said.
But sometimes there’s no reason not to, is how I would reply.
“He’ll likely make for Iowa or one of the free states,” Craven says. “So I don’t expect him to be a problem.” His face becomes stern. “Some of the Missouri men, former pattyrollers, are talking about organizing a party to go after him, but you should know that this company won’t wait around. If you leave, it’s at your own peril.”