Chapter 55: Three Island Crossing

 

Tuesday, August 17th—I have never felt such heat. Not a whisper of a breeze. We cannot escape the sun either on horseback or in the wagon.

 

Jenny fanned herself with a sage branch as she wrote. Despite the darkening sky, heat still radiated from the ground, as intense as the campfire. Venison did not appeal to her appetite. Even the water was tepid after sloshing in barrels all day. She could ask Mac to haul a fresh bucket, but she hated to bother him.

Sleep eluded her that night. She slept on the ground now beside Mac. It was too much effort to climb into the wagon, knowing she’d be up two or three times in the night. Only a few more weeks until the baby came. She was afraid of the birth, but weary of feeling bloated and heavy.

Nothing seemed to bother Mac. He didn’t stir when Jenny pushed herself awkwardly to her feet at dawn.

After breakfast the travelers headed west across the desert, the terrain unchanged from the days before. The wagons careened down the descents, and the teams strained to haul the loads up the hills. Jenny rode Poulette, but even the mare’s easy gait made her back knot in pain.

“We’ll hit the Snake by nightfall,” Mac said. “Cross tomorrow.” Of all her fears, she dreaded crossing the wild river most of all.

At noon they rested beside a gaping canyon. “Two hundred feet down, maybe,” Mac told Jenny. “Not as deep as the gorge Joel and I explored.”

It was steep enough for Jenny. “How will we get across?” she asked.

Mac shrugged. “Zeke must have found a way. He’s marked this as the route.”

When they resumed their travel, the bluffs flattened and formed a small valley between them and distant mounds to the west. They descended into the valley, crossed it, then climbed the far hills. From the summit they could see the Snake.

Zeke waited near the river and gestured at the three islands. “Here’s the crossing. Like the Shoshone said.”

Jenny’s heart sank. Between each island water rushed as wide as many of the rivers they had crossed on the plains. And here they had to move from island to island. It was four crossings really, not one.

“How?” she whispered.

“I rode across,” Zeke said. “It’s fast, but I think we can float the wagons.”

“You ain’t trying it with mine,” Abercrombie said. “Did that last time.”

“We’ll test it in the morning,” Pershing said. “Decide what to do.” He squinted at the river. “Won’t be easy. Heard men died here a couple years ago.”

Jenny wrote that evening:

 

Wednesday, August 18th—Reached the Snake Crossing. The water is fearfully swift. I shall not sleep a wink tonight.

At dawn the men started planning the crossing. They pulled ropes behind them to measure distances and called out when they hit holes in the bottom of the river. “Watch it here.” “Need to shift west.” “Give me more rope.” Jenny heard them shouting until midmorning.

Mac returned to the wagon wet to his thighs. “Did you fall in?” she asked.

He grinned. “Valiente stepped in a hole. We ended up swimming.”

“Is it too deep to ford?”

Mac shook his head. “We have a path. We’ll take it slowly. Move to the first island, then the next and the next, until we get across. A few wagons at a time.”

“Will I ride Poulette or in the wagon?” Jenny asked.

“Which would you rather?”

“The wagon. I’d feel safer.”

“I’ll ride with you when it’s time,” Mac said, touching her shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

But men had died here, Captain Pershing had said. Like poor Mr. Purcell back in Kansas Territory, leaving his wife widowed.

The men guided a few wagons to the first island, then to the second, then to the third. “Lash ’em together,” Pershing shouted. “Make it harder for the current to grab ’em.”

The teams pulled the wagons to the far bank, more than half a mile from where Jenny stood. The current was so fast the men clung to the oxen’s yokes or the wagon sides to stay upright as they walked the teams across. Those watching from the shore cheered when the first wagons bumped up the north riverbank.

Over and over the process repeated. “Will we all get across today?” Jenny asked Mac when he returned to their wagon for a quick meal.

Mac took his plate. “Captain says we’ll try. We’ve seen Indians lurking in the cliffs.”

That left Jenny with a new worry. She glanced at the crags above her.

After eating, Mac left for the river. He returned in midafternoon. “You’re next,” he said. He lifted Jenny into the wagon.

They were in the last group of wagons to ford. The men must know what they were doing. But Jenny was still frightened as Mac steered into the rushing river.

“Hang on to the bench,” he said. “Don’t grab my arm. I may need to jump in to guide the oxen.”

Zeke rode beside the wagon. “Don’t worry, Miz Jenny. I’ll be here, too.”

She clutched the wagon seat. The oxen lowed as the water caught their bellies. But they forged ahead.

Jenny remembered the wagon sinking on the North Platte. She had to ask, “Is there quicksand here?” Her voice quavered.

Mac laughed. “Quicksand? Water’s too fast. No quicksand, only holes. We know where the worst of them are. We think.”

The wagon swayed as the wheels bumped over the rocky bottom. She’d been through this before. They passed the first island, then the second, and headed out from the last island toward the far shore.

Upstream a man shouted. “Mule under!” Jenny couldn’t see around the wagons beside her.

Zeke splashed off. “Cut it loose!” he yelled. “Cut the harness!”

An animal screamed—was it the mule? “What’s happening?” Jenny cried, grasping Mac’s arm.

Mac pulled away. “Let go, Jenny. I need to manage the team.”

“What’s happening?”

“Mule went under. Cutting it loose.”

“Where?” A mule swam by, heading downstream. A man on the far side rode into the current. He reached for the mule’s mane, missed, and fell off his horse.

“He’s down!” someone yelled.

Other men splashed into the water, but the first man did not surface. Jenny craned her neck looking for the man and mule. Another mule’s body floated downstream behind the first.

They reached the far shore, and Mac drove up the bank, the wagon jostling over the stony ground. Mac handed Jenny his whip and jumped off the wagon seat. “Going to help.” His face was grim.

Daniel guided Jenny’s team away from the river and into the camp the earlier arrivals had started. Doc strode toward the shore with a deep frown. Daniel lifted Jenny off the wagon seat, then ran to join the other men at the water’s edge.

Jenny hugged Esther as they stared. “Did you see it?” Jenny asked.

Esther nodded. “Mule got caught in his harness. Went under. The driver got into the water. He cut the mule and its partner free. Mules were swept away. Someone went after them. I’m afeared he drowned.”

“Who?”

“Couldn’t tell. Who crossed with you?”

Jenny shook her head. “I wasn’t looking. I was too scared.”

They named the families using mules and looked around camp to see who was there. But so many men were in the water, they didn’t know who was missing.

After an hour, as the sun fell behind the western hills, Mac trudged up from the bank, his clothes soaked, Daniel right behind him.

“Who was it?” Jenny asked.

“Didn’t find the body. Everyone’s accounted for but Horace Mercer.”

“Mr. Mercer didn’t drive mules. He had oxen,” Esther said.

Mac took the towel Jenny gave him. “Mercer went after Scott’s mules. Scott is safe. But no sign of Mercer. His leg was still weak.”

“One mule drowned, too,” Daniel said. “Other one made it, but ended up two miles downstream.”

The camp was somber that evening, Mrs. Mercer and many other women sobbing. “He was a kindly man,” Mrs. Tuller said.

“We’ll lay by tomorrow,” Pershing said. “Let the teams rest. Maybe we’ll find Mercer.”

Later Jenny wrote through tears:

 

Thursday, August 19th—We crossed the Snake, but lost a man. Horace Mercer leaves a wife and children. All to save a mule.

Throughout the next day, the men searched both banks of the Snake for Mercer. At dusk, when Pershing led the men into camp, he had a load strapped behind his saddle.

Mrs. Mercer ran up to Pershing. “Horace!” she wailed.

“No, ma’am,” the captain said. “It’s a deer. No sign of your husband.”

Mrs. Mercer fell to her knees.

“You didn’t find anything?” Jenny whispered when Mac returned to their wagon.

He shook his head wearily. “Not a trace. No clothes, not even a hat. Nothing of him or the mule.”

In the morning while she fixed breakfast, Jenny heard Mrs. Mercer plead with the captain, “We can’t leave. What if Horace made it out of the water and he’s hurt? We got to search again.”

Pershing’s face was drawn. Jenny wondered if he’d slept at all. “Ma’am, his body could be anywhere,” he said. “Might not come up for months. We can’t wait.”

The Mercer children’s eyes were huge. Tears streamed down the oldest girl’s face, but she didn’t make a sound, even as her mother wept and pulled at the captain’s arm.

Mrs. Tuller packed up the Mercers’ belongings and guided Mrs. Mercer to the wagon seat. “I’ll ride with you today,” she said to the grieving widow.

As the first wagons pulled out of camp, Mrs. Mercer screamed. “Horace!”

Three Indians walked into the emigrants’ camp. One carried a body, and laid it on the ground—Horace Mercer, his body battered and clothes ripped from the force of the river.

Captain Pershing went over to the braves. One spoke a little English. “Down river,” the Indian said. “Found body at sunrise.”

The company delayed its departure to bury Mr. Mercer, and finally left camp in late morning. Dark lava bluffs rose above the north bank of the Snake, no different than on the south bank. The travelers skirted the bases of the cliffs, sometimes with room to drive the wagons side by side, sometimes in single file where the rocks came close to the water’s edge.

 

Saturday, August 21st—Indians found Mr. Mercer’s body. We buried him and left Three Island Crossing behind. How much more grief will this journey bring?