Chapter 73: Along the Columbia

 

Monday, September 20th—The Columbia is terribly swift and deep. Soon we will abandon the wagon, my only home, to float at the mercy of the water. I dread the churning current, not only for myself, but for William.

 

Jenny sat on a stone beside the wide Columbia as the orange setting sun spread across the silver water. She held William on her lap, and her journal lay on the ground next to her. The baby’s lips sucked silently as he slept. It still amazed her how quickly her son had become the focus of her life.

She hadn’t wanted to show her fear when she talked to Mac. But she was a mother now, responsible for William. She’d seen rafts floating past them, some made only of wagon boxes and driftwood. She quailed at the thought of stepping onto such a rickety craft with her son in her arms.

All Mac worried about was how to move the company from one camp to the next. Her throat tightened. She didn’t want to cry. Then she glanced down at William. He was so small and helpless. If she lost her grip on him on the raft—a sob escaped.

Footsteps crunched the rocks behind her. She wiped her eyes and turned to see Mrs. Tuller.

“How do you bear it?” Jenny asked.

“Bear what, dear?” Mrs. Tuller sat on a rock beside Jenny.

“Being so anxious. About your child.”

Mrs. Tuller smiled. “What choice do we have?”

Jenny sobbed again, freely, not caring what Mrs. Tuller thought.

The older woman put an arm around Jenny. “Just cry it out, dear. Nothing else you can do.”

After a sleepless night with William, Jenny dragged herself out of the wagon Tuesday morning and lifted the baby down after her. She stumbled about camp making breakfast, burning a thumb on the skillet as she fried meat for Mac.

“Drat!” she said, shaking her hand. William screamed from his blanket behind her. She couldn’t hold him and cook, too.

Mac turned from hitching the teams. “What is it?”

“Would you please pick up William?” she asked, her voice shaking. She hated to ask for help with the baby.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m cooking, and he’s crying. He needs to eat, but I can’t feed him now.” She felt her milk start to flow. Her cheeks flamed, but she was too exhausted to care. Mac had to know she nursed the baby.

“I’ll fry the meat,” he said, taking the skillet away from her with a gloved hand. “You tend to the baby.”

Jenny took William into the wagon and nursed him. He made greedy little grunting sounds as he sucked. If only she could stay here, safe in the wagon, with just William. But Mac needed her to cook and wash up and to drive the wagon, while he commanded the company. She had to pull her weight. She burped William, laid him on a pallet, and climbed out of the wagon.

After eating the breakfast Mac had prepared, Jenny asked, “Shall I drive?”

“What about the baby?”

“He’ll sleep for a while.”

He nodded. “Pull into line behind the Tullers. Call Doc or me if you need anything.”

No trees broke the monotony of the barren, sandy land along the Columbia. More black crags loomed above them. Jenny shivered, wondering if Indians hid behind the rocks. Around noon they arrived at the Umatilla River. Mac halted the wagons with a wave of his hat. “We’ll eat, then cross,” he shouted.

Jenny started their meal and fed a fussy William. As she sat by the fire, rocking William in Mrs. Tuller’s loaned chair, Esther wandered over. “Made a loaf of molasses bread,” she said. “Bought molasses at the fort for a treat. I was so tired of eating the same food.” Esther cut a slice. “It’s mighty good.”

“Mmm,” Jenny sighed as she bit. “Bring me some butter, please. It’s in that box.” She gestured.

Esther spread the butter on Jenny’s slice and on another for herself. “How’s William?”

“Fussy, sleeping or wet. Or feeding.”

“Jonah’s lifting his head now. I swear he’s bigger every day.”

Jenny cut another slice of the sweet molasses bread and put it aside for Mac. “Mac’s scouting the Umatilla crossing,” she said. “Probably need to go upstream where it’s shallower. I hope the current’s not too fast.”

“You still scared of crossings?” Esther laughed. “We been through so many.”

“It’s worse now,” Jenny admitted. “With William. And soon we’ll be on rafts.”

“Pa says there’s a road at The Dalles. We might not need to float the Columbia at all.”

“A road? Mac didn’t tell me there was a road.”

“Well, they ain’t sure what to do. Might float, might take the road. It’s Captain McDougall’s call.”

“What’s your papa think?”

Esther shrugged. “Didn’t say.”

“I’ll ask Mac.” Maybe she could persuade him to take the road.

Mac returned to the wagon and ate standing up. As he handed his empty plate back, without a word about the tasty molasses bread, he told Jenny to load up. “We found a ford upriver,” he said. “Should be an easy crossing.”

“Mac, about the Columbia—” she began.

“Not now, Jenny. I need to get the wagons in line.”

Jenny didn’t want to wait. She would worry about rafting the Columbia until Mac agreed they didn’t have to. “But, Mac—”

“We’ll talk tonight.” Mac mounted Valiente and rode off.

They splashed across the Umatilla with little trouble. Jenny was so intent on talking to Mac about the Columbia she forgot to worry. In truth, the stream was a babbling brook, hardly worthy of the term “river.” The only challenge was the steep bank on the west side, but by the time Jenny drove across, the wagons ahead of her had worn the sand into a smooth, if slippery, path.

William squalled in the wagon behind her as she tapped the whip on the oxen’s backs. With a pang, she suddenly feared him rolling out of the wagon. Next time, she’d have someone ride with her to hold the baby.

After the crossing, the shore along the Columbia widened, but there were still no trees, and the warm September sun beat down on the travelers. Jenny dozed on the bench, until she snapped awake at William’s cry. She ducked under the cover to nurse him, then clambered to the front to bask in the balmy light.

By the time Mac halted the wagons on a flat expanse beside the Columbia, rivulets of sweat ran down Jenny’s spine. The swift river flowed past their camp, carrying with it all manner of logs and brush. Where the logs came from, Jenny couldn’t say—there certainly weren’t any trees nearby for the water to have swept up. She filled a bucket at the river and gazed downstream as the sun cast long shadows on the rushing water. It was beautiful, though the wild current scared her. With a sigh, she returned to camp to fix supper.

“Mac,” she said later, when he sat eating by the fire. “I hear there’s a road to Oregon City now.”

He frowned. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Esther. Her papa told her.”

“We haven’t decided which route to take.”

“We? I thought you were in charge.”

“I’ll listen to what the other men want.”

Hands on her hips, Jenny said, “What about what the women want?”

“Now, Jenny—”

“Don’t ‘now Jenny’ me.” She barely kept from stomping her foot. “I don’t want to take William on a raft. It’d scare the breath out of me.”

“Now, Jenny—”

“Please take the road.” She wasn’t proud of begging, but she panicked at the thought of floating down the wild river.

“I can’t promise anything. We need to talk to men at The Dalles. That’s still several days away.”

“So I’m supposed to fret until then?”

Mac turned to his plate. “No need to fret. Just trust I’ll do what’s best.”

Jenny sighed, and took William into the wagon to nurse him again. Then she pulled out her journal and wrote:

 

Tuesday, September 21st—There’s a road to Oregon City to avoid floating the Columbia, but Mac won’t agree to take it. I doubt I shall sleep, worrying. Of course, William does not permit me much rest anyway.