Chapter 40: Leadership in Dispute

 

Only as he spoke to Jenny did Mac realize how much the purpose of his journey was to escape his guilt over Bridget and the baby. Adventure was part of it. Avoiding—or at least delaying—the path his father expected of him was part of it. But mostly he had fled his shame over causing Bridget’s death.

He’d graduated from Harvard in 1846 and planned a summer tour of Europe—a last lark before practicing law. Before he left, Bridget offered herself freely. He’d given no thought to conceiving a child.

When Mac returned home from Europe in late autumn, Bridget was gone. No one mentioned her. Finally, he asked his mother where Bridget was.

Mother looked at him severely. “Why should you care, Caleb?”

He mumbled something. He couldn’t tell her about his intimacy with Bridget.

“She was with child,” his mother said. “I dismissed her.”

Shocked into confession, Mac started to tell her the baby was his.

Mother held up her hand. “Don’t say a word. I did what I had to. Her morals were a scandal to the other help.”

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I gave her some money and told her to leave.”

Mac asked Cook where Bridget was. “Dead,” Cook said. “Typhus. Died about a month after she left here.”

“Her baby?” Mac asked.

Cook grimaced. “She died before it was birthed.”

That was all Mac knew. He hadn’t loved Bridget. But he had owed her and his child a chance at a better life. A chance they never had.

He couldn’t bear to stay in Boston, to live in his parents’ house. So, when he saw John Frémont’s report on Oregon, he decided on another adventure—this time heading west.

Now Mac watched Jenny race ahead of the wagons on Poulette. He’d brought her along out of guilt and to convince Pershing to let him join the company.

They’d done well together on the trail. Why was she so upset now? Was it grief over Mrs. Pershing’s death? Or learning of his shameful behavior with Bridget?

During the noon halt Jenny silently prepared their meal.

“You up to driving?” Mac asked after they ate. “I want to ride with Abercrombie.”

She nodded.

Mac saddled Valiente and rode to the head of the train.

“Where’s Pershing?” Abercrombie asked.

Mac shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since morning. Probably with his family.”

“He won’t be no good no more,” Abercrombie said. “Man loses his wife, takes a while to get over it.”

Mac frowned at Abercrombie.

“Lost my first wife in childbirth. Couldn’t think straight for a year.” Abercrombie cleared his throat. “So I’m taking over.”

“What?”

“Ain’t no one else here with the gumption to get us through.”

“Give Pershing a chance,” Mac urged. “And we need to vote on any new captain.”

“No one’ll vote against Pershing. They’re all sorry for him. But he ain’t no good. Taking his sweet time about getting us to Oregon. Snow could start in September. I’ll captain.”

“We’ll put it to a vote tonight,” Mac said.

Mac went to find Doc. “Abercrombie says he’s taking over as captain. Says Pershing’s not fit to lead.”

“The man’s wife just died,” Doc said. “He’s not focused on the company now, but he’ll heal in time.”

“Abercrombie won’t give him time. Doesn’t even want to vote. I told him we have to. Can you get Pershing ready to talk to the men tonight?”

The doctor nodded, his bushy eyebrows coming together in a frown.

All afternoon they struggled through rugged hills. At last the wagons swayed down a steep slope into a wide valley covered in lush grass. The emigrants set up camp, and their animals grazed contentedly.

Word of the conflict spread through the company. There was little laughter as the travelers did their chores. Perhaps they were still disheartened by the funeral that morning, but Mac thought it was more than that. Small groups murmured in shadows beyond the campfires.

No one called a meeting, but the men showed up at Pershing’s campsite after supper. “What’s this about?” Pershing asked, though his grim face indicated he knew.

An uncomfortable silence. Then Abercrombie spoke. “It’s about getting to Oregon, Pershing. Don’t want to burden you no more, so I’m taking over.”

“Before there’s any change,” Mac said, “we have to vote.”

Pershing looked at Mac. “You with Abercrombie?”

“No, sir,” Mac said. “I joined this company because of you. But we need to follow the majority.”

Pershing grunted, then walked away. After a few steps, he halted and looked back. “I’m the only man here who’s been to Oregon. I’ll captain if you want. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to beg. Take your vote, and let me know.” He stalked out of the wagon circle.

“You heard him,” Mac said. “He’s still willing to lead. He’s had a terrible loss, but I think he’s the best man for the job. Let’s vote.”

“Now hold on, city boy,” Abercrombie said. “I git to have my say. We’re moving too slow. I’m sorry as the next man for Pershing’s loss. But can he git us to Oregon afore winter?” He shrugged. “I’ll keep us moving, you can count on that.”

“All right, men,” Doc said. “Those for Pershing step right. Those for Abercrombie go left. I’ll count.”

Mac and Doc moved with Pershing’s followers. Mac did a quick count. It was close.

“Pershing wins by two men,” Doc said. “He’s still captain. I’ll tell him.”

Mac exhaled slowly. He thought backing Pershing was the right thing. Pershing had made mistakes, but not as many as Abercrombie. And he’d rather follow Pershing than Abercrombie.

“We’ll be hip-deep in snow by October.” Abercrombie strode off to his campsite.

Mac sighed when he returned to his wagon. It had been a long day, starting with Mrs. Pershing’s funeral, a difficult trek down the mountains, and Abercrombie’s attempt to take control. And Jenny—he still didn’t know why she was upset.

He pulled out his journal and sat by the fire:

 

July 24, 1847. Mrs. Pershing was buried this morning. We reached Ham’s Fork, a tributary of the Bear River. Pershing barely retains control of our company.