The wagon train was even further behind schedule now. Every day mattered if they were to cross the Sierras before snowfall. Mary, who made the decisions with the two ministers, had insisted they give up Sunday rests to make up for lost time, and Joseph had not protested. Still, the morning after the harrowing descent and the birth of Dora’s baby, she demanded a day’s layover. They were all exhausted from the exertion, and none of them had slept through Dora’s ordeal. Dora herself needed a respite. The day was hardly one of rest, however. Maggie cared for the baby. Bessie and Evaline washed clothes, Caroline baked, and Winny, Penn, and Sadie cleaned their wagon. Others repaired the wagons and mended the wagon sheets. The axle on one of the wagons was nearly broken through, and the wheel on another was shattered. So the women abandoned yet another wagon. They removed a wheel from the discarded vehicle and used it to replace the broken wheel on the other.
The remaining wagons were a sorry lot. The bright blue paint on the wagon boxes that had been so gay when they left St. Joseph had faded, and much of it was worn off. The wagon covers were gray from the dust and rain. The oxen were jaded, and after examining them William announced two could go no farther. Once more, he asked the women to discard anything that was not absolutely necessary.
“What about the trees?” William asked Bessie. She had brought the apple trees with her, had insisted at the beginning that they must go all the way to California. Under Evaline’s care, they had thrived. She had watered them even when water was scarce and had washed the dust from the branches.
“I couldn’t,” Bessie replied. “They will be an apple orchard one day.”
William looked away as if it were difficult for him to ask her to make the sacrifice. “We must lighten the load,” he said.
Bessie turned to Evaline, who was holding the mutt, Blackie, in her arms. Maggie had asked once if the dog had forgotten how to walk, since Evaline carried him everywhere. She knew the dog helped the girl deal with her ordeal at City of Rocks. “We have already abandoned my rocker, my fine dishes, my fur coat, most of my clothes. I cannot sacrifice the trees,” she said.
“I would not ask…” William let the words hang there.
Bessie turned her back and walked to one of the slender starts, running her hand over the trunk. “What do you think, Maggie?”
“Perhaps you could take two with you.”
Evaline looked up. “I would carry them, one in each hand.”
“And who would carry Blackie?” Bessie asked.
The girl gave her a sly smile. “Perhaps I could teach him how to walk again.”
Bessie nodded. “Someday you will be sorry, Reverend Parnell. You would come to call and tell me how nice it would be to sit among the apple blossoms, if only I had them.”
“You could grow an orchard from two trees.”
“If they live.”
“I am sorry to ask it of you.”
Bessie looked away, embarrassed. “The others have sacrificed so much more.” Indeed, Mary had discarded the last of her farm implements, and Winny, to everyone’s amusement, had tossed away her maid’s uniform. Joseph had left his pulpit at City of Rocks. “I wanted to be treated like the others, so how can you not ask it of me,” Bessie said.
Maggie spoke up. “You could plant the trees you leave behind right here, by the stream. Perhaps one day there will be an apple orchard in this place.”
“Bessie’s grove,” William told her.
“Dora’s grove,” Bessie said.
After Bessie and Reverend Parnell left, Evaline went to her wagon and removed her violin and set it with the other discarded items.
DORA SPENT THE day resting. She had not known her body could hurt so much, she told Maggie. Each time she moved, she felt the ache. “But was not the pain worth it?” Maggie asked, handing Dora the tiny, whimpering infant.
Dora’s milk had come in, and she tried to feed the baby, but he was a mewly little thing who did not seem to suck well. Dora held out her finger and let the baby grasp it as she marveled at his perfect fingers, the nails almost as tiny as pinheads. “Is he too small?” she asked Maggie. “Perhaps I miscalculated my months of pregnancy. Maybe he was early. He would be small if he was early, wouldn’t he?”
“I think he is about right,” Maggie reassured her, although she did not know. Her own children had been much larger.
“I never thought it would be a boy,” Dora said. “I had not considered a boy’s name. I do not know what to call him. He will not be named for his father, or for my father either. Maybe William or Joseph. Do you think they would mind?”
“I am sure they would be honored.”
Dora looked pensive. “Those are awful big names for such a little thing. I shall wait. For now, he will be Baby.” She held the infant in one hand and ran her hand through his pale hair, which grew in clumps and was as fine as silk thread.
Maggie understood what Dora was thinking, because Maggie herself had been overcome with emotion at the births of Dick and Clara. Dora loved Baby fiercely, and Maggie was aware that her friend had never known such love. Maggie would have sacrificed anything for her children. She knew too well that it did not matter how much you loved them, however. Love did not keep them safe.
Maggie fetched Dora a plate of food. “You ought to have fresh milk and butter and eggs, but beans and creek water are the best I can offer.”
“I should be doing my part,” Dora said.
“Nonsense. You have just given birth. You must take care of yourself so that you will be strong for your baby.”
“It is not fair to the others.”
“The others agree. You may believe this is your baby, Dora, but we think he belongs to us all.” She turned aside and touched the locket around her neck. Just as Clara had belonged to us all, she thought.
ONE BY ONE, the women came to admire Baby and to give Dora presents they had made for him—a dress fashioned from a worn skirt, a tiny cap knitted from twine, napkins made from aprons that would have been discarded. Dora was humbled by their kindness. The women begged to hold the infant and told Dora how fortunate she was. They talked of having their own babies in California. “I hope my confinement will be more pleasant,” one said, laughing.
Maggie would have stayed with Dora in that place a week if she could, but she knew they must move on, and in the morning, she was ready.
“Move out! Move out!” came the call down the line of wagons, although there were only six wagons now. They had started with fifteen. The day was hot, and Maggie found it hard to believe they were hurrying to beat the snow.
She fell back into the familiar routine, riding in the wagon or walking beside it, stopping at midday to noon, then resting for an hour before taking to the trail again. For a time, the days were easier. The land was less mountainous, and the trail led past streams. Still, the novelty and excitement of the trip were long past, and Maggie was anxious to reach the end of the journey. After a while, the land grew drier, and the water turned alkaline, but she didn’t complain. She plodded on, knowing it would get worse.
And it did.
The wind blew dust into every part of the wagons. Dora tried to keep it out of the infant’s eyes and nose and mouth, but Baby cried from the irritation and kept the others awake at night. He did not sleep much and still did not take milk. Maggie assured Dora he was fine, but she told Mary she was not so sure.
“Is it normal?” Caroline asked. “He does not seem to thrive.”
“What is normal out here?” Maggie asked.
“If only we had a cow with fresh milk,” Mary said.
“I do not believe he would take even that,” Maggie told her.
“What about water? His skin is like parchment.”
Maggie shook her head. “It is too harsh. It could…” She had meant to say the harsh water could kill him, but she stopped. She could not say that the second of the children in the train might die.
As Baby failed to gain weight and even seemed to lose it—there were no scales in any of the wagons—Maggie worried more than any of the others about him. She knew too well how quickly children could perish.
“Do you think he is all right?” the new mother asked Maggie over and over again. As the days passed Dora had resumed some of her tasks and worked now with the baby held against her chest in a sling made from an apron.
“Of course. With this start, he will be a tough little boy.” But Maggie did not believe that. The baby was listless, and his cries were soft, as if he did not have the energy to scream. He seemed to be starving, yet the front of Dora’s dress was wet with milk, and she complained of the fullness in her breasts.
The other women were too exhausted to do much more than smile at Baby. Maggie decided not to burden them with her concerns. She told Mary, who said she had noticed the child was doing poorly but had no idea how to help him. “I believe he may have been born too early,” she said.
Maggie confided in Caroline, too. “Maybe you could pray for him,” Maggie suggested.
“I do that already. I would rather supply him with milk and relief from the heat and dust,” Caroline replied. Then she added, “I have seen such infants at the Kitchen in Chicago, and I do not hold out much hope for Dora’s child.”
THE RIVER DISAPPEARED, and the land grew desolate. For several days, the go-backs Maggie saw talked of the difficulties ahead. “Imagine the worst desert you can, and it is ten times as bad,” one told her. “Nothing before compares to what lies ahead,” said another. And a third said simply, “The devil designed the trail. You must travel through hell to reach California.”
As they passed each eastbound traveler, Winny inquired about her brother. “Have you met a David Rupe, Davy he is called?” she asked. “Red hair, and eyes as green as the grass.”
The men shook their heads. “I knew a Davy Brunning back in Kentucky,” one told her.
“There was a Davy at the Goosetown diggings a time back,” another said. “Don’t recollect the last name.”
“I bet he’s struck it rich by now,” Winny told Maggie. “They’d be calling him Mr. Rupe, not Davy. That’s why they don’t recall him.”
Although she did not say so, Maggie was concerned that Davy had disappeared. Winny was making the trip to find her brother, not a husband. She would be devastated if he was not there.
It was odd, Maggie thought. They had all signed up to go to California to marry the miners, but many of the women didn’t care about finding husbands. Winny wanted her brother. Mary had come for a new life for herself. Sadie hoped to get away from prostitution. Dora had signed up because she was pregnant. Caroline already had a husband. And she and Penn had run away from violent men.
TO SAVE THE oxen, few rode in the wagons. Even Dora walked, with the baby slung across her chest. From time to time, he gave a feeble cry. It was so low that only Dora and Maggie, walking beside the new mother, heard it.
“I do not believe Baby will live much longer,” Maggie told Caroline when they rested one noon.
“Such a cruel fate,” Caroline replied. “If that is the case, I worry that Dora herself won’t survive. She has nothing else to live for.” She thought a moment. “He must be baptized.” She hurried away to find her husband, and that evening, Joseph performed the sacrament, drawing a cross on the baby’s forehead with the river water.
Dora hardly seemed aware of the ceremony—Baby slept through it—and in the next days, she could barely keep up with the others. Dora slept only in snatches during the night, waking each time the baby mewled, trying to get him to take her breast, but he would not suck and turned away his head. He was feverish, and Dora tried to cool his body with water, but the water was harsh and turned his skin an angry red.
“Shall I carry Baby for you?” Maggie asked as she trudged beside Dora a few days later. The wind had come up, blowing so much dirt that Maggie had tied a scarf around her mouth and nose. She knew the dust in the air must make it hard for Baby to breathe.
Dora did not respond. She seemed to be moving in a trance.
“Here, let me hold Baby,” Maggie repeated. She reached out her arms to take the infant.
Dora stared at her friend with unfocused eyes. Then she shook her head. “He needs no more care,” Dora said.
“Of course he does.” Maggie stopped as Dora’s meaning sank in. “Are you saying…?”
“He passed at our nooning.”
Maggie closed her eyes against the tears. “Oh, my dear. Why did you not say so?”
“I could not. We are a day behind because of me. I would not ask for another half day to bury him. Besides…” She staggered, and Maggie put her arm around the young woman to steady her. “Besides, I could not let him go yet. How could I leave him behind in this terrible place? There will be no one to care for his grave.”
Maggie understood, because she had felt the same anguish at leaving Clara’s body near the Green River. She hoped wild animals had not disturbed it. The women had dug a deep grave, much deeper than the grave she and Caroline had dug for Lavinia. Still, she was horrified at the possibility the grave might have been desecrated, that wild animals might have fed on that dear body. She would make sure Dora’s baby’s final resting place was too deep to be disturbed. She did not want Dora to harbor such worries. “Only his body will be left. You will carry his soul in your heart,” she said. “I shall fetch Caroline. She will tell the ministers.”
“Not just yet. Wait until we stop for the night.”
Maggie agreed. Let Dora hold her baby for one more hour, she thought. It was not a very long time. She herself would have held Clara and Dick forever. She walked beside her friend until William called a halt. Then she told him that Baby was dead.
As the news spread, the women grew silent, talking in whispers while they unhitched the oxen and turned them loose to find feed. They were quiet as they prepared supper and went about their chores. Just as they had felt a collective joy at the child’s birth, they now shared the loss of him. Quietly, they approached Dora with their words of sympathy, but the bereaved mother barely acknowledged them. She did not speak or cry. In fact, she had not cried since she unwrapped the infant hours before and realized he was gone. She sat propped against a wagon wheel, her dead baby in her lap. Maggie brought her a plate of food, but Dora did not touch it. Winny clipped a few strands of the pale hair and said she would save them for Dora.
Bessie approached Dora and held out a silk scarf that had been a gift from her husband. It was as light as a butterfly, so she had not felt guilty about not discarding that bit of luxury. “Wrap Baby in this. He will wear something fine for eternity.” She unfurled the scarf, pale yellow with gold and silver threads running through it. “I should be pleased if you would accept it,” Bessie said.
Dora reached for the scarf, and as she did so, the wind caught it and flung it out like a banner. It shimmered in the sun. Dora stared at the silk, then spoke for the first time. “It is the color of his hair.” She began to cry then. She put her hands over her face as she sobbed and gasped for breath.
Maggie picked up the infant from Dora’s lap. “We will prepare him,” she said. She and Sadie washed the dust and grime from the tiny body. What did it matter now that the water was harsh? They wrapped him in the length of silk and then the small quilt that Maggie had made. Because there was no wood for a coffin, they placed him in a burlap bag. Once again, the mourners dug a deep grave in the dry earth.
At twilight, they gathered at the gravesite for the burial. The words of the ceremony seemed too big for such a small soul in that hard land. So instead, Joseph read the Twenty-third Psalm, while William talked of God’s love, which he hoped would surround Dora in her sorrow. Then, as they sang a hymn, each woman picked up a handful of dirt and threw it over the tiny body.
Later, as the women prepared for bed, Maggie volunteered for the first watch. She remembered what Mary had done after Clara died, and when the others were asleep, she peeled two boards from the side of her wagon and fashioned them into a cross. Then, using axle grease, she wrote “Dora’s Baby” on the crosspiece and placed it at the head of the tiny grave. Like Clara, Dora’s baby would at least have something to mark his final resting place.