“Will you go, Maggie?” Mary asked. She removed her shawl, revealing thick yellow braids wrapped around her head.
Maggie shrugged. “I do not know. I have to think on it. What about you?”
A woman stepped aside to allow Mary into the aisle. “My brother and his wife will call me puddin’ headed. They will surely try to talk me out of it. Perhaps they are right, but I believe they are not,” Mary replied, setting Clara on her feet.
The little girl smiled up at Mary, who for the first time, it appeared, saw the bruise on the side of the child’s face. “Fell, did you?”
The girl buried her face in her mother’s skirt.
Maggie didn’t reply as Mary pushed up the veil on Maggie’s hat and studied the bruises on her face, too. After a moment, Mary said, “I help raise my brother’s young ’uns. They are all the time falling.” She reached over and touched Maggie’s nose. “It looks broken. I guess you fell yourself.”
“There are stairs,” Maggie said, although that didn’t explain it.
“Stairs,” Mary said and nodded. She stepped aside to let two women retreat up the aisle to the door. One muttered she would not walk two thousand miles for any man, even Millard Fillmore. Her companion replied she would not walk even a mile for the president, such a bungler was he.
Mary watched them for a moment, then said, “I have made up my mind to go. They—my brother, Micah, and his wife, Louise—they cannot stop me, but they will make me feel as if I have lost my mind.” She paused. “If you would come, I would help you care for the girl.”
“She likes you,” Maggie said.
“Children and cats, but maybe not men.”
“You have not found one to your liking here?” Men were fickle, Maggie thought. They cared more for a woman’s pretty face and slim waist than for her intelligence and hard work. She would have pitied Mary but suspected the woman would reject such sentiment.
“He has not found me.”
“Surely you do not need to go all the way to California to acquire a husband.”
“Oh no. There is old Howard Hale. He has the farm next to ours, that is, my brother’s farm. In truth, it is half mine, was left to me in partnership by our parents, but Micah says that by law, a woman cannot hold ownership if she has a man to act as guardian, and so it is my brother who claims it. Micah thought it would be a good thing for me to marry our neighbor and bring the land into the family. Howard is as old as the saints, and he had no children by his first wife. As the second, I would inherit his holdings.”
“Would it not be a good thing, then, to have your own land?”
“If I inherited it, Micah, as my guardian, would take control of it, too.”
“Perhaps you would have a son by then.”
Mary snorted. “Not by that old man. I would as soon sleep in the woodshed, begging your pardon, Maggie. I live on a farm and know the doings of the animals and sometimes do not watch my tongue.”
“You do not offend me. Little does anymore. So you will not marry him?”
Mary laughed, and Maggie thought she had a merry laugh, like a girl. “Would you marry a man who bathes only twice a year, on the days he changes his underwear, a man that is likely always drunk whenever he is awake? He is a lazy sort, who has let his land go to ruin and would expect me to farm it and care for the animals, as well as cook his meals and warm his bed. When he proposed, he inquired as to whether I could repair a roof.” She laughed again. “There was good reason. When the rain came through a hole in the roof onto his bed, he moved the bed.”
While Mary talked, other women pushed past them, and now the two were near the end of the line. “Do you want to sit a minute while you think it over?” Mary asked.
Maggie nodded.
“Is it the hardship you worry about?” Mary asked.
“No, I am used to it.”
“I would be pleased to carry Clara when you tire.”
“Thank you.”
“You would have time to make ready, more than two months.”
“That is a problem. I had thought we would be staying here until we left, that we would prepare ourselves or learn to drive the wagons, whilst we lived in the church. Clara and I are wearing all of our clothes, and I have brought our personal things in a bag.”
“And you cannot go home?”
Maggie jerked up her head. She had said too much. “Oh, yes, of course.”
Mary did not say more, as the two seated themselves in the shadow of a pillar in the front row. Maggie drew Clara into her lap. They could hear the ministers, but the men did not appear to notice them. She watched several women sign the applications. Others carried them off, perhaps to be read at their leisure—or maybe only to be laughed at. Reverend Parnell turned away a woman who was tubercular and another old enough to be his mother. Maggie and Mary smiled at each other when a woman who gave her name as Lavinia Mercer said she already had a wedding dress and wanted to find a husband to go with it. Her fiancé had proved wanting, and she did not want the dress to go to waste, she told them. “I shall not forgive him,” she said, raising her chin in the air. She was plump and had a haughty face.
Joseph accepted two women who were widows but was not sure about one who had completed four years of college. “She would not make a good wife. She would want to be in charge of her husband,” he said.
Winny, the maid Maggie had recognized, went up to the men and declared she had made up her mind to go.
“Are you able to walk that distance?” Joseph asked, sizing up the girl, who was barely five feet tall.
“I walk a hundred miles a day going up the stairs with water and down them with the slops,” she replied.
Maggie smiled as she listened to the conversation. It was likely the girl had done more manual labor than either of the ministers.
“I ask because you are small,” Joseph said.
“My mistress does not think I am small when she has me scrubbing stairs and hauling buckets of coal. I work twelve hours a day and often more.”
“What do you think, Willie?” Joseph asked.
“Women know their strength more than we do. Sometimes I think they are better suited to the rigors of the trail than the men. I say she will do.” William handed Winny an application.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but as you have been to California, I ask if you have heard mention of my brother. David Rupe, he is. He left for California in ’50 and expected to find a fortune. I believe he must be very rich now.”
“California is a large place, and many men are there. They all expect to get rich,” William replied. “Nobody ever goes west to get poor.”
“He was one of the Rough and Ready boys.”
“From Maine?”
“Illinois.”
“I know of half a dozen Rough and Ready companies. I cannot say I have heard of a David Rupe, however, but some men change their names.”
“Oh, Davy would not. You would remember him. He is very strong and handsome, with hair redder than mine. It is bright enough to glow in the dark.”
“Many who leave are strong and handsome, but they do not always arrive in such condition in California.”
“You think he did not make it?”
“Oh, I cannot say that at all. There are dozens of diggings. Do you know the name of the place he intended to go?”
Winny shook her head. “His last letter came to me while he was still on his way to the gold fields. But I am not worried. When he discovers I have come looking for him, he will find me.” She slowly printed her name on the form and signed it. Then she sang out, “I’m off to California with my banjo on my knee.”
Maggie watched the girl as she left the chancel and went out a side door, glad the ministers had accepted her, because Winny was a good person. Later, if she joined the company, Maggie would take Winny aside and tell her they had met before and thank her for her past kindness. She wondered if Clara remembered her, too, but the girl was playing with Mary’s handkerchief rabbit and hadn’t paid attention.
The ministers interviewed scores of women, and the line was getting shorter when one stepped forward and picked up the pen and dipped it into the inkwell, only to have Joseph snatch it away. “Just a moment, madam, a few questions first,” he said, looking hard at her. The woman wore a gaudy dress, and her cheeks were rouged. Her hair was an unnatural color of red. Despite her tasteless embellishments, she was a beautiful woman, with white skin and deep-set eyes that were almost turquoise. “Who are you?”
“Sadie Cooper,” the woman replied, defiant.
“And what is your occupation?”
Sadie frowned. “I am a widow.”
Caroline smiled and turned away at that, and then Maggie herself recognized the woman. She was a fancy woman, a Magdalene who sometimes went to the Kitchen. Caroline had always greeted her with affection, and that thoughtfulness had impressed Maggie.
“And your husband, what was his occupation?” Joseph asked.
“None of your business,” Sadie said.
William looked up at that, then glanced at his sister and suppressed a grin.
“Such impertinence does not serve you well. Do you believe this woman is qualified to join us?” Joseph turned to his wife.
“Oh, but dearest, she will be perfect. I know her from the Kitchen. She keeps the women in line, makes sure they do not fight or steal each other’s food. And she loves the children so. I believe she would be an asset on our venture.” She glanced at her brother and added, “We do not want to take only timid women.”
“Her appearance, her dress, her face…,” Joseph protested.
“I know you would not be so un-Christian as to judge by appearance.” Caroline added in a whisper just loud enough for Maggie to hear, “Her dress is not her fault. Perhaps it was given to her and is all she has.”
Caroline’s brother had listened to the conversation and caught his sister’s eye again. “Her face will soon be covered with dust. Of course, if you judge her to be unacceptable…” Maggie thought that, like his sister, he had used the word “judge” on purpose.
Joseph stared at his wife a long time. “If you will vouch for her, then I will accept her,” he said, handing Sadie the pen.
“Noted,” William told him.
Sadie scribbled her name, then looked at Caroline with what might have been an air of triumph. After the woman left, Maggie saw Caroline exchange a smile with her brother.
THE CHURCH WAS almost empty now. A few women lingered at the back, perhaps out of curiosity, but when the line was finished, they left. In a few minutes, only Maggie and Mary and Mrs. Whitney, the woman in furs, and her servant were seated in the pews. Maggie started to rise, but Mary touched her arm as Mrs. Whitney stood up. She was as stylishly dressed as any woman in Chicago. She was not pretty, not even handsome, but still, she was striking because of her stately demeanor. It was clear she wanted to talk to the ministers privately. None of them seemed to realize two other women waited behind a pillar.
Mrs. Whitney went up the steps to the chancel, the Negro servant behind her, and Joseph bowed to her. “Why, dear Mrs. Whitney. I hope you approve of our beginning,” he said. “It was good of you to come and give us your blessing.” He turned to William. “As I have confided to you, Mrs. Whitney is the woman who is financing nearly all of our trip. She gave the rose window”—he pointed to the window behind them—“in memory of her dear husband, George.”
“I thought the financing of this venture a more suitable way to memorialize him. He was a fine man.”
“Your generosity overwhelms us,” William said. “As you can see, we have much interest in our venture. Twenty or thirty applications have been signed, and we may have more by the end of the week.”
“The women will be most grateful to you,” Caroline said.
“The women are not to know,” Mrs. Whitney told her. “That was our agreement, was it not, Reverend Swain?”
“It was indeed. My wife and my brother-in-law will keep your confidence.” He fetched a chair and set it in front of the table for Mrs. Whitney. She sat down, spreading her skirt over the edge of the chair, and Maggie saw a tiny tear in the fabric. She had made the dress only a few months before, and her fingers itched to repair the rip before it got bigger.
Mrs. Whitney reached for two applications. Then, to the surprise of the ministers, she filled them out and handed them to Joseph. “For my servant and me.”
Joseph looked aghast. “You are going?”
“I am.”
“You are going to California to find a husband?”
“That remains to be seen. I have been lonely since Mr. Whitney died. I have not found a suitable replacement among the mealy-mouthed men who court me. They primp and fawn and lie to me, telling me I am a great beauty.” She turned to Reverend Parnell. “Tell me, sir, am I a beauty?”
Maggie and Mary exchanged looks, and Mary grinned.
“Of course—” Joseph began, but Mrs. Whitney cut him off. “I know what you would say. I ask Caroline’s brother.”
William studied her. The woman was younger than her manner would suggest, probably not yet forty, but her face was lined, and gray hair escaped from her bonnet. Her eyes were an ordinary brown. “You have strength of character in your face, and you have a stately demeanor, but no. I cannot say you are so very pretty.”
Joseph started to protest, but Mrs. Whitney held up her hand. “There, I want such an honest man, and one who does not mind soiling his hands to earn his living. I have found no such person in Chicago, and so I believe I will try California. Evaline”—she indicated the servant behind her—“has agreed to go along to take care of me. She is thirteen. I shall fit up a wagon for myself and hire my own driver.”
“That would not be possible,” William spoke up.
Mrs. Whitney frowned at him. “Do you object because Evaline is a Negro? Are you saying there are no Negro men in California?”
William looked down at his hands for a moment. “No, her color is of no consequence. There are plenty of men who would find her to be desirable. It is your demand that you take your own wagon. I believe it would cause dissent among the women if you accompanied them as you suggest. All are equal on the trail. If you were to play the great lady, you would find the others turning against you. The women must work together or they will not make it to California. Suppose you or your servant were to contract an illness—cholera, perhaps. You would need one of the women to nurse you. What if your driver were to be injured? Would you drive the wagon? No, madam, as grateful as we are for your support, we would not allow you to join the company unless you were on an equal footing with the others.”
“Surely we can make an exception. This is Mrs. Whitney,” Joseph said, wringing his hands.
“What do you say, Caroline?” Mrs. Whitney asked.
“I?” Caroline glanced at her husband. She was standing next to him then, and Maggie wondered how so handsome a man had come to marry such a plain woman. She was short and squat with a large nose and small, close eyes. Perhaps he saw the goodness beyond the unimpressive looks.
Mrs. Whitney nodded.
“I believe my brother knows best.”
Clara hit her foot against the pew, and Maggie held her tight. What would the ministers think if they knew she and Mary were listening?
“Would I be allowed to take my Chippendale chairs? They have been in my husband’s family for many years.”
“You could take them, but they will be thrown out before we reach Fort Kearny,” William told her. “Or perhaps used as firewood.”
“What about my dresses and hats? I would not care to arrive in California looking like a scullery maid. They were made by the finest dressmakers, here and in Paris.”
Maggie felt a surge of pride, since she had made several of Mrs. Whitney’s garments. She worried then that the woman would indeed recognize her and was glad it was dark where she sat.
“You should take only those clothes that will not wear out on the trail. Calico is best. As for hats, yes, but only if you have a sunbonnet.”
“My little dog?”
“If you do not mind him going into some Indian’s cooking pot.”
Mrs. Whitney looked startled, and Joseph said, “Willie, how could you!”
“Your servant is going, then?” William asked, glancing at the black girl.
“I would not leave without her. She is very dear to me.” Mrs. Whitney put a protecting arm around the girl. “What do you say, Evaline? Shall we go or stay?”
“I will abide by your decision, but I would not mind the challenge,” the girl said. Maggie’s eyes widened at the girl’s proper speech. She had never heard a Negro speak like that, but then, she knew few Negroes.
“No, you would be up to it. The question is, am I?” Mrs. Whitney asked.
“You won’t…” William began, then paused as if not sure he should ask the question.
“Take back my money. No. But I shall think seriously about taking my dog, Whitey, with me, and woe to the Indian who tries to turn him into supper.”
AFTER MRS. WHITNEY and the servant girl left, the ministers gathered up the applications. Mary took Maggie’s hand and said, “It is time. I am going to speak to them. Will you come?”
Maggie nodded. She was nervous. What if they asked her reason for going to California? “Come, Clara,” she whispered.
“Where are we going?”
“Perhaps as far as the moon.”
“Sirs,” Mary said.
Joseph looked up, startled, and glanced at the door Mrs. Whitney had used.
“We would speak with you, too,” Mary said. “The child was resting, and we did not wish to disturb her. She had our full attention.” She stood, and the men stared at her.
“You heard?” Joseph asked.
Mary did not lie. “I have heard many things. I keep to myself that which is not my business.”
William nodded. “Would you go to California, too?”
Mary, big as a barn, stepped forward and stood in front of the men, turning her head to the side, perhaps to hide the cast in her eye. “I would. I am fit and healthy.”
“And you know how to drive oxen,” William said. “I saw you raise your hand.”
“I can shoe them, too, if need be. You will not find me wanting.”
“No, I can see that. I question whether you might find our men wanting.” He paused, then asked, “Are you wishing to escape debts or leave a husband behind?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you a moral Christian woman in good health?”
“Yes, sir.”
Maggie smiled to herself as she wondered how many women had actually admitted to being immoral.
“Your age?”
“That is my business, sir. There was no mention of age in your advertisement.”
“You will do.” William smiled at her; then, without looking to his brother-in-law or sister, he handed her the pen.
Mary signed her name in plain block letters, then turned to Maggie. “My friend will go, too.”
Maggie came out of the shadows, gripping Clara’s hand. She shook with fear. What if the ministers asked questions? She should have thought of a story to tell them.
“A child?” Joseph asked. “We said nothing about children.”
“You let the woman who is sponsoring the venture take her servant, and she is only a girl,” Mary interjected.
“Plenty of children have made the journey,” Reverend Parnell said. “They are as well suited to it as the adults.”
“She is all I have. She must go with me,” Maggie said.
“Where is your husband?” Joseph asked.
Maggie started to answer but found the words would not come. What could she tell them?
“Have you a husband?” he demanded. “We take no runaway wives. If you are among them, I counsel you to return to him and beg his forgiveness. It is your duty.”
“I…,” Maggie began but was too shaken to finish.
“Go along with you, then,” Joseph said. He glanced at his wife, who looked down. She would not contradict him.
“She has no husband,” Mary said suddenly, and Maggie looked up at her in surprise.
“Are you saying she is a sister of misfortune and the child is a bastard?” Joseph asked.
Mary glared at him so hard that he leaned away from her. “No such thing. She is a widow, so newly fresh a widow that she cannot speak of it, can barely say his name without breaking down. Her husband”—Mary cleared her throat—“perhaps you read about him in the newspapers. Henry his name was, such a good, hearty fellow. He was run down by a coach and four. He dashed into the street to rescue a boy who was in the path of the horses. Oh, it was a brave and terrible thing to do.”
As Mary put her hand to her eyes as if to wipe away tears, Maggie stared at her in astonishment. She had known the woman for little more than an hour, and yet she had come to her defense with this story.
“Ah, the tragedy of it, to leave behind a widow and child, to leave them to the harshness of a Chicago winter.”
“I have not read of it,” Joseph said.
Caroline studied Maggie, then looked at Clara. “I am sure I did, my dear. Perhaps you forgot it. Was it not before Christmas?”
Maggie realized Caroline had addressed the question to her, and she nodded, too astonished to speak.
“I believe we must accept her,” Caroline said. “After all, it is not only the men in California who need succor. The Lord calls on us to aid all of our brothers and sisters.” She reached around her husband and handed Maggie a pen.
Maggie took it and signed “Maggie.”
“A last name, please,” Joseph said.
Maggie froze. Then Mary spoke up. “I believe you will be pleased with Maggie Hale.”
Maggie leaned forward, wondering whether the name was spelled “Hail” or “Hale,” but chose the latter. She was glad the men had forgotten to ask her the questions Mary had been asked to answer. As she stepped away from the table, she recovered her voice and said, “The boy lived.”
MAGGIE WENT TO retrieve her umbrella and her bag, which she had left in the pew, and when she looked up, she did not see Mary. She was sorry, because she should have liked to thank her.
The sleet had turned to snow, and a harsh wind swept it down the street. Clara shivered and said, “It is too cold, Mama.” Maggie took off her shawl and wrapped it around her daughter. She did not know where to go. Maggie had told Mary she could go home, but she would not. It was too dangerous. Perhaps she could return to the church and find a corner in which to hide, leave her bag in some out-of-the-way spot. But what if the ministers found her? She would look for a doorway that would shelter them. She had a little money, but she dared not spend it unless she had to. The ministers had said she would need at least fifty dollars for the trip, and she had only half that amount. Still, it would not do for Clara to sleep on the street on such a cold night.
As she tried to make up her mind, Maggie saw Mary loom out of the blizzard, leading a horse. “I am sorry about the name Hale. It was all I could think of.”
“It is a good name,” Maggie said.
“Have you a home to go to?”
Maggie knew the woman understood the truth of it. “I shall find something.”
“And in the meantime, you will freeze. Come home with me. We can all three ride the horse. He is strong enough to carry two of me.”
“Oh, I cannot put you out.”
“It is no bother.”
“You said you live with your brother and his family. Surely they will not want me.”
“They do not want me much either and would put me out if I did not do the farm work. The house is half mine. If they do not welcome you, I will. We can always sleep in the barn.”
When Maggie gasped, Mary said, “I am only joking. There is room in the house. Come.” Before Maggie could reply, Mary lifted Clara and placed her on the horse. The little girl clapped her hands with delight. Then Mary picked up Maggie and set her behind Clara, handing her the heavy bundle she had brought with her. Finally, Mary herself mounted the horse and, holding tight to Maggie, kicked the chestnut into a trot. As they headed out into the swirling snow, Maggie wondered what she had committed herself to. It could not be worse than what she had left behind.