A Light in the Wilderness (17 page)

“Thank ye.”

Letitia knelt back, setting the bowl aside.

He was up on his elbows. “Lookee who’s here.”

Letitia twisted to look. “Nancy?”

She watched instead as an Indian girl and Meek, the guide, approached.

“One advantage thar be of a colored soul is she’s easy to find in a crowd,” Meek said. “Come on out here, Mrs. Carson. Want to say thanks for spending time with my Elizabeth. Missus Meek. She gets lonely. Likes woman talk.”

Letitia scrambled out, stood facing an Indian girl, her eyes red from weeping. The girl held out the cradleboard toward Letitia. She was young, not the older woman who had said no to yesterday’s trade.

“I gets my shirt.”

Meek put his hand up to stop Letitia from leaving. “No trade. Wants you to take it. A gift. She’s Arapaho. They’re a generous people.”

The girl pushed the baby board toward Letitia again. “Take.”

“She wants you to have that thar Indian cradle for your little papoose. Came looking for you. Scared half the camp walking in.”

“Her baby’s?”

“It were.”

“I gives something.”

“You give when you take that thar gift,” Meek said. “You pass the gift-giving on. Maybe not that thar board but something else what’s treasured. The way it works here. Her baby died and she gives everything away so the papoose travels to the spirit world with nothing to hold it back. Frame’s wild rose. Moss for the pillow thar and beneath that little baby bottom.” He fingered the greenish fuzz sticking out from the soft leather patch that covered it. “We head out promptly now. You takin’ it?”

“Yessuh.” She clutched the cradleboard to her breast and wanted to touch the woman, to thank her with motion. She opened her arm then and the girl walked inside the one-arm hug. She leaned into Letitia though she was taller. Letitia felt her grief, no different from her own when Nathan died an infant, nor Nancy’s mourning over Laura. Tending and mending used threads of many colors.

Letitia found she could lift the heavy oxen yokes to hitch the wagon, run the reins through the rings and attach them. It was awkward and tiring, but she could do it and the success pleased her. She could set the team of four oxen off with a flick of the reins and her words “Go, A; go, B.” They’d plod out. Sometimes she’d hop off and walk beside the steady beasts as they followed the wagon ahead. The wagon seat brought no comfort to her back even though the sun warmed it. She hadn’t thought having to sit on it for long hours driving would be so miserable. She had new appreciation for Davey’s part of this trip.

If she kept the baby outside in the fresh air, she’d have a better chance of avoiding whatever Davey had. But if Davey was exposed enough to get measles, she could get it too and then dear Martha. She wondered why they hadn’t yet. She ran her hands over his
hot forehead. He had no little pocks on his face. Maybe it wasn’t measles. She’d prayed it wasn’t.

“Easy now.” Davey groaned from inside the wagon.

Easy?
Not with the rocks and riddled trail no more than a hardpacked track. Every little bump must hurt him. But there was nothing she could do except proceed. She would allow others to pass. He wanted to keep going, but she doubted he’d complain about the slower pace today. While the oxen behaved, they could continue with the company he’d chosen to go with, though they’d be in the hind group.

The third morning G.B. Smith approached. “You can use a hand.”

They’d somehow caught up to him, of all people. G.B. had his vest buttoned up like he was going to a gambling hall. She hadn’t heard him approach as he wasn’t riding his big horse. Rothwell came out from under the wagon and barked.
A little late
. G.B. brushed his boot toward the hound and the dog scurried back under the wagon, his big head resting on his paws, eyes focused on the man, pointy ears laid back. He growled low.

“I manage.” Yes, she could use a hand with the yokes—but not from him. Milking Charity morning and night along with everything else tired her. Even giving milk away or trading it for dough risings and eggs proved a chore. But at least women traded with her even if they didn’t carry on a conversation. Bathing Davey when his fever grew; fixing a weak meat soup. She had to eat and keep her strength up too, for Martha, so preparing a meal of jerked buffalo and hardtack was all the energy she had left.

“Don’t be stupid. I saw you struggling. Carson!” He shouted toward the wagon bed.

Davey came to the opening, still fevered but no blotches. She began to think the fort doctor was wrong.

“Sure and it’s me.”

“Your
girl
here resists my services.” He rolled the word
girl
around his tongue like he was chewing poison
.
“Tell her she needs help.”

“Tish, let him.”

“There, you see? Your
employer
wants you to be a wise woman. You can pay me back sometime.” He raised one eyebrow, then moved in close enough she could smell his tooth powder.

“I’s able. I sign on to work.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. Carson’s extra driver. And other things.”

“Tish, let him help.”

Pride goeth before a
fall.
She could be right or happy.

Together they lifted the yoke, the one she’d been lifting on her own all these days. She never looked at G.B. She made certain her hands never touched his, though he moved his body closer to her than necessary. He made no move to touch her. Maybe he was just trying to keep the company moving.

“All set.” He tipped his hat to her as though she was a lady. “Glad I could assist, Carson.” He sauntered off, leaving behind the scent of caution.

When Davey asked for a pie a day later she knew they’d passed the rough edge of his ailing. The next morning she rolled the dough out on the smooth wagon seat, filled it with the berries she managed to pick the evening before, trading a cup of them for an egg. She rolled the extra dough over for the top crust and put it in the reflector oven and let the pie cook as they rolled along. At least he must be getting better if he was hungry for pie.

They approached Independence Rock, which Davey said reminded him of a picture of a whale he’d seen once. It was covered with names of emigrants who had passed by. Letitia wondered if Sarah Bowman’s name from the 1844 journey was there or if Polly Holmes signed it. Did Polly make her mark to stand out, or like Letitia was she too hoping to fit in? She was too exhausted to climb up and see.

But as she waited for Davey to make the climb, someone began to sing “America” and others joined in, their voices filtering back
across the plains, settling onto the travelers as they stepped back up onto their wagon seats or began walking beside.

Letitia broke out the next song. “I want Jesus to walk with me.” Voices joined hers, and Letitia was aware of a warmth growing within her both for the prayer of the words and the comfort of being a part of others making this trek.

It wasn’t the same without Letitia to walk with, Nancy decided. Oh, she treasured her sister and mother and she enjoyed chatting with other women from parts of the states she’d never been to. But there’d been an ease with Letitia. They could walk for hours and rarely speak and other times chatter through an entire meal-preparing. Letitia laughed when they were together and seemed more confident, less afraid to share her thoughts than when she was part of the large Hawkins family gatherings. Goodness, she’d even sung one evening and Nancy heard that low, clear voice and was comforted by it. Knowing she’d lost a child helped her feel less alone, the way she felt now.

She and Zach didn’t talk about Laura. He assumed she had “moved on,” as her mother-in-law said she must. But she couldn’t move past that place where Laura lay nestled in her heart.

“Do you think we’ll meet up with the Carsons again?” she asked Zach that evening. Maryanne had taken over fixing suppers under Nancy’s direction. Martha needed more of her time. The child had lost more weight than the rest of the family, picked at her buffalo meat even when it was fresh. She ought to have let poor Martha go with the Carsons. That way they’d have been certain they’d meet up again and poor Martha would have her namesake around, someone to feel responsible for and earn her confidence back.

“Maybe when we get to Oregon. Carson spoke of settling south of Oregon City. He’d heard much of the good land was already taken by the French Canadians and their Indian wives.”

“Maybe they’ll leave a message for us at Laramie. Or Fort Hall. Didn’t you say those were major stopping points?”

“I did. Might even pick up something along the way. A bunch of trappers heading back brought messages for some. None for us, though.”

The disappointment at not hearing news was almost as sharp as the thoughts of Laura that pierced her when she least expected it. She longed to find comfort in the future, even with Laura in it only as memory.

Most of all, if Letitia walked beside her, Nancy would have someone to confide that she believed she was carrying another child. Her feelings rose like a boat on a lake. Sometimes she found smooth sailing in the hope. Other days the guilt over feeling joy while her family had been eclipsed kept her bobbing on rough seas. She didn’t want Zach to hear her crying. She wished she could ask Letitia to tell her again that one day the pain would end.

On the Fourth of July the English company Davey joined celebrated with fireworks and gunshots.
Men
made
room
for
fireworks
but
women
had
to
leave
their
good
dishes
behind
. Letitia had no one to tell that opinion to, not even Missus Meek who kept up on horseback with her husband now. They crossed streams and rivers and moved through red bluffs where stands of timber offered shade and shelter for her lonely “fundamentals.” Several members suffered from a fever and bone aches, and Letitia worried it was measles, but it must have been the same fever Davey had recovered from.

“Dengue fever,” she overheard Captain English tell Davey. “We’re staying here a few days, hope to give relief.”

Time for
the Hawkins wagon to catch up.

“Will you come help my ma?” A boy with freckles the size of peppercorns dotting his nose stood at their wagon. “Pilot says you deliver babies. My ma sent me.”

“I do. I gets my fixin’s.” She slipped back into the wagon, grabbed her basket of needles, thread, lavender candle. She decided to leave
the candlestick buried in the corn bin. She picked up the board with Martha in it. “I’s ready. Which wagon?”

The boy pointed and she hurried ahead of him.

“Missus, I’s here. How far you comin’?”

“Oh, thank God. Bennie found you. Oooooh.”

Letitia scanned the wagon, saw that clean cloths had been laid out, a tin basin filled with water sat beside the narrow cot. “When the pains start?”

“Three hours. Coming faster now. Oooooh.”

“Lord’s bringin’ you a baby, Missus. We see you taken care of, do this together.” And she went to work.

Martha fussed during the time of delivering and Letitia spoke to the child, telling her she’d have to wait. A good midwife tended to the mother, giving her confidence that she could bring this baby forth; had to put her own family’s needs aside. Martha soon fell asleep.

The candle Letitia sent Bennie to light and place in the brass holder burned halfway down, filling the canvas with the sweet scent. She told the boy to let Davey know he’d have to scrape up his own supper. “And tell your papa he need to fix his own meal tonight. Yours too.” There’d been a pause in the frequent contractions, and Letitia reminded the mother, Ava was her name, that this was normal. “Things go good and you rise high, then they slow and you go low, and then they rise again. You remember.”

“Like music.”

“Yessum. Baby music.”

A healthy baby boy arrived to the sounds of a rooster crowing in a forward wagon. Ava Rinehart soon held the swaddled child against her breast, her finger gentle against the pink cheek. She looked at Letitia. “I don’t know your name.”

“Letitia Carson. This be Martha.” She had taken her baby from the cradleboard.

“That’s a fancy carrier.”

“A gift.”

“For helping birth a baby?”

“No, ma’am. To salve a grief.”

“It’s mighty fine. My husband will pay your owner for delivering Andrew here.”

“If he’s willin’ to pay, he pay me. I’s free to accept.”

“Oh, I didn’t . . . I’m sorry. Of course. Your husband? Well. My goodness.”

In mid-July at the North Platte, Letitia and Davey’s company stalled again. Pawnee had stolen several horses and the men decided to search for them, and the women took advantage of a place to launder with good water close by. Meanwhile, another group spotted a bear. Letitia decided they’d be here for a day or two either awaiting the horse searchers or perhaps drying bear meat. She used the time to cut grass to refresh the cradleboard and thank God for this healthy baby who gurgled at her while she worked.

And it was a good time to make biscuits. The air was clear and the sound of the rushing water gave a lift to her spirit. She sang “Pop Goes the Weasel” to Martha as she worked. Letitia lifted the barrel lid from the flour. It seemed heavier than before. Maybe she was getting weaker instead of stronger with all the work of helping Davey lifting the oxen yoke, the miles of walking. Maybe she wasn’t eating enough. Her clothes did hang on her. Fortunately her apron tied tight.

Martha gazed with big brown eyes at her mother, kicked her feet and smiled. Letitia was certain it was a smile and not some kind of stomach fuss. She had Davey’s little mouth and her own small nose. Martha loved her board, would quiet down as Letitia tied the sinew strings over soft leather to swaddle the child. In the frame, Martha leaned up against the wagon wheel and watched as Letitia prepared a meal and could be out of sight for a moment
without worry that the baby would topple over. And it served well to care for the child should she be called for midwife work.

She lifted the measuring cup, scooping the flour out of the barrel. She finished the biscuits, put them into the tin oven she’d pushed into the side of the riverbank to create the proper draw over the coals. She loosened Martha from the board, nursed her, then burped her as the child’s eyes drooped. Back in her board, Martha slept and Letitia opened her sewing basket to work on a quilt block. She could hear the chatter of other women in the distance. It would be nice to be sharing a few minutes with friends. Maybe Ava would exchange a word or two with her outside of the intimacy of birthing.

She got inside the wagon for more red thread and stopped when her eye fell again on the flour barrel. The iron cooper’s ring wasn’t rusted in that spot before, was it? They weren’t in rust weather. Maybe it had gotten turned around when Davey refilled it. She checked on Martha, then removed the barrel lid. She reached down inside, her hand seeking the rolled up material that held her papers.

Nothing.

She put both hands in deep, the yellowish grainy fluff puffing up to her elbows.
Nothing.
Maybe she’d put her papers in the rice barrel. She clawed in that barrel, pushing the grains up against the side, the dusty scent tickling her nose.
Don’t worry.
Had she moved it? She dug into the corn barrel, felt the candlesticks there but nothing else. She returned to the flour. She always had the rolled papers in the flour, didn’t she? When was the last time she’d looked? Long before Fort Laramie. Could Davey have moved them? But did he even know that the papers were rolled up in the flour barrel? He would have told her if he’d moved them. If he’d remembered. Did he put it somewhere else when he filled the barrel in Fort Laramie? She chewed her lip, the palms of her hands damp. She rubbed them on her apron.
Freedom
. Her freedom and security. Missing.

She jumped down from the wagon. Where would Davey be? He’d said he and several others were going to hunt a bear. She checked the biscuits. Paced. Held Martha. Couldn’t concentrate to stitch.
Where could the papers be? Davey understood more than anyone what the words meant to her. Would anyone steal them? No one knew of them but she and Davey.
Give me peace. Give me
peace.

Dusk rode in with the men when they returned bringing a bear if not all the missing horses.

Davey unsaddled his mount, began rubbing Fergus down. She didn’t wait to ask, coming up behind him. “Did you . . . my papers, they’s missin’.” She spoke low so others wouldn’t hear her.

“What? Your papers?” Davey frowned.

“My freedom papers. Your agreement.” She tried not to sound frantic but her chest felt tight. Her cheeks were hot.

“Oh, those. Not seen them since you kept ’em in the jar in the rafters back in the states. Or in that box.”

“I puts them . . . I rolls them in a cloth and bury them in the flour barrel.”

“I didn’t take ’em out.” But then his eyes got a faraway look. He stopped brushing his horse. “Flour barrel?” He returned to brushing, harder. “That’s where you had them?”

Letitia nodded. “Down deep. Top peekin’ out when we got low on flour but enough to cover. Covered more when you resupplied.”

“When I resupplied. Sure now, I did.” He cleared his throat, turned sideways to her. Kept brushing the horse.

“Where they be?”

“Sure ’tis a tragedy, Tish.” He spoke into the horse, cleared his throat. “But ye see, I–I didn’t fill our barrel. I exchanged it for a full one.”

“The barrel ain’t the same?”

“I didn’t know, Tish. I didn’t.” She stumbled backward.

She couldn’t breathe. Blood pounded at her temples. She held her head with one hand. Martha fussed in her board lying on the wagon seat. “My papers!” A wail of pain rose from her.

“Lookee here. It’ll be all right.” Davey reached for her. “You won’t need those papers in Oregon. It’s a free state or will be, everyone says so. No one will ask. I’ll defend you.”

Her mind spun, seeking solutions. Could she go back? No. Would the Hawkinses already have passed Laramie? Yes. Even if she could get word to them to ask about the papers, they’d be tossed aside or in a barrel now filled and in someone else’s wagon. Then she refocused on his last words and pushed her question out swift and sure.

“And will you write another agreement, about takin’ care of your kin if somethin’ happens to you?” It had taken weeks to get him to ask Doc Hawkins to do it, but she could get him to do that again. She could. But no one could replace her freedom papers. No one.

“Sure and I will. I’ll find someone to write it for me. But you won’t need it. Oregon’s not like Kentucky or even Missouri. They won’t have no patrols there. You’ll be safe. I’ll keep you safe.”

Oregon would be an extension of these overland companies with people like the Hawkinses who welcomed free Negroes but people like Greenberry Smith who didn’t. She didn’t see great acceptance of her color on this trail nor any who’d believe what she told them if something were to happen to Davey. The Bowmans would remember that she had free papers. Doc Hawkins had written the agreement down. She’d have to find them all in Oregon if anyone ever asked and Davey took sick and . . . she wouldn’t let herself think of him dying.

A hot rock settled in her stomach. She couldn’t be angry with him. He didn’t know. She’d been in the Indian village when he made the exchange. Why hadn’t she stayed behind, taken care of the restocking herself? She should have known better, should have told him. She had no papers. A snake made of cowers worked up her neck, threatening to choke her.