Chapter 84: Laurel Hill

 

They camped in a large meadow near the summit. Mac sat near Jenny, who slept, but moaned and thrashed as she lay wrapped in her buffalo skin under a tarp covering the wet ground. He wrote:

 

October 5, 1847. Camped at Barlow Pass. Grass is good, but we are all low on food. One of Abercrombie’s wagons overturned, many provisions lost. He questions my authority daily. Jenny collapsed from fatigue.

 

It had been a hellacious day. Mac had ridden Valiente back and forth along the poor excuse for a road. Douglass and his wife Louisa were lucky they were not seriously injured when the wagon fell. Doc put a couple of stitches in Louisa’s cheek. Once she was over her hysterics, she regaled the other women with her account of the calamity.

The Abercrombies lost all the food they had in the wagon, and their clothing and bedding were caked in mud—some things would never be clean again. Several family treasures were smashed beyond repair. Louisa mourned the loss of a porcelain plate the most. “It was my grandmother’s from England!” she wailed clutching its pieces.

When Samuel and Daniel Abercrombie returned from hunting, a deer carcass slung behind each saddle, Samuel yelled for half an hour. “God damn it, Douglass!” he shouted, “I leave you in charge and you drive our wagon off the mountain! It’s a sorry thing you were ever born.”

“But, Pa,” Douglass protested. “The near ox stumbled. Weren’t nothing I could do.”

“Any son of mine oughta be smarter’n a damn ox!” Then Abercrombie turned on Mac. “What kind of captain are you, boy? Weren’t you watching? I knew I should’ve stayed at The Dalles, waited for the rafts. Instead, I let you talk me into climbing this infernal mountain.”

“We all agreed to come this way,” Mac said.

“Were you sitting with your namby-pamby wife and baby?” Abercrombie roared, spittle gathering in his beard. “You’re no better’n that drunk Pershing.”

“Now see here, Abercrombie,” Zeke said, fists clenched.

“He can shout all he wants, Zeke,” Mac said. “It won’t change anything.” He faced Abercrombie. “We’ll see to it your family doesn’t starve.”

“Damn straight, you will,” Abercrombie sneered. “I’ve been feeding this company since Kansas Territory. See if I share today’s game with the rest of you.” He drew his butcher knife and ran a thumb along the edge.

“Put the knife away, Abercrombie.” He couldn’t show any fear, or Abercrombie would continue to bully him. “I said we’ll stick by you. But if I hear any more guff from you, we’ll throw you out. Right here on the mountain. Go help your family sort out your belongings.”

Mac had stalked off to his wagon. He couldn’t have prevented the accident, but Abercrombie would have it in for him for the rest of their journey.

Jenny stirred beside him under the tarp. “William?” she asked.

“Hush,” Mac whispered. “Mrs. Tuller has him.”

“I need him,” Jenny said, rising on one elbow.

“Mrs. Tuller can take care of him. You rest.”

“No,” Jenny said more urgently. “I need to feed him.” Her wan face turned red.

Mac looked at her. The front of her dress was soaked. He jumped up. “I’ll get Mrs. Tuller.”

The older woman hurried back to the campsite with him, carrying William. “There, there,” Mrs. Tuller told Jenny. “We’ll have you cleaned up in no time.” She glanced at Mac. “Does she have another dress?”

Mac found a dress in the wagon, handed it to Mrs. Tuller, then left.

The Pershing men and Daniel huddled under a tarp near the Pershing wagons.

“Has your father calmed down?” Mac asked Daniel.

Daniel shook his head. “He’s still yelling at Douglass.”

“How bad’s the trail ahead?” Zeke asked.

Daniel shrugged. “We didn’t stay on the trail while we hunted. It looks like a steep descent after the summit.”

“How’s your family fixed for food?” Mac asked. Abercrombie hadn’t given Mac a chance to ask.

“Folks are trading potatoes and camas for the meat we got today,” Daniel said. “No one has much grain left. We’ll manage.”

“And clothes?”

“What we have on. Lot of folks don’t have much more. Esther’s things were still in her pa’s wagon. Womenfolk in other families are giving us what they can.”

“So we keep going?” Zeke asked.

“Nothing else we can do,” Daniel said. The other men nodded.

“Will you lead tomorrow, Zeke?” Mac asked. “I want to stay with Jenny.”

Zeke agreed.

Mac returned to his wagon to find Jenny with William in her arms. The baby suckled greedily under a blanket.

“You better now?” he asked, sitting on an upended bucket beside her.

She blushed and nodded. Mac thought again how pretty she was. Her figure was thinner now than when they had first met. Lack of proper food, he suspected. He could have loved her, if she had wanted marriage.

“This is like the first night we spent together,” he said. “Rain. Sleeping under a tarp. Remember?”

Jenny smiled. “But we didn’t have William.” She stroked the baby under the blanket.

“You know I’ll stay with you until you’re settled,” Mac said.

“I’ll be all right.”

“Stop saying that!” Mac hissed. He wanted to shout, but someone might hear. “You’re not all right. You’re sick, and you’re exhausted.”

Jenny’s eyes grew large as a kicked puppy’s. “You’re busy with the company. I have to take care of William. I can’t simply lie about all day.”

“You and William will ride with me on Valiente tomorrow. Zeke’ll lead the wagons.”

“I’ll have to manage without you next spring.”

“But not tomorrow,” Mac said, and he stalked off to end the argument.

Mac awoke the next morning—Wednesday he thought it was—to Abercrombie bellowing at Zeke. “You ain’t leading today. If McDougall won’t do it, I will!”

Mac kicked out of his bedroll and strode over to where they argued. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is you ain’t doing your job.” Abercrombie stood so close his beard brushed Mac’s chest, but at least he hadn’t pulled his knife. “I lost my wagon on your watch yesterday, and now you’re letting young Pershing here lead.”

“Your son was driving the wagon,” Mac said mildly. He wouldn’t back down from Abercrombie’s sneers. “Zeke’s a good scout. He can lead.”

“And where will you be, purty boy?” Abercrombie asked. “With your wife?” Abercrombie made the word “wife” sound like an insult.

“Lay off, Abercrombie,” Zeke said. “Miz Jenny’s been ill.”

“That ain’t no call for a man to shirk his duty.”

“Go on,” Mac said to Zeke. “Get us underway. I’ll relieve you later.” He turned on his heel and went back to Jenny.

“You’ll be sorry, boy,” Abercrombie yelled after him.

Mrs. Tuller had made their breakfast, and Mac and Jenny ate in silence. When they were ready, Mac mounted and pulled Jenny up behind him. Mrs. Tuller handed William to Jenny, who put the baby in the sling.

“You comfortable?” Mac asked when Jenny shifted against his back.

“I’m fine,” she said. “At least the rain’s gone.” Mac felt her relax, William squirming between them.

“Can’t see much sun with the trees so high,” Mac said. “But at least we know it’s there.”

Later in the morning Mount Hood peeked through a gap in the trees. “Is that fresh snow?” Jenny asked.

“Most likely,” Mac said. “If it rained here, it probably snowed on the peaks. Could snow on us any day.”

When noon approached, they halted. Despite her cough, Jenny insisted on helping Mrs. Tuller with the meal.

Mac rode ahead to find Zeke, who sat on his horse at the top of a steep hill.

Zeke shook his head as Mac approached. “Look at this damn hill. It’s worse’n anything we’ve seen so far. Must be Laurel Hill. Man at the gate said it was a ball-buster.”

Mac stared down the slope, his heart sinking. The top of the hill was covered with evergreens, but the hillsides were so steep they were mostly bare, only a few laurels clinging to the mud. A narrow path had been cleared down the hill—this was obviously part of Barlow Road. Erosion had etched deep ruts in the trail, so deep Mac wondered if the wagon bottoms would scrape as the wheels slid down the grooves. Or the wagons could tumble end over end down the slope, as the Abercrombie wagon had the day before.

Mac rubbed his chin. “Grade must be sixty percent. We’ll need chains and ropes.”

“We’ll need prayers,” Zeke said, slapping his hat on his head.

The two men rode back to the company and described the challenge.

“I ain’t going first,” Abercrombie said. “I’ve already lost a wagon.”

“We’ll take mine,” Mac said. He had to show he wasn’t afraid, or the others wouldn’t follow. “Make camp at the top of the hill. We’ll start down in the morning.”

At first light on Thursday Mac gathered the men to plan their descent. Jenny seemed to have recovered from her collapse on Tuesday and moved around the campsite without complaint. He worried about her, but he had to focus on getting the wagons down Laurel Hill—the greatest test of his leadership yet. He feared the company could not handle the terrain.

“We got down Windlass Hill with ropes and pulleys,” Abercrombie said. “This ain’t any worse.”

“Then how come you won’t go first,” Zeke said, grinning.

“We could slide ’em down,” Pershing said. “It’s so steep I don’t reckon the oxen can hold the wagons back.”

“Or we put three teams behind to brake, and one ahead to steer,” Daniel said.

Abercrombie glared at his son and spit a thick stream of tobacco juice. “I ain’t putting my oxen ahead of the wagons. We lost our strongest team in the accident.”

“We can use trees for brakes,” Daniel said. “Plenty of those. Use ’em to snub the wagons.”

“Let’s try it,” Mac said.

Mac hitched his lead pair of oxen to the wagon and pointed them down the trail. Others helped him chain a heavy log behind the wagon. Then they attached two ropes to the log and looped each rope around a tree trunk on opposite sides of the trail. Men positioned themselves on the ropes, several on each side, ready for a tug of war with gravity.

Mac stood next to the oxen. He stared at the drop ahead of him and panicked for a moment, swallowing hard. “Let’s go,” he said.

As Mac started to lead his team down the hill, he saw Jenny off to the edge of the trail hugging William. “Be careful,” she called, her face pale.

He grinned and waved at her, then concentrated on the slope ahead.

“Snub it tight. Hold her!” men behind him yelled. Others grunted and groaned with the strain of keeping the wagon from careening down the mountain.

He was about half way down when a cry rang out. “Tree’s going!”

“Mac!” Jenny screamed. “Jump!”

Mac dove into the bushes beside the trail, scraping his face and arms. He looked back at his wagon. It listed to the left, that rope hanging loose, the tree securing it uprooted from the muddy soil.

The right-hand rope held firm, fraying from the additional load now imposed on it. Abercrombie stood anchoring that remaining line. The bear of a man didn’t budge, though his eyes bulged and his arms strained.

Other men rushed to take more of the weight. Dempsey chocked the log to keep the wagon from slipping farther.

Mac stood and brushed himself off. He caught Abercrombie’s eye and saluted the man. “Anyone hurt?” he yelled up the hill.

“Naw,” Zeke shouted back. “Just rope burns.”

“Snub the rope to another tree,” Mac said. “Let’s get her down.”

After his wagon reached the bottom, Mac climbed back up the hill and offered Abercrombie his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”

Abercrombie shrugged and spat. “You’d have done the same. I don’t like you, McDougall. But I won’t see you die.”

They lined up another wagon and lowered it down, then another. When several wagons were at the bottom of the hill, the women and children walked down, traversing back and forth across the steepest part of the trail.

“Too bad the road weren’t built to switchback the wagons down,” Zeke said as they rested while the walkers descended.

Mac sucked in a deep breath of cool mountain air and blew it out, grunting in assent. His lungs heaved after the morning’s work. When he could speak, he clapped Zeke on the back. “Come on, we have more wagons to move.”

The men took turns leading the oxen and holding the ropes. By the time all the wagons were down Laurel Hill, the trees at the top were scarred inches deep from ropes and chains, their bark worn away. They had uprooted four evergreens with trunks over a foot in diameter.

Mac sat in camp that evening writing:

 

October 7, 1847. Descended Laurel Hill, steeper than Windlass. It about killed me. I might be dead, if not for Abercrombie. But we did not lose a wagon, nor any oxen. I wonder if Father would think this an achievement.