September 16, 1852
Forty-Mile Desert
Dora trudged beside the others in a trance, her arms folded against her swollen breasts. She seemed oblivious to the milk stains on the front of her dress, was unaware of the women who offered her words of sympathy. Every now and then, she muttered that she had sinned, that the baby’s death was due to her transgression.
A pall hung over them all. William was edgy. It was apparent that the baby’s death weighed on him as well. “How many more souls will I have caused to pass on before we reach the mountains?” he asked as he walked beside Caroline and Maggie.
When Caroline didn’t answer, Maggie said, “We will not allow you to take the blame for the death of the infant, any more than we will blame his passing on Dora’s sin. Do you think he would have lived had he been born in Chicago? Or Dora? She might have died in childbirth there. I believe you saved her by bringing her west. You also saved Evaline.”
William did not appear to hear her. He strode off, striking a stick against the earth until it broke.
“He is greatly burdened,” Maggie told Caroline. Then she added, “It is your husband who has risen to the occasion. We are all grateful for it.”
Caroline smiled a little and nodded. Joseph had indeed become their leader. As William sank into depression, Joseph had found strengths that had not been apparent at the outset. Over the last weeks, he, along with Mary, had made the decisions. Solemn and self-righteous at the beginning of the trip, he had become patient with the women’s foibles, had laughed at faults that in the past would have annoyed him. His good humor buoyed them all. What was more, Maggie had observed, where he had once considered Caroline as no more than his helpmeet, he now seemed to treat her as a partner, asking her advice and, to Maggie’s astonishment, taking it. “The women would not have made it this far without your support,” he had told her. Maggie had seen the joy on Caroline’s face at the words. Would Joseph have given his wife such praise back in Chicago? Maggie wondered. Caroline confided that Joseph had professed doubts and failings to her. “I believe he never did so before because he feared I would find him weak,” she said. “It is just the opposite. I believe his humbleness gives him strength.”
Maggie wondered if Reverend Parnell resented his brother-in-law’s leadership. After all, the trip had been his idea. But he seemed unaware of the change in their relationship.
Joseph came up to Caroline then and took her hand. He had become more affectionate as the weeks on the trail passed. He touched her as they walked, held her hand or patted her arm. Maggie knew that, despite the crowd of women and the lack of privacy, they had found time for marital relations.
“When we stop, I shall rub your feet. I know they pain you,” Joseph said before he left to see a woman who waved him over.
As Caroline watched him walk away, Maggie whispered, “Have you told him yet you are with child?”
Caroline blushed. “How did you know?”
“I can tell.” Caroline had lost weight during the march, and she had become less pudding-faced. Maggie had noticed the swelling in Caroline’s belly the day Dora’s son died and thought the Lord might be compensating them for the loss of Baby. As if one child could replace another! Caroline’s joy would no more help Dora deal with her misery than Dora’s baby had helped Maggie with hers. Still, she was glad for Caroline.
“The others, are they aware as well?”
“I have said nothing, and they are too tired to take notice.”
Caroline smiled at Maggie. “We had given up on children. I accepted that I had failed Joseph in that way. As a man, God perhaps does not know it would have been better to have waited until I reached California. Nonetheless, I accept His decision with gratitude.” Then she added, “No, I have not told Joseph. I do not want to add to his worries.”
WHEN THE WOMEN reached the start of the Forty-Mile Desert they made camp, and Joseph announced they would spend the next day preparing for the crossing. The oxen were jaded and needed a day’s rest if they were to survive the grueling miles ahead. Two had wandered off the previous night and could not be found, and two more had been unable to rise in the morning. So another wagon was eliminated. Just five were left.
Before the little train started across the sand, William ordered the women to cut grass for the oxen and fill every vessel with water. They would build campfires to cook enough food for the journey ahead, although Winny remarked that the sand was so hot they could fry eggs on it. And the travelers themselves must rest. The next two days would be the hardest they had yet encountered. The oxen were weak, and Joseph said that if the animals were to make it across, no one could ride in the wagons.
Dora sank down beside a wagon and told Maggie, “I must feed Baby. My breasts are so heavy with milk that they pain me.”
Maggie looked at the woman sharply. Had she forgotten her baby was dead? “Rest. You will feel better if you can sleep,” Maggie said. Dora did not argue. She lay down in the sand and closed her eyes. Maggie stared at her a moment, knowing Dora would not be able to walk forty miles under the relentless sun. Maggie would insist that Reverend Swain make an exception and let her friend ride in the wagon. She rose and went in search of the minister.
Just then, an eastbound group of men stopped not far from the women. Because it was late in the season, there were fewer travelers going east now. This group might make it no farther than the Salt Lake and have to winter there.
Winny, who was mixing cornbread, set the skillet in the coals and rose. She would inquire about Davy. Mary stood, too. The women had no guidebook and asked the groups they passed for directions. Mary said she was not sure why they did that, because each gave different advice. She could just as well determine on her own how to cross the desert. Still, she or one of the ministers always inquired. Mary looked around for Reverend Swain, but he was conferring with his wife, so instead she asked Maggie to come along.
“Hello, the wagons!” Maggie called as the three women approached the group. Some twenty men were unhitching mules, leading them to water. She thought the train was made up entirely of men, but then she heard a baby’s cry. There must be women among them. “How was the desert?”
A man looked up and shook his head. “We been to hell and back. I crossed going west and swore never to do it again, but here I am, God’s fool for sure.”
“We start across tomorrow. Have you advice for us?” Mary asked.
“Turn back is my advice.”
“Have you heard of a Davy Rupe?” Winny broke in.
The man turned to her. “Seems like I have. Your husband is he?”
“My brother.” Winny was excited. It was the first news of Davy since she had seen his name on Independence Rock. “Where is he?”
The man shook his head. “Maybe Dogtown. Maybe Goosetown. I cannot be sure. Cannot be sure that was his name neither.”
When Winny looked away, discouraged, the man called to the others. “Anybody here heard of Davy Rupe?”
A second man joined them. “Some there is that changes their names.”
“Not Davy,” Winny said. “Have you come across him, sir?”
“Heard the name of Rupe, but can’t recall the Christian name. Was a year ago, maybe more, maybe less. Over by Hangtown seems like. That where you’uns be headed?”
“Goosetown,” Mary told them.
“Close by.”
“He was one of the Rough and Ready boys,” Winny persisted.
“Ain’t they all,” the man said. “Ain’t they all.”
“We came to ask advice for the crossing,” Mary told the men.
“I told ’em turn back is what I said,” the first man remarked.
“My advice, too. It don’t get better. Only gets worse.” He looked over at the group of women and asked, “Where’s your menfolk at?”
“We have two of them,” Maggie replied.
“The rest of you’s womens?”
Mary, Maggie, and Winny were used to the incredulous looks when men encountered their train.
“We heard of you. There’s talk of you in the diggings from men that’s passed you by. We thought it was a fairy story.”
“Talk of us?” Maggie asked.
He nodded. “Men gone ahead of you spread it about there’s a wagon train headed for Goosetown made up of women looking for husbands.”
“The men are mighty excited about that,” his friend added. “Seems like they’re crowding into the diggings waitin’ for you. Womens is scarce in the camps. How many you got?”
“Thirty-seven,” Maggie told him.
“They’re expecting a hundred, two hundred, maybe more. That ain’t near enough to go around.”
“But you have women with you, one anyway,” Maggie said, glancing in the direction of the crying baby.
The two men looked at each other. “You thinking what I am?” one asked his friend.
The women tensed. They had become used to men who had mischief in mind when they saw the large group of women. “We are as able as any men,” Mary told them.
“You have to be to get this far, ma’am. I would say more women make it than men. Now do not be sore at us. We mean no harm.” He paused. “We got us a problem.” He nodded in the direction of the screaming baby and said, “That there is the problem.”
“A sick baby?” Maggie asked.
“Not sick. Hungry. She ain’t had nothing to eat for more than a day, and I guess she will starve herself to death.”
“We would give you milk, but the cows we started with are gone,” Winny said.
“Her mother is ill?” Maggie asked.
“Dead, and so is her pa. The woman died out there on the desert. The man said it was his fault, that he never should have took her to California. They was going back home, but after she passed on, he went crazy and shot hisself. Now we got a baby and no women and not a thing to feed her. It grieves us sorely.”
The second man added, “We got no milk, so we tried water, but she throwed it up. She licked whiskey off my finger and went to sleep, but then she waked up hollering worse than ever. We got no way to take care of her.”
“You want us to take her?” Maggie asked.
“Sure it is she’ll die if she stays with us.”
Mary looked at Maggie and Winny. “Are we of a similar mind?”
“We are,” Winny replied.
“Yes, we will take her,” Maggie said.
The men grinned with relief and went to fetch the baby. They returned not only with the infant but with a sack of baby clothes and a gold ring that they said had belonged to the infant’s mother. “We sure do appreciate this,” one of them said. “I reckon she does, too.”
Maggie reached for the baby and tried to quiet her screams. “Hush, you pretty thing,” she said. She remembered holding Dick and then Clara when they were infants, how the tiny bodies felt warm against her breast. For a moment, she wondered if the child might be a gift to her. Perhaps providence was giving her another daughter. She knew better, however. “She is starving. We must hurry,” she said, looking at the baby instead of at Mary and Winny.
“God bless you—and her,” a man said.
Mary picked up the bundle of clothing, and the three started back to their wagons. As they did, they heard one of the men shout, “Let’s move on out.”
“I thought they were camping there,” Winny said.
“Perhaps they are going on before we change our minds.” Mary reached over and let the infant grasp her finger. “I wonder how old she is.”
“We forgot to ask. I do not suppose they know anyway,” Maggie said. “I should judge not more than a month.”
They reached the camp with the squalling baby, and the women looked up, confused. “What in the world?” Caroline asked.
“A baby,” Maggie explained. “A hungry baby with no mother. The parents are dead, and the little girl will be, too, if we do not take her.”
“If Dora does not take her, you mean,” Caroline said. “She is a gift from God.”
“That is what we thought, that or a gift from those men, at any rate,” Mary told her. “They did not know how to feed her. Where is Dora?”
The young mother was lying in the sand, sleeping. Maggie carried the baby to her and touched her arm. Dora awoke with a start, reaching for the baby. Then she stopped. “What…?” She shook her head, confused.
“The men over there”—Maggie indicated a cloud of dust—“they left her with us. We believe God intends this child for you.” She held out the infant to Dora, reluctant to give her up.
Instinctively, Dora took the infant and unbuttoned her dress. She put the baby’s face to her breast, and the child began to feed. Dora stared at the little head and listened to the greedy sucking sounds. Then she looked up at Maggie. “Who is she? Where is her mother?”
“Her mother is dead. Her father, too. Without your milk, she will die as well.”
“She’s your miracle,” Sadie said.
“No,” Maggie replied. “Dora is her miracle.”
Later, Joseph said they must find the baby’s relatives and arrange to return the infant to them.
“How can we? We do not know who they are. We do not even know their names—or hers, either,” Maggie told him. “The men did not tell us whose baby she is, and we forgot to ask.” She glanced at Mary, who nodded.
Joseph thought that over. “Then it is clear she is Dora Mifflin’s baby.”
After he left, Mary said, “I am glad we did not think to ask.”
Maggie smiled. She had not forgotten. And she saw no reason to mention the initials inside the wedding ring.
LED BY MARY, the women started across the desert just at sunup, anxious to be on their way before the heat of the day. Still, the sun’s rays hit them, and they were fierce. Before an hour had passed, Maggie was perspiring heavily. The desert was littered with broken and abandoned wagons and dead animals. The stench of the rotting dead was so bad that Bessie halted her wagon to search for a bottle of camphor oil that she and Evaline and the others could use to wet rags to cover their noses and keep out the smell. The air seemed impregnated with salt, which made Sadie beg for water. Joseph warned her that water was precious. They must be judicious, because they would need it later on.
Maggie walked barefoot, her moccasins long since worn through. The sand was so hot that it burned her feet, and she tied strips of burlap from an abandoned wagon around them.
“You should ride,” Maggie told Dora. “It is all right with Reverend Swain. He told me so.”
“I shall walk,” Dora replied.
“Then let the baby ride.” The infant, no longer hungry, was sleeping.
Dora shook her head. “I will carry her.” She had used a shawl to tie the child to her chest.
Maggie studied her friend for a moment. The day before, she had been sure Dora would die before the crossing was done. Now the young woman was as strong as the rest of them, and her spirits were better than most. She hummed to the infant as they walked along and kept peering at the little face as if to make sure the baby was really there.
“Have you named her?”
“I thought of Caroline or Mary—or Maggie—but I cannot choose. What do you think of California?”
Maggie thought California was a terrible name. “I believe we are not in California but in a place called Washoe,” she said.
“Washoe!” Dora exclaimed. “Why, that is the perfect name.”
Maggie did not think it was any better than California and perhaps even worse, but she only smiled. “You do not need to decide now.”
“I have done so. Her name is Washoe Mifflin.”
“Washoe,” Maggie told Mary later on. “Why did I not keep my mouth shut?”
“It is not so bad. You could have told her we were in the Forty-Mile Desert.”
BY NOON, MAGGIE was drenched in sweat. The women could not stand to build fires but ate cornbread from the morning’s breakfast and cold beans left over from the night before. Maggie tried to rest, but there was little shade beside the wagons, and she was anxious to be on her way. So she was glad that as soon as the oxen had rested and consumed some of the grass the women had cut and drunk a little of the precious water, Joseph called, “Move out!” One ox could not rise, and she and Mary unyoked him. They would lose more oxen before the crossing was done, Maggie thought, and would have to abandon another wagon.
Joseph and William drove two of the wagons, and the women took turns with the rest. Maggie was glad her stint was over. Now, head bowed, she walked beside Winny, both of them fanning their faces with their hands, although that failed to relieve the heat. Suddenly Winny yelled, “There is a lake! Look. Just a little ahead!”
Maggie looked up, excited. Perhaps the desert was not so deadly after all.
“It is a mirage,” William called. “There is no lake, no water. It is an illusion, a reflection of the sky upon the sand.”
“But I see it,” Winny said, running toward where she had spied the water. When she reached the spot, she saw it was just a little farther on. She started off again, then stopped and began to cry. Slowly, she turned back to the company.
“Mirages are not unusual out here. We shall see more before we reach the river,” William told her.
The sand was thicker now. The oxen strained to pull the wagons, and walking was harder. Bessie stumbled and fell, then forced herself to get up and continue. Maggie’s sunbonnet trapped the heat around her face. She took small sips of water from a canteen but, mindful of Reverend Swain’s warning, drank as little as possible. She glanced at Evaline, the dog at her side. The girl carried the two apple trees, and when the leaves wilted, she wet her handkerchief and rubbed the water on them.
“You must not. The water is too scarce,” Maggie told her.
“I promised I would keep them safe,” Evaline said.
“Not at the cost of your life,” Maggie replied.
Evaline nodded and began to replace the cap on the canteen, but Blackie jumped up on her, and Evaline dropped the container. The dog tried to lap up the spilled water, but it sank into the sand. Evaline’s eyes filled with tears, and she vowed to Maggie that she would drink no more water until they stopped to camp.
Late in the day, Joseph at last called a halt, and Maggie sank to the ground for a few moments’ respite before making preparations to camp. There was to be no camp, however. “We will rest and eat supper,” Joseph told them. “Then we will go on. We will march through the night and into tomorrow if we have to.”
As dusk fell they started again, walking silently beside the weary oxen. From time to time a woman fell and could not rise and was put into one of the wagons to rest. Then after a while she took up the walk again, since none wanted to be thought of as a slacker. At one point, Maggie spotted a sign that read “20 miles to water.”
“Only halfway,” Sadie said. “Oh, I’d thought we were almost there.” She uncapped her canteen to drink and discovered it was empty. She tossed it aside, startling Maggie, who stumbled, twisting her ankle as she fell.
“Oh!” Maggie cried out.
Sadie rushed to her. “It’s my fault. Are you hurt bad?”
“Only a little.” Maggie stood and grimaced as she put pressure on her ankle.
“Ride in a wagon,” Sadie said.
“No, I shall tie a strip of cloth around my foot, and it will be fine.” She reached under her skirt and unfastened what was left of her petticoat. Then she tore strips from it.
“That’s a waste of a pretty garment,” Sadie said. “I’d let you use my petticoat if I had one left.”
“Likely I shall find another abandoned farther on.” Maggie wrapped the strips around her ankle, then tested it. “All I need is a cane.”
“A stick’s going to have to do,” Sadie told her. She looked around but saw nothing suitable. They were near an abandoned Conestoga wagon. It rose up in the moonlight like a ship. Telling Maggie to wait a moment, Sadie searched through the abandoned cargo and returned, raising her arm in triumph. In her hand was an ebony walking stick with a gold knob. She handed it to Maggie, then rushed to Dora to ask if she could carry the baby. Maggie started off, limping, letting the others pass her by, slowly dropping back. No one seemed to notice.
In fact, the women were all but oblivious of each other now. A few stopped to rest and were left as stragglers, until Joseph discovered them and urged them on. They stumbled through the starlit night, through heavy sand that seemed to get deeper the farther they went. Every few hours Joseph called a halt, and the women ate a little of the food they had prepared what seemed like days earlier and drank a small amount of water. More and more canteens were thrown to the side of the trail.
Maggie plodded along behind them, never quite catching up. She thought she might beg a ride in a wagon, but when she reached the stopping place, she discovered the others had gone on. Once she stumbled upon the two apple trees, their leaves withered, and knew Evaline had thrown them aside. Or more likely, Bessie had insisted they be discarded. Someone else would have to plant an apple orchard.
She recognized one of the company’s oxen. It must have refused to rise and had been unyoked and left to die. She saw that another of their wagons had been abandoned so that the remaining oxen could be yoked to other teams to pull the four vehicles that were left. For a moment, she wondered if some of her things had been tossed out, but she did not have the energy to search. Moreover, she did not care.
She stopped for only a moment, then started on, slower now, guided only by the moon and the wagon trail that stretched west. Sometimes she passed other emigrants, but she was too jaded to greet them or ask if they needed help. Nor did anyone offer to help her.
She stopped only to rewind the bandage around her ankle, but after a while she could no longer do that. Each time she started walking, she grimaced from the pain and wondered if she could continue. The water had been gone a long time, and Maggie was parched. Her face, burned from the sun the day before, hurt her, and she thought her tongue was twice its normal size.
The sun rose, and in the daylight Maggie saw no one ahead of her. The desert stretched out as far as she could see. By now, the rest of the company would have completed the crossing. Surely someone would notice she had lagged behind and would come back for her. She concentrated on thoughts of Dick and Clara. The memory of her children kept her going. Each time she faltered, she remembered how she and Clara had started the journey together and knew she must complete it for her daughter’s sake. Clara’s death would mean nothing if Maggie failed to make the trip. As she struggled on, her thoughts of Clara changed. Now she touched the locket around her neck and wondered if, before a few more hours passed, she would join her daughter.