Chapter 13: Crossing the South Fork

 

May 17, 1847. Reached the first ford on the South Fork of the Platte today, where Pershing crossed with Frémont in ’42. Abercrombie wants to cross later. He shoots a buffalo almost daily, taking only the tongue and steaks. The rest of us salvage what we can.

 

Mac set aside his journal and watched Jenny wash dishes. She let the sediment settle in one bucket, then poured the water into a wash bucket, humming as she scrubbed. Mac couldn’t make out the tune.

She hadn’t been any trouble so far, except for her fear of rivers. She worked as hard as older women, even Mrs. Pershing. She didn’t complain, at least not to Mac. In fact, she was the quietest female he’d ever known.

He should tell her Pershing thought the Platte crossing would be easy. Mac’s oxen were in good shape now, the one recovered from its bad hoof, and all of them feasting on succulent spring grass. If Jenny weren’t so afraid, the crossing might even be a lark.

“We’ll cross the Platte in a day or so,” he said.

Jenny looked up with wide eyes. “So soon?”

“We could cross here. But Pershing says we’ll travel on this side another day.”

“It’s so big.”

“Nothing will happen.”

Jenny cradled her stomach. Mac was embarrassed to ask about her pregnancy. “Are you all right?” was the closest he could manage.

“Just nervous.”

The next morning continued sunny and warm. Mac and Josiah Baker scouted ahead with Captain Pershing. Around noon they met another emigrant company fording the river. Children shouted, men yelled and cracked their whips, animals brayed, the water churned. But despite the commotion, the group wasn’t having any difficulty.

“Let’s see how it looks,” Pershing said. The three men turned their horses into the water and splashed across the mile-and-a-half wide river.

“Never reached my horse’s belly,” Baker said as they reached the north side.

“Me neither,” Pershing said. “We can ford the wagons easy enough. No need to float ’em.”

“As long as the teams keep moving,” Mac said. “I stopped once, and Valiente started to sink in the quicksand. Scared him.”

Pershing nodded. “We’ll post men in the river. They need to keep their mounts moving whilst they hurry the wagons along.”

They returned to the south bank and found the company. Mac saw Jenny walking with Esther and Daniel beside one of the Abercrombie wagons. “Who’s with our team?” he asked, dismounting.

“Zeke,” Jenny said.

Mac frowned. “You shouldn’t impose on him.”

She glared, hands on her hips. “He offered. And Esther begged me to walk with her.”

“Esther has plenty of company.” Mac gestured at Esther and Daniel, who had walked ahead.

“Her mother doesn’t like her to be alone with Daniel.”

“For good reason,” Mac said. He walked Valiente beside Jenny until they reached their wagon. “Thanks,” he said to Zeke. “We’ll handle it now.”

“Much obliged,” Jenny said, smiling at Zeke.

Zeke tipped his hat, smiling back. “Any time.”

Mac squinted at Jenny. Maybe she was more trouble than he’d thought. “You shouldn’t impose,” he said again. “Or people will talk.”

She turned her back on him and climbed into the wagon.

 

May 18, 1847. Crossing the South Fork tomorrow. Need to tie everything down.

Reveille sounded at first light. The oxen pawed as Mac hitched them. “Nervous, boys?” he asked, slapping the lead ox’s shoulder. He turned to Jenny. “Ready?”

She took a deep, shaky breath and nodded.

“I’ll be in the river, driving teams along. Can you handle the wagon?”

She hesitated. “Where will Zeke be?”

“With me.”

Jenny thrust her chin out. “I’ll manage.”

Mac mounted Valiente and headed toward the river. He glanced over his shoulder. Jenny sat on the bench, her mouth a thin line, her face white. He rode back. “You sure you can do this?”

“Just thinking about Mr. Purcell. I’ll be fine.”

“If you need help, send one of the Tanner or Pershing boys to find me.”

She nodded.

The wagons lined up on the bank while men on horseback spread out across the water. “Keep your horses moving,” Pershing yelled. “I ain’t losing a single man nor beast today.”

A man laughed. “I got a mule I could stand to lose. Won’t do a damn thing I say.”

Mac was stationed near the far side. He could see wagons moving into the water, but couldn’t tell who was in them. He wouldn’t know when Jenny headed into the river. He clucked at Valiente, and they traced a path back and forth in the muddy current. Once Valiente paused, then whinnied as he pulled a stuck hoof out of the sandy bottom.

Mac shouted and cracked his whip as the wagons passed. He aimed for the hindmost pair of each team, wanting to move them along but not scare them into stopping. He kept the whip away from the wagon so he wouldn’t cut a driver.

Most of the wagons rolled smoothly, but occasionally a wheel mired. The mounted men shouted until that team lunged free of the mud that sucked their hooves. The Platte was too slow to push the wagons downstream like other rivers they’d crossed, but the quicksand lurking on the bottom was more treacherous than a fast current.

One of the last wagons stopped in midstream. Was it his? Mac hadn’t seen Jenny yet. She must be hanging back, afraid. No, it was Tanner’s—the man’s dark skin silhouetted against the white canvas cover. Mules pulled the vehicle, not Mac’s oxen.

Men pushed the stalled wagon from behind. Others pulled on the frantic mules’ bridles. Tanner cracked his whip on the rear animals’ rumps. They screamed and strained forward, but the wagon remained trapped, sinking until the floorboard was submerged.

At a shout from Pershing, Mac joined the men rocking the wagon to dislodge it. “We have to lighten it,” Pershing called. “Empty out everything you can.”

Men pulled out barrels and sacks and handed them to others to carry to shore.

“Mama’s cape!” Hatty Tanner cried, as a cloth floated downstream.

Mac reached for it, but missed. He wheeled Valiente and started to follow, glancing over his shoulder at the next vehicle in line. It was Jenny—her wagon sinking, too, stuck behind the Tanners. No one had noticed her in the frenzy.

Mac turned Valiente toward his wagon and Jenny. “Go around!” he yelled at her. “Don’t stop!”

Captain Pershing and Zeke also splashed their horses toward Jenny. The oxen, bellowing in the frenzy, tried to back up.

“No, No!” Jenny cried, dropping her whip and covering her face.

Mac and Zeke reached the wagon at the same time. Zeke jumped on the bench and lunged for the whip. Mac grabbed the lead pair’s yoke to pull them around Tanner. Mac’s eight oxen quickly hauled the wagon out of the mud.

“Water’s untested here,” Zeke shouted. “Stay close to the team in case there’s trouble.”

Mac nodded and led the oxen step by step across the river.

Jenny clung to Zeke with one hand, cradling her belly with the other. Was she hurt? Mac wondered. He couldn’t take time to ask.

The lead pair hit a hole in the bottom and plunged to their necks. They began swimming, straining to stay afloat.

“Stop!” Mac cried to Zeke. “Don’t let the wagon into the pit.” Mac dodged the lead pair’s hooves and unfastened their yoke, swallowing muddy water in the process. Then he yelled for Daniel Abercrombie to herd the two loose oxen across.

Mac and Zeke steered the rest of the oxen around the drop-off. Mac walked Valiente back and forth searching for more holes ahead, until they maneuvered the wagon back to the tested ford.

“Anything lost?” he asked Jenny when at last he lifted her down from the bench.

She trembled and held his arms tightly as if she didn’t trust her legs to support her. “No,” she said.

“Scared?” Mac asked.

She nodded silently.

“Sit over yonder,” Zeke said, gesturing to a hillock of grass. “We need to see to other wagons.”

Mac half-carried Jenny until she reached the grass.

“I’ll be fine,” she said to Mac. “Thank you, Zeke,” she called. “I wouldn’t have made it across without you.”

Mac followed Zeke, frowning back at Jenny. She sat on the grass, looking as forlorn as on the day she’d told him her story.

 

May 19, 1847. The Tanner wagon stalled crossing the Platte. They lost some food and cracked a wheel. My wagon almost followed suit, but we made it with nothing broken.