Chapter 15: Windlass Hill

 

Mac rode Valiente beside the wagon, while Jenny sat on the bench. The travelers had spent most of the morning on burials and a graveside service. They didn’t stop at noon but ate as they moved. The deaths of Amos Jackson and Homer Tanner cast a pall over the entire group. Not much could be done about a child’s fever, Mac thought. But it was a damn shame when a man shot himself.

“His horse spooked and he dropped a cocked gun,” Abercrombie had explained. “Good thing he didn’t kill anyone but hisself. Stupid fool.”

“Don’t serve any purpose to call him names,” Pershing said. “We got a bad day ahead. Windlass Hill. Steepest damn hill till we hit the Rockies.”

“Can we avoid it?” Mac asked.

“Only by going miles out of our way,” the captain replied.

Several in the company complained of fever and aches. The Tanner boy’s death made them worry. Doc Tuller was busy all day.

“Is it cholera?” Pershing asked the doctor.

“Don’t know.”

They reached Windlass Hill in late afternoon. The drop was almost perpendicular.

“How we gonna git down that?” Abercrombie asked, spitting tobacco juice.

“Lower the wagons on ropes.” Pershing rubbed his beard and squinted at the sun sinking in the west. “We’ll wait till morning.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Dempsey said.

“Ash Hollow’s just past the hill. We’ll rest there Monday.”

“We’ll make less’n a mile tomorrow,” Abercrombie complained.

Pershing pointed at the slope. “Getting down this hill’s a full day’s work.”

Mac frowned at the steep drop. River crossings didn’t bother him, but the task ahead was daunting. He took off his hat and wiped the perspiration off his face with a handkerchief.

“Lighten the wagons,” Pershing said. “Everything out, and carry it down.” Every able-bodied member of the company hauled boxes and barrels down the hill. When it was too dark to move anything more, they posted a guard for the night.

On Sunday morning they lowered one wagon after another. Men tied ropes to the rear of each wagon and locked its wheels, leaving only one pair of draft animals hitched to the wagon, with a man to guide that pair. More teams and more men stood behind the wagon, pulling on ropes with all their weight to control the wagon’s fall. Women and children repacked the wagons at the bottom of the hill.

Mac’s muscles strained with the back-breaking work. Blood pounded in his head, and he felt dizzy.

“She’s coming down!” a man shouted.

Mercer’s wagon broke loose of its ropes and crashed down the last half of the hill. Mercer, who had been in front of his wagon, dove out of the way, but a wheel rolled over his foot. He yelled and crawled off the trail.

Doc Tuller inspected Mercer’s leg. “Ankle’s broke,” he said. “I can splint it. Wagon’s worse’n he is.”

The wagon’s front board had shattered. The oak wood of one wheel had cracked and its iron tire rolled off.

“Can we fix it?” Pershing asked Tanner.

Tanner, his dark eyes still sunken with grief over Homer’s death, examined the wheel. He nodded. “Won’t be like new. But I can splice it.”

Another wagon tore loose of the ropes and ran over an ox, breaking its leg. Someone shot the ox, and they pulled it off the trail for the women to butcher.

From Windlass Hill they staggered toward Ash Hollow, travelers and teams exhausted. They reached camp as the sun set, leaving Mercer’s wagon behind for the night. It was the prettiest spot Mac had seen since Alcove Springs in Kansas. Tall shady ash trees, a few cedar, and lots of green grass.

“Grass looks good,” he said to Pershing.

The captain nodded. “Good water, too. Spring fed. We’ll lay by tomorrow. See ’bout fixing that wagon. Tell your men.”

Mac wanted to sleep, but he made his rounds to talk to his platoon. Finally, he sat by the campfire Jenny had started.

“Good thing we have the ox meat,” Jenny said as she served Mac’s supper. “I wouldn’t have the strength to come up with anything else.”

“Not hungry,” Mac said, waving the plate aside.

“Eat. You worked hard today.”

Mac shook his head.

“How about some broth? I could boil the meat.”

“Sounds better,” Mac said, wiping a hand across his sweaty face. He wrote as he smelled the broth simmering:

 

May 23, 1847. Made it down Windlass Hill, only one man injured. Lost an ox and damaged a wagon. The day took more out of me than I expected.

Cold rain splattered the camp Monday morning. Every muscle ached as Mac stumbled out of his sleeping roll. He sat by the wagon clutching his throbbing head.

“You sick?” Jenny asked.

He shrugged. “Worn out from yesterday.”

Jenny touched his forehead. “You’re burning up. I’ll get Doc Tuller.”

“It’ll go away.” He brushed her fingers away.

“Fevers that hot don’t just go away,” Jenny said, hands on her hips.

“Wait until after breakfast.”

“If you aren’t better after you eat, I’m getting Doc. How about ox meat?” She held out a plate with a thin steak on it.

Mac retched at the sight and smell. “Just coffee.”

“You don’t eat, I’m getting the doctor.”

“Give me a minute.”

Mac sipped the coffee. It burned his gut. He barely made it to the latrine before puking. When he returned, Jenny had Doc Tuller with her.

“See? He’s sick,” she said.

The doctor felt Mac’s hot face and neck. “How long you been feverish?”

“Started this morning.”

“Is it cholera?” Jenny’s face was pale.

“Got the runs?” the doctor asked.

Mac frowned. He was embarrassed to talk about his bowels with Jenny there. “I’m fine.” His legs wobbled and almost gave way.

“No, you ain’t.” Doc pulled Mac’s arm. “Sit down.”

“I don’t have time.”

“You got time to die?” The doctor pushed Mac to sit on an overturned bucket. “Three other cases of fever today. Another child about Homer Tanner’s age, a man, and a woman. All different families. Got to assume it’s cholera.”

Jenny gasped. “How can you tell if it’s cholera?”

“Puking, runny stools, high fever. It can kill folks in hours. No way to know for sure.” Doc Tuller shook his head. “Lots of fevers look alike. Don’t know what makes one man die and another pull through.”

The doctor insisted Mac stay in camp when other men left to hunt. He felt worse as the morning progressed, his vomiting and diarrhea more frequent, even his bones hurting.

In early afternoon a woman shrieked. Jenny went to see what had happened and returned with a somber face. “Her sick child died,” she said.

Mac tried to drink the water Jenny gave him, but he couldn’t keep it down. By evening he was delirious.