This Road We Traveled

  “We’ll see what we can salvage, Mrs. Brown,” Virgil said. “A lost wagon. It had to happen sometime.” He coughed.

  “There’s room for you in our wagon, Gramo.”

  “Thank you.” But she knew there wasn’t. “We’ll not be a burden, will we, John? Bring up the tents.”

  John shook his head. “Did my violin survive?”

  Kitchen utensils remained behind. Tabby would wear a couple sets of clothes. She could use the warmth. Their bedrolls were salvaged. She had to discard all her books except one, the Bible. Nellie gave her the small book, and she turned it over in her hand. “If I have only one, this is the one to have.” Then, “You go back down there, will you, Judson? And see if you can also get my Shakespeare and John’s violin. I hardly think we’ll live a civilized life if we don’t have music, Bible, and bard.”

  Tabby tried not to think about what Orus would say. She was holding the others back now with her lost wagon, she and John having to be tended by Virgil’s family. She still had Beatrice and the layers of clothes on her back, and Pherne had rescued extra shawls, those gloves she’d worn at her wedding, her knitting needles. Paltry little to claim after sixty-six years.

  “I’m pleased you’re all right, Tabby.” John eased himself beside her as they stood at the end of one of the Pringle wagons. “I’m not much of a knight in shining armor, am I?”

  Tabby patted his coat lapel. “It was one of those things. Judson was closer for my rescue. Doesn’t say one thing about your abilities. Don’t you even think that.”

  John nodded. “We haven’t spoken of my little advance back in the desert. I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

  “If a rattlesnake doesn’t scare me, I doubt you do.”

  “Tabby. I’m serious.”

  “I know you are. But, John, I, it’s not a good time to explore . . . emotions. Right now, I . . . I’ve lived alone a long time. I’m not sure I can adapt to—”

  “Oh, don’t say that yet, Tabby. Aye, these are highly unusual times, you’re correct. It’s not good to make major decisions when the ship’s running aground.” He wiped his forehead with his arm. “Still, a discombobulated time is also a time to consider new ways.”

  She thought of challenges in her life. “So it can be.”

  “We’ll speak of it when we have smoother seas, all right?”

  Tabby nodded, repeated his “Aye.”

  She didn’t want to have a major discussion about love when life hung in the balance. But perhaps that’s when the subject mattered most.

  Two more days and four miles passed in this tangle of river and broken trees. Word came from behind them of more deaths from starvation, accidents, illness. Virgil kept his voice low speaking to Pherne, even though everyone else had distributed themselves in the wagons and wouldn’t hear them. Virgil was too ill to help much, so Pherne and the boys had set their tents right in the middle of the high-water bank to the side of the stream bed. It was rocky but flatter than anywhere else, and the river had abandoned that portion of the bank, she hoped until spring. They’d surely not still be here in May!

  “Mrs. Brown can take my horse,” Virgil said. “Hasn’t had a woman ride him, but he’s a calm gelding. John can take Schooner. Let’s look at what provisions we can send with them.”

  “Is that really the best thing?” Her husband had mentioned this before and she’d shook her head. But now, with their supplies gone and her mother’s wagon demolished . . . “What are they supposed to do if they get through? Did I just say ‘if’? Oh, Virgil, what’s happening?” She clutched his arms.

  Raindrops pit-pit-pitted against the cloth. Virgil kept his voice low. “They have a better chance of catching up with the forward party driving the stock than staying here. And when they do . . .” He inhaled, breathing difficult for him. “Not if, mind you, when they do they’ll have beef at least. And Scott’s certain there’ll be a relief party coming this way. We were expected early October in the Valley and it’s already November the second. Surely they’ll send out flour and hopefully men to hack this road out.” He scoffed. “It’s no road at all.” His voice cracked. “Oh, Phernie, I’ve made such a mess of it.”

  The ache in her husband’s voice made her chest hurt. “It’s not your fault. Nobody knew it would be this bad. We all chose to take the shortcut. As my mother says, he was a ‘rascally fellow,’ but Mr. Scott’s been a godsend. We have to hang on to that. And we are surely getting close.”

  “Scott’s as disgusted as the rest of us. At least now he has the full confidence of the party.” Virgil had a coughing fit. Then, “It’s the hardships, Phernie. People dying, hopes dying with them. Seeing you and the girls suffer like this. Hungry. And your mother.”

  “We can survive on the little bacon we have. Butchering Mother’s oxen didn’t go far with so many wagons behind us to share it with. There’s plenty of water, so thirst isn’t our bane.”

  Virgil grunted. “Drenching, that’s what we’re getting. I wish we had flour. Never should have wasted it on that Sioux feast. What were we thinking, feeding two hundred families?”

  “The past belongs where it is, Virgil. Don’t bring it here. We’ve done the best we could.” She couldn’t believe she was saying that.

  He stroked her arm. They had plenty of water, all right, but no one had bathed for days, the copper tubs discarded weeks ago. He kissed the top of her head. “You’ve the heart of an angel, Phernie.”

  “Too bad I don’t have wings to fly us over all this.”

  He squeezed her.

  “But how will Mother and Uncle John even find the road or trail or whatever it is that the stock party took?”

  “They’ll follow the cow pies. They can make better time on horseback so should catch up in a couple of days. They can keep riding with the cattle group.”

  “A couple of days? They’ll be out there alone at night?” Pherne swallowed. “I’m not sure she’ll agree to this.”

  “We’ll have to convince them that it’s the best decision—for all of us.”

  “And pray it’s the right choice. I’m so tired of making choices.”

  Tabby did not like this conversation, no indeed, and yet she could see the wisdom in their suggestion. They’d posed it as a suggestion. It wasn’t an order. A morning river mist rose up to mingle with the treetops. “Fly, everyone who can, from starvation? Reach those driving the sheep and cattle? That’s what you’re suggesting?”

  “It is, Mrs. Brown. You and Uncle John must go ahead.” His words carried tenderness, fatigue. “They’ll butcher a cow or sheep, but we’ve nothing left here but oxen we still sorely need. We’ve seen no Indians for several days, so I trust you’ll be safe. You’ll ride my Caesar. He’s a good mount. Move as fast as you can but don’t over push them. They’re weakened and exhausted too.”

  “We’ve divided the provisions.” Pherne handed her the food wrapped in a wide section of cloth. Tabby didn’t take it.

  “Your petticoat doing duty, Daughter?”

  “Yes, Mother.” She leaned in to her and whispered. “None of the girls or me either has had a monthly. Everything is confused. I’m so sorry.” Pherne’s eyes pleaded with her. Louder she said, “What food we have is wrapped in love.”

  Wrapped in love. They were sending them to their deaths, weren’t they? No, she mustn’t think that. She looked at the sunken eyes of her grandchildren, of Judson and Nellie, skin and bones. On little Emma’s face she could see eye sockets so sunken the child looked already dead. “What about . . . What will happen to Nellie Louise and Judson? Each of you? What if we make it and you . . . ?”

  “You and Uncle John, you save yourselves. Live to tell what happened.” Virgil coughed through the words.

  Tears pooled in Judson’s eyes. “Maybe you can reach a settlement and send back help.”

  Going meant what was left here could be divided among two less mouths. It was a good decision. Tabby took a deep breath. Maybe they could ride on ahead to that Skinner place and bring
back food. “Did you leave enough for yourselves? John and I, we’re old. We’ve had a life. It’s your lives that matter now.”

  “I don’t need much.” John spoke up. “Keep most for the children.”

  “Three slices of bacon and a cupful of tea leaves. That’s all that’s here, Mother.” Pherne looked like she’d cry. “No flour.”

  “That’s more than I had in my wagon. We were plumb out. The bacon—” she patted the bag—“that’ll be good.”

  Tabby made her voice sound light and full of enthusiasm. Inside, trepidation as she had never known it settled like a rock in her stomach. She could make it on her own, but John, well, could he with that foot? And his weakened age? She wanted to bury her nose in Beatrice’s neck feathers, let the bird bring her comfort.

  “Maybe John should stay. His injury and all.”

  “We thought of that,” Virgil said. “But he can’t ride in the wagons, none of us can. And he can’t walk well. If he’s going to ride, he should ride toward the possibility of food and maybe reaching a settlement sooner rather than later.”

  “They discussed it with me, Tabby. I’ve got to go to look after you.”

  “Look after me?” She pursed her lips. “You talked with John before you talked with me?” She frowned at Pherne.

  “It just worked out that way, Mother. We’re talking to you now.” Her voice cracked.

  Tabby would not let herself believe that this was the last time she would see her children. Dear God, could she leave them all, emaciated, skin stretched across skulls, rain soaked and weary?

  “We never wanted to be a burden.”

  “And you haven’t been.” Pherne held the cloth packet out to her mother again. “Take it. Go. Save yourselves. Please.”

  Tabby hugged the soft package. “Look after Beatrice for me, will you, Nellie? She’ll come to corn in a tin, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl rushed her in a hug, almost pushing Tabby over. The child’s bones felt like her walking stick.

  “It’s my fault the wagon wrecked.” Judson looked like the waif he’d been when this trip began, all confidence lost.

  She gentled Nellie to one side. “You listen to me, Judson Morrow. You caught me before I toppled over with that wagon. And you can’t have seen all the dead oxen, pieces of lives littered since we left St. Charles and imagine that you alone made a terrible mistake. You didn’t. Things happen. You center your sights on what you’ve done well, which is much indeed. And you’ll continue to help build that road and look after Nellie. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Good.” She looked around. She refused to hug each of them, fearful she’d frighten them more than comfort through her threadbare shawl. “It’s not like we have to wait until after breakfast before beginning our day, right, children? John, are you ready?” Her brother-in-law nodded, stepped up on the stirrup, missed, tried again. Judson assisted and John mounted, reached for his cane from Virgil, and laid it across the pommel. Virgil put the bundle of food into Tabby’s saddlebag, patted Caesar’s neck.

  Tabby stroked the horse’s mane. “Let’s be off then.” Pherne’s eyes glistened. “The Lord goes with us, I know he does. Put me on old Caesar, Virgil.”

  Tabby reached for Pherne’s hand then, squeezed it. Buddy rubbed up against Tabby’s leg. She patted him, then tugged on her wedding gloves. She felt a tiny stone in one finger, a small irritation considering their plight. “We’ll make it then, Virgil, God willing. And I suspect he is or we wouldn’t have come this far.” She leaned into Virgil then, and whispered to him, “Cook Beatrice before you let the children starve, promise me.” He jerked his head back. “I mean it.”

  He nodded, his lip quivering.

  She looked one last time at her family. Perhaps leaving them so she and John would not be a burden would be the last great act of loving and doing good that she would perform upon this earth. It just might be her greatest challenge and she couldn’t even write about it in her memoir.

  Virgilia borrowed one of her mother’s pencils and wrote the words that preceded her most fervent prayers.

  No One Knows

  No one knows

  what trail is best

  challenging fat boulders,

  over streams,

  across deserts,

  around trees.

  No one knows

  where they’ll find food

  to keep them walking.

  No one knows

  what’s best to do

  with those beloved

  needing tender care.

  Make them go

  or stay.

  A wagon overturns,

  a boy cries out;

  cuts infect,

  a baby breathes too soon.

  Still

  they live.

  Gramo leaves us all behind.

  No one knows

  if she’ll come back.

  Will we see her once again

  this side of heaven?

  No one knows.

  22

  Doing Good

  It had been years since Tabby had ridden a horse, but it all came back to her: the roll of the animal’s back; the ears twitching forward or straight up, catching sounds, wary of disaster. Caesar’s mane was straggly as shattered silk, though Virgil’s boys rubbed him down each night. She rode astride, the only saddle Virgil brought. If she’d been a more accomplished rider, they could have left the saddle at the side of the trail to save the weight, but she didn’t trust herself to not slide off. Caesar was a sure-footed mount who didn’t resist stepping over fallen limbs or rocks, and he didn’t shy at strangeness, including a woman on his back. A good, solid horse. She hoped Schooner’s former personality of antics and testing limits had been wiped away by the trip’s demands. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if the horse bucked John off, or worse, ran off. Oh, they said horses were herd bound and never traveled far, but any distance would be too much for them.

  John plodded behind her. She wasn’t sure how they decided that, maybe the strength of the horses they rode. Caesar proved the better trail horse under Virgil’s tutelage. Schooner was more of a follower than a lead horse. But Tabby also knew she liked being in front, seeing what lay ahead, relaying information to John instead of the other way around.

  The day was filled with mists and branches low enough to wipe them off without constant guarding. They did not dismount all day, letting the animals drink at the stream with them on their backs. At sunset they were startled by the sounds of voices. Had they already caught up with the stock handlers?

  Three families. Small children cried like young kittens, clinging to their mother’s threadbare shawls. Hunger. They’d fallen behind those moving cattle and sheep and felt they could go no farther.

  “Poor little things,” she told John as he helped her dismount, her knees stiff as old leather. They made camp together beneath oak trees, bedding down with her shawl and John’s coat pushed in together with the families. Tabby said to their sleep mates, “I know you don’t have vittles.”

  “No, ma’am, we’re out or we’d have offered.”

  Tabby looked at John. Her children had sacrificed so they’d get through, have enough to survive until they met up with the others. But these people were destitute. He nodded.

  “We have a little.” She gave them the three pieces of bacon and the tea, along with the tin cup Pherne had packed.

  “May God bless you for your generosity.” One mother sliced the bacon into small pieces they gave to the children. “We’ll wait here, no more willingness to move on. Surely a relief party will come for us.”

  “We can pray for that.” One of the babies tugged on Tabby’s cap strings. They bedded down to a restless sleep.

  In the morning, Tabby drank rainwater collected through the night in the tin cup. Tea would have revived them, but these people were in greater need. One of the men helped Tabby mount. John pulled himself up onto Schooner, fell back. Another man assisted.
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  They would push onward to reach the group with cattle, and if Tabby had her way, she’d send food back. If they made it. They said good-bye and received a weak wave in return.

  “It looks like the trail leaves the stream and heads up that ridge.”

  John nodded, squinted at the broken branches and manure that marked the path. “Seems better to stay at the stream.”

  “I filled the canteen. We’d best follow where they’ve gone and pray they know what they’re doing.” But really, no one knew.

  Riding higher on the ridge, where wagons couldn’t go, she saw the beauty of this country: valleys wide and deep with dots of forests, the quiet broken only by bird calls and the crunch of broken twigs, their horses picking their way around the natural barriers. Some fall colors still clung to branches, and Tabby had a lapse to Connecticut and Vermont. They rode up and over a mountain, seeing meadows that surprised them with their grasses greening beneath brown and halted at the sight of open vistas. Would Virgil’s party follow creeks? Would they ever meet up with them again? Hunger pushed against her ribs. Tabby’s knees ached; hurt, really. She hoped she wouldn’t fall off, because she couldn’t imagine getting back on.

  They followed the cattle signs through the trees, ducking under moss-covered limbs, brushing twigs from their clothing. Tabby noticed John shivering with the cold and damp air. In silence, they rode into dense foliage where larger tree branches threatened to knock them from their mounts. Out in the open again, above a canyon, John shouted, “Look!”

  Tabby turned to see what he called about.

  He pointed. “Indians.”

  Tabby squinted. “They’re too far to worry over, John.”

  “Still got my eyesight though.”

  “That you do.”

  They were bottles on a fence post if Indians were closer and had mal-intent. They’d die right there, old bones all they’d leave behind. They rode on in silence as the afternoon beckoned them forward, grateful that the drizzle had let up hovering beneath clouds. It was better doing this with someone else rather than alone, Tabby decided. There was that goodness to consider. She twisted around to smile at John.