A Light in the Wilderness (18 page)

“Now things get rough,” Zach Hawkins told Nancy. “We’ll start up the mountains soon. Been a gradual climb but it’ll get worse.” They stood at the top of Independence Rock watching the sunset over the Sweetwater River. They’d made the climb together, Nancy’s
sisters watching the baby and younger children so the two could stand on the rounded outcropping high above the dusty plains. A hot wind carried voices of other travelers who’d made the high trek. Some chipped their names with a knife.

“Much as I hate to say it, we’ve got to dispense with some of our weight.” Zach cleared his throat. “The oxen are tiring. It’ll only get harder for them.”

“Disperse? As in, leave behind?”

Zach nodded. “Some of the men call them lev-er-ites.”

“Do they.” She turned her face from him. “Haven’t we already left enough behind?” Her thoughts went to Laura and the lone cross Zach staked at the river site. Why had he chosen this moment with such grandeur before them to bring up yet more loss? “I don’t want to think about it now.”

“Has to be done, Nancy.”

“I know it does. I’ll do it. Don’t I always?” She turned aside, not wanting to look at him, fearing she’d have words with him about more than dispersal of belongings. She’d gone from blaming herself for Laura’s death to blaming him—for wanting to take them west, for not being there to help as he had been back in their homesteads, for being excited and anticipating the future while the past held her hostage.

“Hate to say it but the quilt frame doesn’t rise to the level of being saved.”

“If you ‘hate to say it,’ then don’t.”

“Nancy.”

She shrugged off his touch to her shoulder, her arms crossed over her chest.

From atop the rock the world looked so vast, like a giant quilt stitched with the blue of the Sweetwater River and green shrubs like embroidery knots to highlight the borders. Peaceful and comforting. Yet traveling through it they’d lost a child and maybe each other. Nancy scratched at the bonnet ribbon at her throat, then loosened it, letting tendrils of her hair catch the warm wind.

“We don’t have to leave anything here,” Zach said. “But I wanted you to get used to the idea of the quilt frame having to go.”

“And your anvil? It weighs three times my quilt frame. You’ll leave it behind?”

“Man needs an anvil to fix things and to form new things once we’re in Oregon.”

“A woman needs her quilt frame too. Good, solid oak. We may not find that in Oregon and then what would I do? I haven’t heard of another woman who got to take her frame with her, one her husband made for her, then used a portion for a grave marker.” She glared at him. “There must be a hundred anvils heading west.”

“Which proves my point. Frames aren’t essential; anvils are.”

“You can borrow one. Who will loan me a quilt frame?”

“Nancy—”

Nancy’s stomach roiled. She hadn’t told him yet about the young one she carried. She wasn’t ready yet to see Zach more happy, resenting that he had found solace before she did.
What kind of woman am I becoming?

“You’re always so certain,” she said.

“Man has to be certain, Nancy. It’s how I get through the tough times. I trust that we’re here for a reason and right now I think it’s to start a new life, to build a future for my family—our family. I thought you wanted to come.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Even if you’ve changed your mind, there’s no turning back.”

There was, though. She could go back with the dragoons or the trappers they kept meeting heading for St. Louis. They’d met some discouraged travelers returning east too, with faces as beaten down as their wagons. She shook her head. He was right. She couldn’t leave the children or him. She suffered from addled thinking.

“I’m not ready to give up the quilt frame, Zach. Other things maybe, but not that. Last quilt I worked on that frame was for Laura. I just couldn’t.” Her voice caught and a gust of wind pushed, and instinctively she protected her abdomen.

Zach stared. “Nancy? Are you . . . ?”

“Yes.” She knew she sounded angry. “I am. Morning sickness and all. When I swore I wouldn’t let that happen. You always talk me into things.”

“You were willing, if I recall.” He grinned.

Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

“Ah, Nancy.” He took her into his arms. “It’s a good thing, you having new life now. A reason to take care of yourself and for us to look forward to a new baby come spring.”

Was it? Was it God’s way of bringing her back from the brink of the sinking well? She wasn’t certain about life the way Zach was. Laura’s death eclipsed her heart. Nothing could cleave it back.

Zach thumbed tears from her cheeks, then pulled her to him again. “Let me think about that anvil.”

Letitia poured coffee into Davey’s tin and put the cover onto the flour barrel. Her stomach pinched as she did. “I’s sad my papers are lost.”

“Feel terrible about that, I do.” He looked away.

“You rewrite our agreement? Say again you care for me and Martha by leavin’ us whatever we build together. You still agree?”

“Oh sure. I’ll get something writ up soon as we get to Oregon.”

“Better before.” What if he died on the trail? Would they take the wagon and Davey’s money from her? Sell her to someone? She couldn’t put that worry in her bucket, couldn’t carry it around.

“Little time for such as that, Tish. Can’t bother a man to write such down until winter. We’ll meet up with Doc and he’ll be able to write it from memory.”

“I knows what it say.”

“You worry too much. Any more fish?”

She served him and they ate in silence.

“We’ve been lucky so far, Tish. We’ll make it through, and like I said, you won’t need to worry about papers telling that you’re
free. I’ll defend ye.” He grinned. “I plan to live forever so we have plenty of time about the other.”

They were six hundred miles out from Fort Hall and the oxen with their sore feet and sparse forage became harder to harness. In the distance Letitia saw mountain peaks, and though the oxen pulled the wagon long hours each day, no longer even stopping on the Sabbath, it seemed as though they never got any closer to the snow-dusted ridges. At the headwaters of the Sweetwater Letitia heard before seeing the roiling river with its cooling mist and thundering sounds. Davey said these were “young rivers” full of drop and gouge, not like the meandering rivers of the Missouri or Platte. Days more and the world opened into a meadow with wild strawberries ripe for the picking. Six miles across and they encountered a stream flowing west. They’d crossed the divide.

Letitia spoke a prayer to Martha, then described what she was seeing. “Such grand creation, Baby.” Maybe she ought not to worry about Davey’s signing a new paper. The God who created sweet strawberries in the middle of nowhere, who controlled the flow of the rivers to the sea, surely such a God would tend to her child and her.

“I needs to lean.” Letitia kissed Martha’s tiny nose. Martha blew bubbles between lips as tiny as sunflower seeds. “At least today, I’s feelin’ blessed with a chil’ safe in my arms and a husband whistlin’ his happiness as he drive along.”

Though they knew now the rivers flowed west, the way was not easier. Tall mountains loomed on either side of their travel and still more rivers greeted them, more mountains to cross. This land made Letitia sigh in awe. She told Davey she’d never seen such vastness, such tall trees straight as spears. They encountered bighorn sheep and plenty of elk and venison whose flavors tickled the nose while they fried and satisfied stomachs when eaten. At the Green River, swollen from snowmelt in the mountains, the company took four
days to cross. They built raft-like structures, then floated wagons, one at a time. No lives were lost and Letitia enjoyed the days of rest while they waited their turn. They encountered a family heading back to the states, and Letitia grew courageous and asked if they might take a message to friends behind them.

“We can try.” The woman wore a faded bonnet that matched her sun-washed cheeks. “Give me the letter, dearie.”

“I . . . don’ write,” Letitia said. “Can you take my words?”

“Who’s to get them?”

“Doc Hawkins and Nancy. Just tell ’em the Carsons are well and hopin’ they catch up soon.” Then as the woman nodded, Letitia added, “And that we keeps ’em in our prayers.”

“The best kind of friendship.” The woman pushed her bonnet back. “When things aren’t going right, prayer’s the only thing to keep them from going more wrong.”

“Even then there’s no assurance.” These the first words from the woman’s husband. “Prayers didn’t keep us heading west, now did they?”

Letitia could feel the heat between this couple, still far from a home that was no longer like what they’d left, carrying barrels of blame in their wagon. She’d work to make sure she and Davey weren’t carrying similar cargo.

Near the Green River, Davey’s company caught up with Tetherow’s group, the one they’d started out with.
At
last
we
’
re
in
the
front
group
.
Took
us
long
enough
.
Not far beyond they approached a deep canyon, and oxen had to be put on both the front to steer and the back to keep the wagons from careening over the front oxen and tumbling everything down the ridge. Staying in the wagons was an invitation to death.

“Sit on your bottom,” Davey told Letitia. “And slide.”

The success of this effort was followed by a landscape covered with crickets that crunched beneath the wagon wheels.

“Lookee there.” Davey pointed to where friendly Indians had rigged a kind of cricket corral, forcing the insects into baskets.

“They eats ’em?”

“’Spect so.”

Davey later learned that they’d be ground into a meal and, when cooked in boiling water, formed a thick mush lasting a year. “It would last longer than that if I was to eat it,” Davey told Tish.

They encountered a section of land with several springs bubbling from the ground, one so hot Tish dipped a tin full and poured it over her tea leaves and sipped. Not far away they drank from a cold spring while geysers of water shot into the air in the distance. Tish’s bread rose to a fine high with the soda springs near a rock shaped like a steamboat. A few days later they arrived at the Hudson’s Bay Company’s Fort Hall where snowcapped mountains awaited and talk of choices abounded: sell wagons and go with pack animals on a narrow route? No, take wagons to California where they’d be greeted like kings. Leave saplings behind. Take on bacon. Or head onward to Oregon, crossing the dangerous Snake and prepare for the Blue Mountains and then the Columbia River where the Applegates had lost sons.

Davey didn’t want to make a foolish choice, and yet packing mules and leaving the wagon behind sounded appealing what with all the talk about hostile Indians and even more demanding terrain. “I’m not sure what we ought to do, Tish.” He surprised himself confessing his uncertainty. “I suspect the Britishers running the fort wants folk to head to California so they keep Oregon country for themselves.”

“Lots of cattle here.”

“Yes, they’ve been left by emigrants like us who didn’t risk taking loose stock. We get our milk cows through to Oregon and we’ll be sitting pretty. British know that.”

“Could we take apple saplings?” Tish watched one of the emigrants unload apple saplings that Rothwell sniffed at, piled on the ground.

“He’s leaving them because they won’t grow in Oregon, or so one of the Canadian trappers told him. Surprises me. I hear tell soil is rich there, grows anything.”

“I sees an apple orchard spreadin’ wide on our land. Beside our cabin door.” She opened her arms taking in the landscape.

He shrugged. The saplings wouldn’t take up much space, and if he agreed maybe she’d talk less about the papers and the trailing Hawkins clan. Once they caught up, she’d be on him to get their
contract back in writing. He hadn’t decided yet whether to add Junior to the agreement or not. He hadn’t broached that subject with Tish. Didn’t want to think about death and dying. He held pride in Tish and the work she did without complaint and how she’d not named him responsible for the loss of her papers. It wasn’t his fault; but he could see where a woman might say it was. Tish hadn’t. Sometimes, he was a little embarrassed admiring of a colored woman. But if he didn’t think of her as that—only as his wife and the good woman she was and the mother of his sweet Martha Ann—then the shame flowed from his ever having thought he
shouldn’t
sign an agreement. Harnessing oneself to a woman caused all kinds of rough road.

“Your orchard says we’ll need a wagon, so looks like we’re heading to the Blues and on to the Columbia.” He rather liked that they shared that decision. “Since he’s leaving the saplings, maybe he’ll give us a couple rather than my having to trade him for them.”

“I’s grateful.” He could tell when she was moved by the grin on her face and a look of sparkle in her eyes. She had a dimple back now that her face wasn’t so puffed from her carrying the child. He liked the warmth in his belly when he saw that burst of gratitude. He’d have to try for more of those occasions—so long as they weren’t dancing around papers.

The evening before they planned to head out, the Hawkins clan rolled in. “Tish! Tish!” Martha’s tiny voice rang above the sounds of pounding wagon repairs, cattle lowing, men laughing, and dogs barking.

Letitia stepped down from the wagon and slipped Baby Martha on her back. She squatted and Martha Hawkins, arms open wide, plowed into Letitia, a dirty cheek pressed velvet against Letitia’s as she squatted.

“Goodness, Martha.” Nancy spoke from behind her. “Don’t knock the woman over.”

“She fine, jus’ fine.” Letitia stood, rested her hand on Martha’s head. The evening breeze ruffled the girl’s skirt, the hem hanging low. She wanted to hug Nancy but wasn’t sure she should. During grieving maybe, but out of friendship? Yes, they were friends, people who had shared sorrows and joys.

Nancy wrapped her arms around Letitia. “I’m so glad we caught up with you.” She whispered now. “I needed someone to complain to about my sister-in-law and my mother. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent this much time with them and I declare, Tish, if I wasn’t crazy before I must surely be there now. You can catch bouts of craziness from your children and your parents!”

Letitia laughed, the sound coming from her belly. It had been a long time since she’d laughed so deep as that.

“Let me see that little coffee cup. What an ingenious contraption you’ve got for carrying her.” She leaned in. “Better be careful. I might come borrow it sometime. Nancy Jane’s weighing a ton carried on my hip.”

“We makes one for you.”

“That would be grand. Not tonight though. I’m tired as an all-day-hunting hound dog. Speaking of which, where’s that Rothwell?”

“He’s off with Mr. Carson rootin’ holes like he does. He more pig than dog. How you manage to catch up?”

“Wasn’t easy.” She perched against the wagon wheel, let Nancy Jane crawl on the quilt Letitia laid down. “Folks like having a doctor in their company. But Zach knew I wanted to hurry along. He pushed my in-laws too. And Martha, well, Martha grieved your leaving so much I think he was willing to do most anything to put a smile back on that child’s face. We put our few stock in with others and it took us but a few hours to cross Green River. We heard it took one group four days.”

“That be us.”

Doc Hawkins sauntered over then and Martha ran to his knees and hugged them. “Baby Martha’s growed up.”

Nancy pointed to the cradleboard as Letitia took Martha from it.

“Looks healthy. And you, Miss Letitia?”

“Not a day of sickness. Davey had Dengue fever.”

“That can be fatal. Good he endured. Where is Davey?”

“At the horse corral.”
Should I bring up the lost agreement?
“Doc Hawkins, suh, you remembers that paper you draws up, one Davey sign? About his agreein’ to look after me and our chil’ in return for my workin’ with him, cookin’ and farmin’. It got lost.”

“Oh no,” Nancy said. “You had a written contract?”

Letitia nodded. “Lose it and my freedom papers.”

“Oh, Letitia!” Nancy touched her arm.

“Davey say Bowmans say I’s free so I needs to find them in Oregon. But I needs another agreement paper signed, case Davey dies and I still livin’.”

Doc Hawkins frowned. “I don’t know what sort of paper you’re referring to, Miss Letitia.”

“Davey say you write out that he care for me and my chil’. His property come to us when he die. He say he sign it in front of you.”

“There’s no such agreement that I prepared.” Doc Hawkins’s eyes held sadness. “Maybe he had someone else do it. I’ll bet that’s it.”

“You didn’t draw up the words?”

“I did not. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” All sorts of rumblings tumbled through her thoughts, none of them bringing cheer.

“Doc Hawkins say he know nothin’ about no contract.” Letitia hissed at Davey when he’d sauntered back from fishing, poked his chest with her finger. “What you show me with your name on it? It weren’t no agreement. Someone else write it for you?”

Truth was, he never had signed any agreement. He’d signed a paper certifying the list of supplies he’d brought along. He didn’t want any other white man to know what he’d verbally agreed to with a colored woman. They’d think him daft probably, committing to caring for a colored woman and child even if he did think
of them as his family. His second family. Davey had another son, and now that he knew where Junior was, he felt he ought to provide for that child as well if something ever happened to him. He’d shamefully been a little relieved when Letitia stopped asking about written words to match what he told her and a little more ashamed to know she hung onto a worthless list thinking it was gospel. Now the roosting chicken roasted in the fire of his own making, as his mother might say.

“I . . . my word to you ought to be enough.” He puffed up his chest, lowered his voice. No need to let folks know about their squabble. “What’s the use of papers anyway. They just get lost. Like yours. You have my word. That’s enough for any man; should be enough for you, too.”

“You lie to me about what I look at and keep so careful ’til you toss it away.”

“Now Tish, I didn’t mean to do that. You know that.”

“Do I? My man say he care for me then deceive me like I’s some chil’ he stealin’ candy from, tellin’ it sweet when it poison. I gots a sweet paper but it nothin’ but stink!”

He did hate to see her eyes filling with tears, but a man ought not be challenged over every little thing. “Lookee, I can get one written, but I resent the need to. I told you I’d care for you. I did. I will. We got a
verbal
agreement.” He leaned in close. “It still stands.”

“Sho if somethin’ happen to you, what Martha and me do then?”

“We’ll be in Oregon. We’ll prove up the land. It’ll be a state one day.” He kept his secret about his citizenship papers. He held up fingers he counted out, his voice like he was teaching a child. “Truth is, I don’t know that you can inherit.”

“I can earn money you pay me, and I get to keep it if you dies, if you puts that in a paper. Laws change. Maybe one day a woman inherit land, even a colored woman.”

“I told you, Tish, not to worry.”

Martha started to cry.

“There no witness to what you tell me. You say it in front of Doc
Hawkins, then I believe.” She carried the child on her shoulder, patting her back, and turned away.

“No witness? Sure there is,” he called after her, not caring if others heard. “That tinker who read the words over us when we . . . you know.” She stopped. “He heard me promise.”

“Not abouts you payin’ for my laborin’.”

I wish she wouldn’
t talk so slave-like, dipping into words without finishing
them.
“Well, no. But promising to keep you in sickness and health and all that. God’s my witness. None better.”
That should quiet her and comfort her too.