Ransom's Mark Page 2
While Ma silently scrubbed, Pa hopped from one detail to the next—checking and oiling harnesses; running his hands over the legs of the horses; and checking his lists of provisions, farming implements, and bags of seeds.
Ever since the day spent with their Oregon-bound friends a year ago, Pa had seemed restless. At first Ma had been busy with the newest Oatman, an ever-hungry little boy, but, before long, Olive noticed that she became quiet and pensive when Pa complained about Illinois weather or the creep of civilization toward their homestead.
Four years ago, during their second year of farming at Fulton, Pa injured his back moving a boulder while helping a neighbor dig a well. The injury had bothered him ever since, especially in the extreme cold of winter. Sometimes when his back pained him it made his knee and the side of his foot tingle and become numb. Over the last four years, he’d worked around it, resting when the injury became inflamed and doubling up on the work when it subsided.
Last year, however, all Pa could talk about was how much the intense cold affected him.
“Mary Ann,” Pa whispered. “Are you awake?”
Olive sometimes heard her parents talking long into the night.
“I fear that if I am to somehow live long enough to educate my family or even to enjoy tolerable health, we must make a move.” When Ma didn’t answer, he went on. “I need to seek a climate free from the extreme changes of weather.”
Olive strained to hear Ma’s answer.
After a long silence, Ma asked, “Does this have anything to do with all those strange pamphlets you’ve been discussing with Mr. Thompson and others about a colony—a promised land—near the Colorado River?”
“I don’t know about ‘strange.’” Father cleared his throat. Olive recognized the gesture as the one her father always made before launching into a lecture or an argument. “I don’t agree with all the beliefs of the man calling for this journey, but I do believe the destination to be a Promised Land—filled with tall grasses, abundant water, rich soil, and warm climate.”
“I’ve never stood against you before, Royce, and I won’t do so now. You’ve provided well for us over the years. The job God gave me is to follow your lead and care for this family.” Ma laughed a quiet laugh. “Besides, for as long as I’ve known you, you seem to have an incurable tugging westward. I might as well be prepared to follow you to the edge of the Pacific Ocean and get it over with.”
So that was that.
Pa began planning. Olive had never seen him so happy. When he finally sold everything, he announced that they had fifteen hundred dollars to outfit themselves for the journey and to make a new start near the Rio Colorado in California.
They purchased near home most of the things they needed for the journey. Pa knew that if he waited until they arrived in Independence, prices would triple. He bought a sturdy Studebaker wagon—the kind that pioneers called prairie schooners. A canvas bonnet covered the curved ribs of strong oak. The heavy bed of the wagon was tarred to make it watertight so that it could float down a gentle stream if needed. The sideboards were beveled outward so that rainwater couldn’t seep in between the bonnet and the bed.
A jockey box attached to the side of the wagon. Pa kept checking and rechecking to make sure he included everything they might need inside the box. It carried extra iron bolts,linch pins, skeins,nails,hoop iron,a variety of tools, and a jack. Also slung on the side of the wagon were two water barrels, a butter churn, a shovel and axe, a tar bucket, a feed trough for the livestock, and a chicken coop.
Ma packed the interior. She used every inch of space to bring as many of the family treasures as she could without weighing down the wagon. They needed clothing and yardage goods to make more. She had to include all the cooking utensils needed to make meals along the trail, as well as the tools she’d need to set up housekeeping in California.
She tried to pack and discard without becoming sentimental, but it was impossible. In the end, her family linens, the salt crock, her wedding dress, and all the family books were tucked into crevices in the wagon.
One of the last things to go into the wagon was the lilac cutting Olive had carefully prepared. Ma wanted it where she could keep it moist, so she placed the rooting end in a small oilcloth sack tied round with twine and set on the shelf near her Bible. She had also made an oilcloth sack for her Bible in case they took a drenching.
All the rest of the space held food supplies, farming implements, and bedding. Down the center of the wagon, Ma arranged a bed of sorts. She and the little ones would sleep in that nest, along with Lucy and Olive at times. It would be a tumble of bodies in a cramped space, but it provided safety and warmth.
Once they reached Independence, Pa hoped to buy a couple of small army surplus tents for extra sleeping. Until then, he, Lorenzo, and Royce planned to unroll their bedding under the box of the wagon.
They had a team of six oxen to pull the wagon and tied their two horses and a milk cow behind. As far as humanly possible, they were ready for the adventure ahead.
Pa took the Bible out of the oilcloth and opened it. “This passage comes from the thirty-third chapter of the book of Genesis.” He looked down at the page and read, “And he said, Let us take our journey, and let us go, and I will go before thee.” He closed the Bible and led them in prayer, asking God to walk alongside them on the journey.
The wagon rolled out of the Fulton homestead toward Davenport, Iowa, where they planned to meet up with their Illinois neighbors, the Thompsons, for the journey to Independence, Missouri—the jumping-off place to the West.
Independence teemed with activity. To Olive it seemed as if the whole country was headed west. It looked like the encampment of a vast army on wheels.
So many emigrant wagon train companies met up and pulled out of the town that the wagons either sank into dusty soil halfway to the axle in dry weather or got stuck in the thick clay mud they called “gumbo” after a rain.
The fields around the city had been stripped to bare dirt by hundreds of thousands of grazing cattle funneling through Independence. With thousands of campfires, not a twig of firewood survived in the entire region—every downed tree or broken branch became a treasure.
The Brewster Party—the one Pa had decided to join— agreed to meet four miles south of town. When all assembled, there were twenty wagons and fifty-two people in the party, most of them children. That suited Olive just fine. She hoped to find a girl her age, since Lucy’s best friend, Susan Thompson from Fulton, traveled in the same party.
Olive met boys and babies, toddlers and little girls, but apparently she was the only 13-year-old girl. How she wished Pa could wait for a different wagon train, but she knew that the careful timing of their departure was critical. Had they planned to take the Oregon Trail, the Bozeman Trail, or the California Trail, they’d be obliged to wait until spring. The mountain passes would be closed by snow long before they could arrive. But, because they chose the southern route—the Santa Fe Trail to the Gila Trail—cold weather would not be as much a problem as heat and drought could be in the southern deserts.
“Want to walk over to that ridge with Susan and me?” Lucy asked.
Olive couldn’t believe they would ask. She looked over toward Ma, nursing the baby. C. A. was taking a nap, and Royce and Mary Ann were playing with the other children. A moment before she had felt lonely—now she felt like skipping across the prairie.
“Yes. Let me get my bonnet.” She ran to the wagon. Ma smiled with a quick wink of her eye. She understood the reason for Olive’s sudden excitement.
Maybe this trip would be an adventure after all.
The girls walked to the ridge and found an outcropping of stone on which to sit.
“My pa says to enjoy these ridges and rock outcroppings while we have them,” Susan said. “At times, the land will be so flat we’ll not find a single spot offering privacy.”
Olive knew what she meant by privacy. There would be no outhouses along wilderness trails. It was not just g
rooming privacy that they craved. Because of the time they’d already spent on the road from Davenport, Olive knew how important it could be to put a little space between you and a whole wagon train of people.
“Don’t fret.” Lucy laughed. “My mother already thought of that. She brought old blankets to tie between two trees to offer some little privacy on the plains.”
Olive should have known Ma would think of a plan.
“And if there are no trees or scrub brushes tall enough,” Lucy continued, “we’ll tie our makeshift curtain between two wagons.”
The girls giggled at the thought of some of the inconveniences they’d experience before they reached the Rio Colorado.
Susan changed the subject abruptly. “My cousin said that nothing makes hair softer and shinier than washing it in a cold running stream.” Susan lowered her voice to a whisper. “And she said that if we find elderberries, we can crush them and stain our lips reddish.”
Before Olive could say anything, both girls started laughing, and Olive realized Susan was teasing. Sort of. Surely she wouldn’t think of using face paint, would she?
“Don’t look so worried, sister,” said Lucy. “Susan loves to talk nonsense.”
The afternoon passed with light talk and laughter. They went back to the camp to spell their mothers with the little ones and to help prepare the meal. The first couple of nights they prepared a large communal meal for the whole emigrant party, but they soon settled into their trail routine of separating into family groups for meals.
That night, August 9, 1850, everyone gathered after supper to set regulations for the long trip west and to get acquainted with each other. Besides Mr. Brewster, who organized the party, the party consisted of Susan’s family (the Thompsons), the Lane family, the Kelly family, the Wilders, the Metteers, the Brinshalls, the Oatmans, and others.
After the formalities concluded, Susan took out her violin to play. She started with “Money Musk” and “Zipp Coon.” The dogs barked, the oxen stepped nervously, the children hopped, and some of the men grabbed their partners to dance. As the night wore on and the breeze picked up dust off the prairie and swirled around the revelers, Susan ended by playing “The Old Oaken Bucket.” Every voice joined in singing the words:
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood
When fond recollection presents them to view,
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,
And ev’ry loved spot which my infancy knew—
The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket,
The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.
Olive glanced at her mother to see the glisten of tears reflecting the moonlight. Ma pulled a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. Looking around the circle, it was apparent she was not alone.
The moss covered bucket I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket,
The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.
Susan put her violin away as someone led in prayer for a safe journey ahead. Families gathered sleepy children and headed off toward their wagons for the night.
Sleep was a long time in coming for Olive. She tried to be still, listening to the melody of the night—sounds of lowing cattle, soft nickers of horses, the far-off howl of the coyote, a chorus of sputters and snores, and the muffled weeping of a homesick pioneer. Eventually she must have fallen asleep, wedged tightly between Lucy and Mary Ann.
After morning prayers, Pa and Lorenzo hitched the oxen to the wagon as Ma and the girls finished cooking the food that must take them through the day. They wouldn’t halt until suppertime. Olive hoped the tasks of getting underway would eventually become routine, but for now, they had to remember each step. Ma would handle the reins, if needed, and either Lucy or Olive would take turns inside the wagon caring for the baby and C. A. while the other walked. Mary Ann and Royce could walk alongside, play with their friends, or ride if they became tired.
When they first began to talk about the trip all those months ago, Olive figured the family would ride comfortably in the wagon from Fulton to California, just as they did in Illinois when they rode to church. She laughed now when she compared her expectation to reality.
The wagon weighed some 1,300 pounds empty. With all their belongings, supplies, and foodstuffs added, the prairie schooner lumbered along at a snail’s pace. Most emigrant parties covered only about fifteen miles a day. Even when walking alongside, the pace seemed too slow. Children would spend the whole day running up ahead and running back to check on the wagon. The men of the party often rode on horseback, riding far ahead to scout the trail and coming back to check on the progress of the train. Olive guessed that much of the “scouting” took place because the men chaffed at the plodding pace.
Riding in the wagon bounced and jostled the passengers until they were bruised and sore. None of the axles on the Oatman covered wagon had springs—the only springs on the whole wagon were those under the driver’s seat. The rutted dirt roads of the trail were regular washboards. Sometimes Olive thought her teeth would rattle out of her gums.
They hadn’t been long on the road to Davenport when they found a purpose for the bumps and jumps. Ma discovered they could fill the butter churn with fresh milk in the morning, and, by night, they only had to pour off the buttermilk and they scraped out a lump of sweet yellow butter, ready for supper without any further churning.
And many a mother claimed that the jostling of the wagon cured a colicky baby. Olive knew it had the opposite effect on her—riding inside made her downright cranky.
But none of that mattered. It was August 10th and at long last, they were hitched, loaded, and ready. The children stood expectantly, as James Brewster raised his horn to his lips and let out a shrill note followed by the shout, “Wagons ho!”
One by one, the heavy wagons creaked, swayed, and rocked as they pulled out of the circle, straightening into a long line to stretch across the vast prairie.
Unexpectedly, Olive felt her scalp tighten and chills run across her shoulders. Just a moment before the trip had held promise of great adventure. What changed? What caused a jagged shard of fear to pierce the excitement? Olive tried to shake off the eerie feeling, but it persisted as the wagons moved farther away from the safety of home.
Storms Brewing
Despite Olive’s momentary sense of dread, the first week passed in a cloud of dust and excitement. The wagon train rolled across the prairie as children played and families worked together. At night the wagons circled. Boys gathered wood or buffalo dung, which settlers called “prairie coal,” to build the cooking fires. The men unhitched the teams and examined the oxen—running sensitive, probing hands over their sides to make sure the harnesses didn’t rub sores on the animals. The women cooked, and the older girls cared for the children.
The second night, Olive, Lucy, and Susan took the little Oatmans and the little Thompsons down to the creek to wash off some of the dust before supper. Charity Ann seemed especially tired. She mostly wanted to suck her thumb, snuggle into Olive’s lap, and stroke her braids.
“Ouch, I’ve got bug bites all over my legs,” Susan said.
“Me too,” Lucy said. “I figured out that if I walked farther away from the cattle, the biting flies weren’t as bad.”
“Nothi
ng helps with these mosquitoes.” Olive was swatting some of the biggest mosquitoes she’d ever seen. She could hear them humming near her ear. “They seem mighty hungry.”
“Not as hungry as me,” Royce said, putting out his arms and circling the girls in his imitation of a hungry mosquito. “Do you think Ma has supper ready?” Nothing ever seemed to fill that boy.
“Are you all washed up, Royce? We may be miles away from civilization, but Ma would see you starve before she’d let you come to the table with dirty hands.”
Lucy helped Mary Ann wash off some of the trail dust. “Come here, Royce. Let me wipe your hands dry, and then you can take the towel to Olive.”
Susan gathered the Thompson brood and herded them over to their wagon.
“Olive,” said Lucy in a whisper. “Let’s get the children back up to Mother and come back here after campfire tonight when the mosquitoes have gone to sleep.”
“Please let me come, too,” Mary Ann pleaded. “I’m big.”
Olive almost said no until she remembered how she felt when Susan and Lucy included her. “If Ma says you can.”
Lucy took Charity Ann from Olive’s lap, and the Oatman children scrambled up the bank toward the smell of food. Olive could hear stomachs rumbling. Something about the trail made a body mighty hungry. They needed to be careful about rations on the trail, however. They could little afford the luxury of eating their fill as they had back in Illinois. Provisions needed to stretch until the end of the journey.
After supper, Ma bedded down the baby and Charity Ann while the rest of the family gathered around the campfire. At first, it was like the nights in Independence. Mr. Metteer brought out his harmonica, and everyone joined in on a rowdy singing of “Buffalo Gal.”