At last the wagons were packed and the oxen harnessed, and Maggie and the other members of the women’s train slowly made their way alongside them to the river crossing. Mary had offered to drive an ox team, she told Maggie. But Joseph had thought that unseemly.
“But all the women will drive before we reach Fort Kearny,” William protested.
“That may be so, but I expect to start our journey in a way that befits us as a group of proper Christian souls.”
“Even if some of those men he engaged don’t know the front end of an ox from the back end of a mule,” Mary whispered to Maggie.
They had hoped to be among the first at the ferry, but when they arrived, they discovered that a long line of teams had already formed. Clara laughed at the sight of a wagon driven by a man in a top hat and military jacket who slapped the reins over six matching white horses. “I want to ride with him,” she said.
“You would not get far,” William told her. “Those animals will not last half the way to Fort Laramie. Our oxen may be slow, child, but they will feed on prairie grass instead of grain. In time, you will like them better than horses.”
Clara stared at the minister and gripped her mother’s hand. Maggie wasn’t surprised that after the way her father had treated her, Clara was frightened of men. At the thought of Jesse she looked around, but no one in that nearby throng of dirty, bearded men looked familiar.
Clutching Clara’s hand lest she be trampled, Maggie pointed at wagon covers—or sheets, as they were called—decorated with pictures of elephants and buffalo and maps of California. “We are going to see the elephant,” Maggie said, but Clara did not know what an elephant was, did not understand the popular gold-rush expression. It meant they would see what there was to be seen.
The covers were emblazoned with the names of companies—Wild Kentuckians, Gold Diggers, Never Say Die, and Rough and Ready. Maggie showed that last one to Winny, who rushed to inquire if anyone knew the whereabouts of her brother Davy. But those Rough and Readies were from Georgia, not Illinois.
“Should we have thought up a name to be painted on our wagons?” Maggie asked Caroline.
“Joseph suggested ‘God’s People,’” Caroline replied. “Fortunately, William said that by the time we reached California, the wagon sheets would be a disgrace to God.”
“A wise decision,” Maggie said. She studied the bearded men in fringed buckskin and rawhide boots or flannel shirts, corduroy trousers, and broad-brimmed hats as they walked along, and could not help staring at half-naked Indians, their hair powdered red, who begged for “ko-fee” and crusts of bread.
“When it is your turn to drive a team, I will watch Clara,” Mary offered. “I think the men will drive until the oxen are broken in. They are green yet. I am glad we are not driving mules. They are hard to break and mean. I do not believe the women could drive them. Oxen are not so difficult, as you know.”
Maggie did indeed know. On the farm, Mary had taught her how to handle the brutes. She knew to tap the lead ox on the rump and yell, “Move out! Giddup!” to start the team, and to stop it by calling “Whoa!” with a tap on the head. “Haw!” with a tap on the right ear made the team turn left. “Gee” and a slap on the left ear, and they turned right. “Back!” and a knock on the chest or the knees sent the team backward. “At least that is what they are supposed to do,” Mary had told her after one of her lessons. “Oxen are dumb. And stubborn, as stubborn as Reverend Swain sometimes.”
“Maybe we should smack him on the side of the head with the whip handle when he is put out with us,” Maggie said. Joseph was now complaining that the wagon line was untidy. Did he think the oxen cared?
I wish we would hurry, Maggie thought as she watched Mary stride off with Clara to examine a goat. Just that morning Mary had told her she had heard of a man inquiring about a woman and child. Maggie shivered as she thought that someone might be in St. Joseph searching for her. Although the man could have been looking for anyone, the two women thought it a good idea for Clara to stay with Mary and to continue to dress like a boy. Maggie would feel safer once they crossed the river. The companies would spread out, and there was a smaller chance she would be recognized. She glanced at the crowd near the ferry but did not see anyone familiar. So many of the emigrant men looked alike in their mud-spattered clothing and formless hats. She scuffed her toe in the dirt and spotted a blue flower in the grasses that somehow had escaped getting crushed. Intending to give it to Clara, she picked it, but as she rose she spied a woman she had noticed on the boat. The woman, a girl really, who was young with the blond hair and pale face of a bisque doll, seemed sad, and Maggie thought perhaps she was sorry she had come. “I’m Maggie,” she said, handing the girl the stem.
The girl looked at the flower as if wondering how such a pretty thing had survived the wagon wheels and boots of thousands of travelers. She took it and held it in her hand, not knowing what to do with it. “Dora Mifflin,” the girl said at last.
“You are peaked. Are you thinking you made a mistake? It is not too late to turn back. Others have.” Maggie wondered if she should have spoken so. The girl was none of her business, and Maggie should not have intruded on her thoughts. Still, Dora was alone, and it seemed as if she needed a friend.
“No. I had no choice.”
“Perhaps you are ill, then. They say the river bottoms breed disease.”
“Only a little. Breakfast did not sit well.”
“Are you saying you do not enjoy a coarse meal of pancakes covered with dust instead of sorghum?” Maggie laughed a little at her joke.
Dora gave her a slight smile, showing small, even teeth, then glanced at the flower in her hand. “I wonder if we shall see such flowers on the trail.” She fastened the stem in her long flaxen braid. “I hope so. It is very brown here.”
“I think we shall get used to it,” Maggie said.
Dora nodded. “I suppose we must get used to many things—sleeping on the ground, for instance. But I cannot complain, for I want to go on in the worst way.”
“I hope you are not a criminal, then.” Maggie tried to lighten the conversation. When the girl did not reply, Maggie apologized. “I overspoke. Forgive me.”
“No, it is all right.” The girl put her hands in the small of her back and stretched, bending backward a little, and Maggie saw the swelling in her belly.
“Oh!” Maggie said before she could stop herself.
Dora straightened up and put her hands over her belly. “You will not tell, will you?” The girl sounded desperate. “The truth is I do not want to go to California at all, but nothing else presented itself. The father—he is married. I did not know, and when I told him of my condition, he would not have a thing to do with me. He denies the baby is his. But it is! I have never been with anyone else.”
“Were you in service?” Maggie asked. Maggie knew that pretty servant girls were often violated by the sons of their employers—or the employers themselves. She thought of Evaline. Perhaps Bessie had joined the company to prevent the Negro girl from encountering such foul behavior. She glanced around until she spotted Bessie, Evaline beside her. Bessie always kept her servant close.
Dora shook her head. “A teacher. I was a schoolgirl. I was going to be a teacher, too. I loved to learn. He read such beautiful poetry that I could not help but give him my heart.”
“And there is no one to take you in?”
“Mam and Pap would turn their backs on me if they knew. I never told them. I just ran away. Likely the ministers would do the same as my folks if they found out. So you must not tell them,” Dora pleaded. “What would I do if they turned me out? I am hopeful I can go far enough toward California before I show so that they cannot leave me behind.” She grasped Maggie’s hand. “You will keep my secret, will you not?”
Maggie nodded solemnly, thinking how alike their stories were. Both had been betrayed by men, and both had families who would not help them. Of course she would keep Dora’s secret. She would do what she could to help the poor girl. She remembered the minister saying they were all running from something. That was true for her, for Penn House, perhaps for Sadie, and now Dora. “Your secret is not mine to tell. Besides, there are other secrets here that the women do not want known.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I know of a fancy woman among us.”
“Who?” Dora asked, shocked.
“I shall not tell that either. You see, I can keep a secret. But yours, it will be known long before we reach California.” She laughed. “The ministers believed some of the women would drop out. They did not know we would add to the company. When is the baby due?”
Dora shrugged. “I cannot be sure, but I think maybe four months, perhaps five.” Then she mused, “I wonder what I shall do when I reach California. Do you think I shall be an outcast?”
“They say there are many outcasts there already. Surely you will find a husband, if you want one. I am told that many a man would be pleased to acquire not just a wife but a family. You see, I have a four-year-old child with me.” She put her arm through Dora’s and said, “We will walk on the shady side of the wagon. Lean on me if you feel faint.”
“I will not do it! If I cannot go to California on my own strength, I shall throw myself under an ox team.”
Maggie laughed and said, “You are too proud. Before we reach California, we will all of us lean on each other.”
ALL MORNING, MAGGIE looked for Pennsylvania House, the girl who had approached her the day before about joining the company. Maggie had expected Penn to show up first thing to make sure she didn’t miss the train, because there was no way she could join the caravan of women after they crossed the Missouri. As the day drew on, Maggie wondered if Penn’s man had discovered her plans and beaten her, maybe tied her up—even killed her. Jessie had threatened to kill her if she ever left him, and Maggie knew he’d meant it. She peered behind her so often that Dora asked who she was looking for. “A woman who hoped to join us,” she said, no more willing to tell Dora about Penn than she was to share Dora’s situation with the others.
She saw Sadie and asked if she had spotted Penn. “Maybe she changed her mind,” Maggie said, although she doubted it. If Penn House had been desperate enough to share her situation, she had already made up her mind to run away.
Sadie shook her head and said, “She was frightened. I seen women like that before. A man promises to be good, and they believe him, the fools. He’s nice for a day or two. Then back it is to what they had before, only worse. If he finds out she’s going to leave him, he will beat her bad.” She paused. “I ain’t trying to shock you. I know you for a widow, and I expect your husband was a good man.”
Maggie didn’t trust herself to respond. Instead she said, “We may be Penn’s only chance to get away from such an evil man.”
“No, there is another. She could go in a pine box.”
Caroline, who had joined them, said, “We must pray for her.”
“I never did much praying,” Sadie told her.
“I have found it helps. At least it does no harm.”
Maggie looked over the crowd and at last spotted a girl hurrying toward them. “There she is,” she said, relieved.
Penn rushed up to them, glancing back over her shoulder to see if she was being pursued. The gesture made Maggie herself look around again, searching for anyone watching her. “I could not get away. Asa asked where I gone yesterday, and I says I was seeing the sights,” Penn told them. “Then he says I was looking for another man, and he whipped me something terrible. I think he broke my nose.” She touched her nose, which was red and swollen. Her eyes were black, too.
“How did you get away?” Maggie asked.
Penn scanned the crowd again. “He went for the borrow of a sledge. Soon as he disappeared, I run off. All I brought is what I got on. I got a dollar in my shoe that I stole last night, but I ain’t got no more clothes.”
“I will share mine,” Maggie said, thinking she could cut down one of the dresses Louise had let her take so that it fit Penn, who seemed as thin as the flower stem she had given Dora.
“We must get you hid before he discovers you are gone,” Sadie said.
The three women helped Penn climb into one of the wagons, then covered her with a quilt.
“Do not show yourself until we have crossed the river,” Maggie ordered. “We shall keep a sharp watch for Asa.” Then she turned to Sadie. “Do you know his appearance?”
Sadie shook her head. “No, but I know the look of him. We got to watch for a man with a sledge in his hand and hate in his eye.”
Caroline shivered. “Do you believe we are in danger, then?”
“If he finds out she is with us, I say we better watch out.”
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON before the company reached the head of the line and the fleet of boats and rafts that ferried the travelers and their wagons and animals across the Missouri.
“The prices are usurious,” Joseph complained in a loud voice as William negotiated a rate with a ferryman. “Tell him we are men of the gospel, taking a train of women to civilize the gold fields.”
William only laughed. “In that case, he would likely charge more.”
Maggie was apprehensive as she watched the loaded boats set off. “The Missouri looks like a giant mud puddle. You cannot see an inch below the surface,” she said to no one in particular. Water frightened her.
“I never saw a river so dirty,” the woman beside her said.
Maggie turned to see who had spoken and recognized her. She was Lavinia Mercer, the woman who had wanted to join the company because she already had a wedding gown.
“I do not understand why the ministers do not engage a steamship to take us across. If men in California want us as their wives, they should be willing to pay for our comfort,” she complained. “It is bad enough that we should be expected to sleep on the ground. Why are there not wagons with beds for us?”
The idea was so preposterous that Winny, standing nearby, laughed. “I have made up a thousand beds in my life and am glad not to make up another for five months.” She and Maggie exchanged a look.
“The mosquitoes are terrible,” Lavinia continued, slapping at her arm. “And I do not care for the food. The trip is not what I had expected. Why was I not told more of the hardships?”
“You could quit. There is still time,” Maggie said, thinking Lavinia’s fiancé was lucky he had not married such a complainer.
“And do what? Where would I go? This is the best I can do, and a bad choice it is.” She turned toward the river, a look of distaste on her face. “I do not believe it is safe to cross in such a way. Perhaps I should speak to the ministers.”
Suddenly there was a cry of “Look!” The three turned to see a man topple off a boat into the Missouri. He flailed his arms. His head bobbled up and down, and then he disappeared under the water.
Maggie looked for Clara, but the girl was safe with Mary. She rushed with the others to the edge of the river to watch.
“Maybe he cannot swim. Someone must jump into the river after him,” Lavinia said.
“Then two would drown,” Winny told her. “You could not see the body under all that dirty water. If he cannot save himself, then he is done for.”
“But the boatman—” Lavinia protested.
Maggie interrupted. “What could he do? If he jumped in, what would become of the raft? It would overturn, and all those aboard would be drowned.”
The women stared in horror at the water, hoping to spot the man’s head. They heard a piercing wail from the river and saw a woman standing at the edge of the raft, her arms raised in supplication. Beside her were small figures—children.
“What will she do?” Winny asked. “Will she go on?”
“She might,” William replied. He, too, had seen the man fall into the river and had joined the women on the bank. “There are single men who would marry a widow for her wagon and provisions.”
“It is a horrible thought,” Lavinia retorted. “A woman who would marry while her husband is barely dead.”
“That may be,” William replied. “But what else can she do? It is likely they sold everything to outfit themselves for the trip west. What is there to return to? Sometimes the unknown ahead is preferable to the known we have left behind.”
Maggie turned to stare at him. Was he speaking of himself? He was certainly speaking of her.
The raft reached the far side of the river, and the wagon was unloaded. William watched as it disappeared into the crowd of vehicles and people. “We will never know,” he said.
“We shall pray for his soul and the well-being of his family,” Caroline said, as she wrapped her hands in the apron she wore to protect her dress.
Dora was somber, staring at the spot where the man had disappeared. “I did not think it would be like this,” she said.
“It will get worse. Some of us will die, too, I think,” Mary told her.
“You are right,” Maggie said. “But most of us will live, and we will make it to California.”
“God willing,” Caroline added.
“Hurry it up!” the ferryman called. Drownings were nothing new, and a long line of wagons waited to board the rafts. “Who be the first among you?” he yelled.
Maggie expected Mary to step forward, but even the big woman seemed to have second thoughts. For the first time on the journey they had witnessed death, and that sobered them. Maggie had thought only of getting away with Clara. Now she was faced with what lay ahead. Had she been too hasty in agreeing to the trip? Still, what else could she have done? Perhaps the other women realized the enormity of their undertaking, too. None of them volunteered to be first.
“Others be waiting. You want to go or not? Makes no difference to me. Who’s next?” the ferryman repeated.
William, who had bowed his head in prayer, looked up then and said, “Joe, you and I will set an example—”
Mary cut him off. “I shall be first.”
Maggie looked around to see who would speak next. When no one did, she took Clara’s hand and stood beside Mary. “And we shall go with you.”