This Road We Traveled

  Pherne clung to him like a woman drowning, not yet certain she was saved.

  Orus nodded to acknowledge his mother and sister, dismounted, tied his horse to a tree far enough away that the other animals and their pack strings also being tied wouldn’t tangle with each other. Tabby closed in behind him.

  “There you are, Mother. What are you crying about?” Orus picked her up in a bear hug, the wolf-fur of his coat tickling her cheek. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that before, you with tears.” He set her down, straightened the strings on her cap. “The worst is over now.”

  “I’m so happy to see you. We’ve had our trials, we surely have.”

  “Some of your own making, I hear tell.”

  She nodded agreement. “But let’s not go backwards into those decisions made with good intentions at the time. Truth is, no one knows how things will end when we begin, isn’t that so.”

  “I could have told you it wasn’t a good cutoff.” They headed toward the others, Tabby leaning on Orus. “If you had asked.”

  “You were too far ahead.” This from Pherne, who overheard the conversation.

  Orus patted his sister’s back.

  Moses Harris interjected, “The men who returned to build the road were fewer than needed. The cutoff can be taken, as you’ve shown with your courage and perseverance, and it will serve the country if war comes.” He crossed his arms over the pommel, leaned forward. “The road crew who were supposed to cut and clear figured you’d have enough people to carve out the road yourselves, with a good pilot, as Mr. Scott is. So they didn’t do it.”

  “Without tools? I’m not sure what Applegate was thinking,” Orus said. “Newspaper articles suggested those on the trail were lounging about, taking their time, not starving at all.”

  “You can see that’s not true.”

  “You’re right, Marm.” His brown eyes softened. “I can see you’ve suffered. And who knows if I’d have taken the cutoff if I’d been there.” He clapped his gloved hands together, raised his voice. “It’s done and what matters is that you are alive. There are still a few more rough spots before we get you to decent shelter at my forest grove. Moses will take supplies to the groups behind you. For now, let’s distribute this flour, dried meat and molasses, salt, pemmican, and a little sugar for the children.” He moved to his saddlebags and returned with a cone of maple sugar, taking his big knife from a sheath on his leg and scraping flakes into the open palms of Emma and Sarelia, Virgilia and Nellie. Orus raised his eyes at the girl. “Gained a child, did you, Pringle?”

  “She’s Nellie Louise Blodgett. Does that name have any recognition?” Tabby told him that her family had taken a different route.

  “There was a route toward Sutter’s Fort,” Moses Harris said as he held his hand out for sugar too, his palm pale. “I believe a group from Illinois—Donner, Breen, Foster—went that way. Don’t know if Blodgett did.”

  “I remember Donner, yes. Hope they made it through.” Orus scraped a sugar flake into John Brown’s open hand. The Captain dipped his head, touched his tongue to the sugary flake. “The snows were deep in the Sierras. All we’ve gotten is cold rain and wind. And a spit of white stuff now and then. Octavius, don’t you want a little sugar?”

  “It’s for the children.”

  “We all need a little sugar,” Tabby said.

  Orus took a shaving himself, licking from the side of the blade. Octavius put his palm out then, and so did Clark and Judson, Pherne and Virgil. And then Tabby.

  “I knew you’d want sugar, Mother. You’re like one of the children.”

  “Am I? That’s good. I don’t ever want to stop playing and being hopeful.” She felt a peace she hadn’t felt for weeks.

  After they’d eaten pemmican, Virgilia heated water and strained tea into tin cups.

  Virgil said, “I thought we’d winter right here, wait it out until spring, now that we have supplies. Skinner has a cabin at the base of that butte. We could add to his settlement.”

  “No, no, that won’t do.” Orus put his knife back in the sheath. “We’ll head to my forest grove, follow the Willamette, and you’ll see this remarkable valley but also the lushness of the Tualatin Plains. My cabin is there and a few others. We can take you in. Lavina’s waiting on you. Wintering here is not a good idea with Indians about and nothing else.”

  “The Indians gave us venison,” Virgilia defended.

  Orus shook his head. “Can’t count on friendliness. Skinner doesn’t even stay this season. Besides, by the time you built shelters enough, you could be home with me and mine.”

  “We’re depleted, Brother. You can see that.” Pherne spoke up in defense of Virgil’s plan. “We need to rest.”

  “And rest you shall for a day or two. No more.” He raised his finger as though in warning. “Any longer and you’ll eat up your provisions and then what?”

  “We’ll build huts and hunt,” Clark said.

  “We’ll discuss it after we’ve eaten,” Orus announced. “Sister Phernie, let’s get these vittles into stomachs. You’ll feel more invigorated once we’ve had sustenance. Right, Mother?” Orus swirled her around again. “You’re light as an eggshell.”

  “Starvation will do that to you.”

  “At least we haven’t had to eat a skunk,” Clark said. “If I remember right, that was your first meal, Uncle Orus, after a long hiatus from the Arapaho and food.”

  “It was indeed.”

  “And this time we’ll bless the food proper,” Tabby said.

  Pherne and her mother and girls prepared their first real meal in weeks. They began with corn biscuits baked on the top of the Dutch oven Virgil brought back with him, theirs having been left behind. Inside, beans cooked. A second skillet steamed peas. Virgilia brought dried berries back to life, soaked in water made into a pudding with wheat flour, a luxury. The smells teased. Each person was also given a hunk of pemmican to chew on while they waited, the mixture thick with nuts and berries and meat and seasonings that lasted savory long minutes. The main course, venison backstrap taken from a deer Moses Harris had shot along the way, melted in their mouths after a quick fry on the skillet seasoned with salt.

  “What day is it?” Tabby asked.

  “December 6,” Virgil told her.

  “A late harvest feast,” she said. “The Lord is good, isn’t that so?”

  Nellie nodded as she wiped her mouth. At least no one’s teeth had fallen out. Tabby knew starvation could do that to a person too, take the teeth right out of hope.

  Despite the drizzle, good food and laughter helped warm them, along with dry blankets, part of the provisions the men brought. But hopefulness was the greatest supply the relief party carried with them. Pherne could see her family surviving now. The evening brought Pherne comfort knowing that even in the wilds, word spread, people reached out to help each other, to care for strangers and family. Orus could have easily ignored the stories of destitute emigrants creating a road to defeat the British should war come or ignored the rumors that all was well. He could have figured that the Pringles came down the Columbia and had settled somewhere else, but he acted. They would make a new life now. She wished Virgil could have gotten back before Orus, so the glory would have gone to her husband bringing relief and without having to share the glory with her brother. She chastised herself. She should be grateful no matter who arrived first.

  Still, the tenor of things changed with Orus’s presence. His big, blustery voice rang out giving orders, telling other emigrants how to divvy up the flour, which wagons looked sound enough to continue on and which should be left behind. He told Pherne’s son Clark where to move his tent to avoid the wind as though the boy hadn’t been doing a man’s work since May and making good choices too. Orus cut a new walking stick for her mother with his big knife. The rest of them hadn’t had time or strength. He had words about Mr. Scott too, though Virgil calmed him down with, “He was our savior. Don’t give him bad words meant for others.”

  Phern
e whispered to her husband later that night, nestled with a full stomach beneath the tent, lying safely in the crook of his shoulder. “We don’t have to do what Orus says. If you think it’s best to stay here, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “I’ve thought it through. I’d be a fool to argue with a man who’s wintered over and who had the good sense to come looking for us when we didn’t follow him.”

  “I’ve liked having the two of us and our family make decisions.”

  “Even bad as they were?”

  “You did the best you could with the information you had. What more can you ask yourself to do?” Pherne fluffed the fresh, dry blanket up over them, patted the wool. “And you talked with me about it. Some men don’t involve their wives in choices, but you do and I love you for that, Virgil Pringle.”

  “But here’s the thing, Phernie.” He stroked her forehead, his fingers gentle against her skin, onto her hair. My hair is filthy. “He’s a good man and he knows things we need to know. And he’s generous. Word got to him about the cutoff and the troubles we were having and he showed up.”

  “Did he chastise you, about our following Applegate’s advice?”

  “Only that little jab at supper. Oh, I think he thinks we should have continued down the Columbia, but he knew we had your mother with us and she can be pretty persuasive.” Virgil chuckled at the thought. Laughing seemed to bring on his cough. “He may well think she suggested we make that trek, so as not to hold anyone back.”

  “She didn’t hold us back.” Pherne’s voice grew soft.

  “I know. And it was brave of her to go on ahead.”

  “We sent her off. That’s what she thinks.”

  He lay thoughtful. “Yes, we did send them off, for their benefit, to survive when we might not have.”

  She changed the subject, the memory of sending her mother and John to their possible death, their own destitute state still raw. “I’m sorry I had Clark kill your favorite ox but we had nothing.”

  “I know.” The scent of wet leaves and earth and the sounds of the river rushing could be heard through the night. Pherne longed for familiar, for safety once again.

  “I thought we would all die. When you didn’t come back . . . the days and nights were interminably long.”

  He paused, his hand still. The silence spoke a thousand words and feelings before Virgil said, “Orus is who we need to follow now.”

  She accepted his avoidance of her expression of fear. Who did want to consider how close they’d come to dying? She heard Beatrice cackle. “I don’t like how he barrels into our lives.”

  “He barreled in when we needed him, Phernie. Let’s let him set the pace now. We’ll be fine.” He kissed her forehead. “We’re not planning to live with him.”

  “I should hope not.”

  She told him then of her dream. “It was so strange. They wanted me to leave. I wasn’t welcome there and then with bird in hand I left, walking in someone else’s shoes. And I was . . . happy. Isn’t that odd?”

  ‘“A byrd in hand is worth ten flye at large’ from the Boke of Nurture,” Virgil said.

  “I’ve never paid much attention to birds, but a dove is of special significance. And a sparrow. Yes, a sparrow. I think my silver bird was a sparrow.” She smiled as she curled closer to her husband, relished his presence. “There’s an ancient custom of bringing a bird into a new house to sanctify it. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “I wish I could give you a silver sparrow.”

  “Fiddlesticks.”

  “You sound like your mother,” Virgil teased.

  Pherne laughed. “You’re back in my arms and we’re almost where we were headed. We have each other. That’s worth so much more than a silver bird.”

  After two days of rest, taking in bread and peas, checking on wagon repairs, looking at the oxen’s shoes, replacing yet another set of brakes, they headed out. The day before, Mr. Scott had taken some of the supplies and, along with Moses Harris, rode back up the Applegate cutoff. There were others, starving, behind them, still trying to bring wagons through.

  The animals plodded along, with Tabby’s sole ox yoked to Virgil’s. Mud, still their companion, sucked at the wagon wheels. A few days north, they met another relief party headed south. Tabby sent up a prayer of thanksgiving that those behind them would get help. Not long after, they fell in with French-speaking trappers and their Indian wives and children. The trappers from the British Hudson’s Bay Company traveled with a large group of horses heading south to California for the winter. Virgil and Orus negotiated with them and hired six of the horses, arranging for them to be returned in the spring when the trappers moved back north. They pushed on ahead, but Tabby, Pherne, and the girls could ride now.

  “Is this journey the biggest challenge you’ve ever had, Gramo?” Sarelia rode beside her, her short legs sticking straight out. The Indian ponies were well broken and familiar with women and girls on their bare backs. Sarelia’s was a chestnut-colored mount she’d fallen in love with.

  “It might be.”

  “You didn’t finish your mem-o-are so I don’t know which is your bi-i-i-i-g trial.” She spread her arms out, her hands tugging on the reins in opposite directions, and the horse jerked his head up and down. “Oops,” she said.

  “I’ll finish it one day. Not much time to write, though you’d think there would be with us doing nothing all day but staying alive and sitting on our bottoms.”

  “Virgilia says she gets to read it too.”

  “Of course she does. I’m glad your mama kept it safe while I rode ahead. As for reading it, any who want to can.” The corners of Sarelia’s mouth dropped. “But you are the inspiration for it, remember.”

  The child’s dark eyebrows lifted right up, framing her square face. “Am I? Does that mean I’ll know first what your greatest challenge was?”

  “You’ll know second.”

  “Who gets to know first? Virgilia? Emma? You said I was the inspiration!”

  “Me. Your old gramo. I get to find out first. I won’t really know what my greatest challenge was until I write again and the words will tell me.” Or until I reach heaven.

  “Oh, Gramo. You’re silly.”

  But she’d never been more truthful.

  26

  Tired of Choosing

  They were near a fork in the big river when the wagon her brother Clark walked beside broke an axle. Virgilia knew they had nothing to repair it with.

  “It’s too much for these animals.” Virgil’s voice was one long sigh. “Take only what you can put in your saddlebags. We’re leaving the wagons here.”

  “But Papa, that means room for almost nothing.”

  “Virgilia, hear me about this.” Papa’s left eyebrow rose in that expression Virgilia knew meant don’t argue. “All we’ll have is the oxen and our Durham cows and our few sheep.” He sounded so tired. He’d worked so hard. “You children don’t know of such things, but we have no currency. We’ll have to work for our suppers, everyone. Maybe make butter and trade for flour. Hopefully we can come back when the roads are less muddy and bring the wagons in, but now, with provisions rationed, we need to leave more behind.”

  “Sorting again?” Virgilia leaned against the broken wagon.

  “Be grateful you have your life, Daughter.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “We must put on our creative hats, Virgilia, and see how much we can get into that bundle.” Her mother rubbed a smudge of dirt from Virgilia’s cheek as she spoke.

  Creative hat? Who had time for being imaginative? She’d been doing everything asked of her without complaint. She’d cooked and carried and crafted solutions to problems with neither praise nor notice. What did she have left to sort? A dress she hadn’t worn. Her hair combs. Her pewter knife. Both pieces? Why bother?

  “If you look around, you can always find someone with less than you. Remember that.” Her father raised that eyebrow again.

  “I guess you’re sorted to the nubbins too.” Vir
gilia approached Nellie, who sat lump-like on a log, though her roundness had long ago faded into angles and ridges. “What I have on. And the pincushion your mama made for me, though none of us have needles now.” She touched the stuffed cloth square over her heart. “Nothing more.” She lifted her hands to the skies that at that moment broke open with a splutter of mist while a shaft of sun made the grass glisten like gems. “Makes it easier to follow your father’s direction.”

  “I guess. I’m down to the book of sermons that my grandfather wrote years ago. I’ll keep that. I like reading them now and then, but I can’t seem to concentrate. My mind wanders to thoughts of food.”

  “I only have what I’m wearing, and what’s left of my lotion.” Nellie plopped on the ground. “I’ll ask Judson if I can help him decide what to leave or take, but he doesn’t have much either. He’s a real orphan. I’m a . . . forged one.”

  Virgilia pondered. “Forged can mean counterfeit and you’re real, Nellie. You’ll find your parents one day.”

  “I’m forged by being pounded out of something else and fired.”

  Virgilia changed the subject when she saw the grief of her words flash across Nellie’s face. “What will you do when we reach my uncle Orus’s place?”

  “I don’t know. Judson wants to apprentice with a blacksmith or farrier in exchange for his room and board. When he can go out on his own, then we’ll see if there’s a future for us. Like your papa said, he’s pretty young, but he’s my best friend. After you.”

  “I guess it’s pretty lucky to fall in love with your best friend.”

  Nellie looked up at her. “I know you mean well, Virgilia, but you don’t have to try to make me feel better nor always find something good everywhere.”

  “I only want to help.”

  “And you do. But sometimes, a person just needs to sit and make sense of a thing herself.”

  Virgilia nodded, but she swallowed back tears. All she wanted to do was relieve suffering and cheer people up.

  After a pause, Nellie added, “Lucky, yes I am. To have Judson and to have you. A forged orphan has to find luck somewhere.” Nellie grinned then. Virgilia smiled back. “It’s nice to have a friend with great dimples. Starvation almost stole them.”