Chapter 3: Independence

 

Waverly was smaller than Arrow Rock—only a few shops and a tavern. Mac couldn’t leave Jenny there. The Aurora was already docked and loading cargo, and Mac arranged for a room on the riverboat for Jenny.

Jenny balked. “I’ve never been on a ship. I can’t swim,” she said, hanging back on the shore.

“It’s a big boat,” Mac said. “You’ll be safe.” He escorted her to her cabin. “Here’s your room.”

“I can’t pay.”

“Don’t worry.”

It took three days for the Aurora to steam the sixty miles to Independence. Jenny stayed mostly in her cabin and kept away from the railing when on deck.

Mac watched the boat’s hubbub and wrote in his journal:

 

March 31, 1847. By day the Aurora crewmen stoke the engine and watch the current for snags. By night they keep guard, crooning softly to themselves. We stop each day at towns along the river. Dockhands, mostly Negroes, haul boxes and bales of cargo. There’s a rhythm to the work. Will wagon travel be so pleasant?

 

At last they reached Blue Mills Landing, the port near Independence where wagons left for Oregon, California, and Santa Fe. Blue Mills was smaller than the bustling wharves of Boston, but wilder. The chaos and commotion fed Mac’s sense of adventure. He had Valiente saddled and ready to disembark when the gangway connected.

“Let’s ride to town,” he said to Jenny. “We’ll fetch my belongings later.”

Mac pulled her up behind him, and they rode the three miles to Independence. Horses trudged in both directions on the main street, hauling carts laden with boxes, barrels, and lumber. Men shouted and swore at their teams and cracked their whips. Horses whinnied, mules brayed, oxen bellowed. Wagon wheels squeaked, chains on oxen yokes rattled.

“I didn’t know Independence was so big,” Jenny said weakly as a wagon rumbled past.

Mac grinned. “It’s small compared to Boston.”

They passed a blacksmith’s shop, heat emanating from the fire inside. Mac boarded Valiente at the livery. He and Jenny continued on foot. Two old men sat on barrels outside a tavern arguing politics. A Mexican walked beside a mule loaded with bundles.

An open shop door revealed racks overflowing with merchandise. Women hurried along the boardwalks, children in tow. Near the Court House, a little girl with a parasol darted out of a store. She was about the age of Mac’s nieces in Boston, and he smiled at her.

A yeasty scent wafted out of a bakery. Jenny stared in the window.

“A sweet?” Mac asked. She smiled and followed him into the shop.

“Two buns,” Mac said to the woman behind the counter. He handed her two pennies and sat with Jenny at a table in the corner, savoring the sugary taste of the pastry.

“What next?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll be in Independence for a while. Need to join a company headed to Oregon and buy provisions. Then I’m leaving. What will you do?”

Jenny shrugged. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You need a room and work. What can you do?”

“Cook. Clean. Wait tables.”

“Maybe now,” he said. “But what about when your time comes?”

“I can sew.”

Mac frowned. “Do you know anyone in Independence?”

“I can take care of myself,” Jenny said, lifting her chin.

“Tavern across the square needs help,” the woman behind the counter said. “The Black Rooster. Their girl got married last week. Went to California. They might give you room and board.”

Mac thanked her and ushered Jenny outside. They dodged a cart as they crossed the road, then walked to the Black Rooster and entered the tavern.

“I’d like a job, sir,” Jenny said to a man wiping glasses behind the bar. “I worked in a tavern down river.”

The man scrutinized her. “You’re a tiny thing. Can you carry heavy trays?”

“Yes, sir.” Jenny nodded. “I can cook, too.”

The man glanced at Mac. “You her husband?”

“Friend.”

“I run a family business,” the man said, leering. “Maybe the saloon by the river could use another working girl.”

Mac turned on his heel and pulled Jenny along with him. “She doesn’t need that kind of work,” he said over his shoulder.

Back on the boardwalk, Mac said, “I’ll stay at a boardinghouse while I’m here. I’ll get you a room, too.”

“I don’t have any money.”

Mac didn’t want to feel responsible for Jenny. But he couldn’t abandon her, not after running from his Boston problems. He shrugged. “You saved my life in Arrow Rock, shooting the Johnson boy. That’s worth a few days lodging.”

They found a boardinghouse. “May I have two rooms?” Mac asked the proprietress, Mrs. Jenkins. “For my sister and me.”

Mrs. Jenkins raised an eyebrow, but said only, “One week’s rent up front.”

Mac paid. He left Jenny in her room, retrieved Valiente, and returned to the dock to arrange moving his belongings to a warehouse. He would purchase equipment and provisions before he started west—but first he needed to find a wagon company.

For the next two days, Mac visited stores and taverns, searching for a company headed to Oregon. He took his copy of John Frémont’s report, which he had purchased in Boston the winter before. The book showed the route Frémont had traveled to Oregon in 1842, with extensive notes about landmarks, water, and grazing conditions. This might be an adventure, but Mac wasn’t a fool—travel in the West could be dangerous.

He wanted a knowledgeable wagon captain, but soon learned anyone could lead a company. Many men wanted to charge a captain’s fee, but Mac didn’t trust most of them. He had more experience in the wilderness than these men had.

Finally, at one tavern a grizzled Army veteran talked about taking families to Oregon. “I saw it in forty-two with Captain Frémont. Wild country,” the man said. “Mostly men looking to escape their troubles. Few white women, so men took up with squaws.” The man looked weathered, but spoke knowledgeably. “The land is bountiful and free. Just needs Christian family folk to settle it. I’m emigrating with my family.”

“You went with Frémont? Are you following his route?” Mac asked.

“Close as I can.” The man squinted at Mac, pulling on his gray whiskers. “Franklin Pershing. Who might you be?”

“Caleb McDougall.”

“You married?” Pershing’s voice boomed, even in the crowded tavern.

“No, sir. I’ve seen Frémont’s book. I want a company as well managed as his. I’m not staying in Oregon. I’ll return to the States next year.”

“Why in tarnation would you travel two thousand miles on a lark?” Pershing asked. “I ain’t taking adventurers. You want to settle, come with me. But get yourself a wife first.” He turned back to his whiskey.

Mac left the tavern disappointed and returned to the boardinghouse. He wrote in his journal:

 

March 30, 1847. I found a Captain Franklin Pershing who traveled with Frémont and is headed for Oregon. He’s the man I want leading me, but he only wants families to emigrate. How can I change his mind?

Pershing was the only wagon master Mac met who had traveled the trail. The next day Mac argued with Captain Pershing again, but the man was firm. “I’m just taking family men. People to settle the West. Find a good woman in these parts, if you want to join my company.”

That afternoon Mac found Jenny in the boardinghouse parlor with Bart Peterson.

“Your mother wants you home,” Peterson said as Mac entered the room.

“She’s not going with you,” Mac said, moving beside Jenny. After what Jenny had told him, his fists itched to punch the portly man’s jaw.

“That’s for her to say,” Peterson said.

Jenny hid behind Mac.

“How’d you find her?” Mac asked.

“You said you was going to Independence. All’s I did was ask around.” Peterson held out a hand to Jenny. “Come on, girl.”

She shook her head.

“Your mother needs you.” Peterson grabbed Jenny’s arm.

At that, Mac threw the man against the wall, one hand squeezing Peterson’s fat neck, the other fist ready to strike. “She’s not going with you,” he said again, this time through his teeth.

Jenny shied away from both men. “I won’t go. Tell Mama I love her.”

“Get out,” Mac said, shoving Peterson toward the door.

Peterson looked from Mac to Jenny. “Seems you’re a whore after all,” he said. He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Jenny’s face was white and her hands shook.

Mac led her to a chair. “I see why you can’t go home.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

Mrs. Jenkins pulled Mac aside after supper. “What’re you going to do about the girl? I heard the argument this afternoon. She ain’t your sister. None of my business why she won’t go home. But she can’t stay here.”

“She doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” Mac said.

“You brought her, she’s your responsibility.” Mrs. Jenkins wagged her finger at him, like his old nurse had done when he was a boy.

“She just tagged along.” He knew Mrs. Jenkins was right, but he didn’t want the obligation.

“You know she’s in the family way?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.

He nodded.

“I can’t keep her here.” Mrs. Jenkins was adamant.

Mac spent a sleepless night. He’d behaved dishonorably in Boston and yearned to escape his guilt. Now he’d killed a man and assumed an obligation to Jenny. And the best wagon captain he’d found wouldn’t have him. His adventure to Oregon was already a struggle.

He saw only one solution—a way to solve both Jenny’s problems and his desire to join Pershing’s company. He would have to take her with him.

The next morning he found Jenny alone by the fire, mending linens for Mrs. Jenkins. “What will you do when I’m gone?”

She shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

“And when the baby comes?” Mac asked gently.

“I don’t want it.” She trembled. “Maybe it will die. Or I will.”

Mac turned away and looked at the fire. Her response confirmed his decision, though he’d fought against it all night. He could not let her do harm to herself or the child. “You have to come with me,” he stated.

Jenny stared at him. “I can’t go to Oregon.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” Mac said. “I found a captain who’s been to Oregon and back.” He paused. “There’s just one hitch. He wants married men in his company.”

Jenny’s eyes widened with dread. “I can’t marry you,” she whispered.

“I didn’t say we were getting married. But I’ll tell Captain Pershing we are.”

She stood. Her sewing fell to the floor. “It’s wrong to live a lie.”

“I can protect you better if people think you’re my wife.”

Mac worked feverishly for the next two weeks to prepare for the journey. He persuaded Pershing that he and his bride would be ready to leave by mid-April. He found a carpenter to build a wagon of aged hickory for two hundred dollars. He purchased tools and provisions.

He dickered over the price of oxen. “You’ll need at least six,” he was told. “Eight’s better. Mountains wear ’em out.”

“I’ve heard mules are faster,” he said.

“Maybe. But they’re stubborn. Oxen’ll do whatever you want. And they need less water.”

He bought eight oxen for twenty-five dollars each.

Every storekeeper in Independence recommended provisions for the journey. He compared their lists with what he’d read in Boston. Soon barrels and sacks of food and extra wagon parts filled his rented warehouse stall. He chalked a space on the floor the size of the wagon bed, and wrestled with his supplies, piling boxes and barrels on top of each other. Damn it, he thought as he worked, how would it all fit?

Mac was lucky to afford the warehouse. Most emigrants camped in fields outside town, covering their provisions with tarps. Animals grazed near the camps creating a muddy, odiferous mess.

Finally, he wrote in his journal one evening:

 

April 14, 1847. We leave tomorrow at dawn. God willing, we will travel safely in Captain Pershing’s hands.