He lay back down, turning on his side to look at her. “Nothing. I was just thinking. How did you sleep?”
“Oh, no. Tell me what you were thinking and what you were writing on your palm.”
He surrendered, knowing she wouldn’t let it be until he told her. “You know me. I was just being gloomy.”
She leaned her head in closer to him until their foreheads touched. “There really has been something bothering you lately, Peter. What is it?”
He considered that, not wanting to depress her but at the same time feeling a need to try and put it into words for his own sake. “I don’t know, Kathryn. Ever since we arrived at Fort Laramie, I haven’t been able to shake off this worry.”
“Worry about what?”
“That’s just it. That’s what is so stupid. I don’t know, at least not in specific terms.” He shrugged, deciding not to share his calculations. “One thing is the spirit of the company. Like the drinking.”
She frowned at that. She hated it even more than he did. It was as if the company had been wandering in a trackless desert, perishing of thirst, then unexpectedly had come upon a spring—only in this case the spring was Fort Laramie and the water was whiskey. And at a dollar a pint! The cost had made no difference to the travelers. With the holiday, everyone seemed to feel like drinking at the spring. By dark the previous night when she and Peter had tried to sleep, it had been impossible. A man passed by, ranting and raving, his mouth as foul as anything Kathryn had ever heard. In a nearby tent another man raged at his children because they refused to stop crying. There was hooting and hollering; drunken brawls; a knife fight when one man, still carrying a bottle in his hand, grabbed for his best friend’s wife. His folly cost him a five-inch gash in his upper arm. About midnight someone tripped over a tent rope in the darkness and crashed into it, pulling it down on its inhabitants. Men of normal reserve and decency howled like savages. They made the most inane comments and thought themselves hilarious.
“But it’s more than that too,” he went on. “It’s the bickering, fighting, racing ahead to see who can grab the best campsite or turn their stock out on the richest grass or pitch their tent nearest to the stream. There’s no spirit of cooperation, no caring about others. How can the Lord bless our endeavors if that’s how we act?”
Before she could answer, a rifle shot rang through the camp. “Happy birthday, America!” someone shouted. Then a pistol started firing one explosive round after another. Kathryn laughed. “Someone is starting the celebration a little early.”
He smiled, then nodded. “Happy Independence Day, Kathryn McIntire.”
“The same to you, Peter Ingalls. Do you think they’ll let an Irish lass and an English lad join their American party?”
He made a face, looking fierce. “They’d better. I’d dare say we love America as much or more than anyone else in the group.”
Chapter Notes
The Black Hills referred to in the journals of those who passed along the Oregon Trail are not the present-day Black Hills of South Dakota. They are a range of mountains that stretch from west of Fort Laramie all the way to present-day Casper, Wyoming. They likely got their name from the pine forests that cover the lower slopes and look quite black from a distance.
Other terms often found in the journals need some explanation. To “noon” meant to make a midday stop during which teams were rested and the emigrants usually ate a cold lunch. “Baiting” the teams meant to feed and water them. When teams were “recruited” it meant that they were allowed to rest and recuperate for a time.
Chapter 9
Colonel William Russell and Edwin Bryant and the mule pack train were still traveling in proximity to their original company. The night before, they had come together and camped at the same site. Though Russell was no longer captain— ex-Governor Boggs was—many still looked on him as their leader. Therefore, Russell and Boggs decided to work together so as to give a united voice to all those present.
They called for an assembly at nine o’clock that morning. The various camps collected at a grove of trees a short distance upstream on La Prele Creek, or Beaver Creek, as some preferred to call it. Wagons were backed up to form a half circle beneath the trees; then the tailgates were lowered to provide makeshift tables. Almost as if by magic a feast appeared. There were baskets of bread, bricks of cheese, sliced ham, mutton, roast beef, boiled potatoes, fried carrots, broiled turnips, stewed tomatoes, boiled eggs, and fresh greens that someone had found along the creek. For being seven hundred miles into the wilderness it was a sumptuous spread. Sprinkled throughout were dozens of jugs of lemonade, milk, and tea that had been placed in the creek overnight to get them cold. As the women laid everything out, the children moved in with longing eyes, only to be waved away or, where necessary, slapped gently to ensure their patience. More than one husband had his hands slapped as well.
When the last of the people had gathered, Lilburn W. Boggs pushed to the front of the group and climbed up on a fallen log. He raised his hands and called for attention. When the group finally quieted he called out. In the hush of the grove his voice carried clearly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today marks the seventieth anniversary of our country’s independence. Though we are far from our native United States, our love of country has not dimmed, our patriotism has not waned. Therefore, by mutual agreement, we gather together to celebrate our independence from tyranny and oppression.”
“Hear! Hear!” someone cried. Others applauded enthusiastically.
He turned to a small group of men who stood behind him. “Gentlemen!”
To Kathryn’s surprise, they turned and walked a few feet away to where a long pole lay on the ground. Made from what looked like some form of aspen or birch tree, it was about fifteen feet long and had all its limbs neatly trimmed off. A hole had been dug, and the pole was dropped into it so that it stood vertically. There was a rope rigged to it, and then Kathryn understood. To everyone’s delight, and to the accompaniment of much cheering, whistling, and clapping, an American flag was produced and run up the pole.
Now Colonel Russell gave a signal. Men all around the company lifted rifles and pistols. “Ready. Aim.
Fire!
”
With a tremendous roar, a hundred or so weapons blasted off into the air. In the distance a flock of crows burst skyward, cawing raucously at being disturbed.
“Again!” Russell bellowed. Again there was a tremendous blast of sound.
“All right,” Boggs shouted. “Let’s form a parade line. We don’t have a Main Street, so let’s go down around the wagons and the temporary stock corral and back.” He bent down and lifted a crude drum. He had a knobbed tree limb for a drumstick. “We have a dog drum here”—he grinned wickedly—“contributed by Pete Peterson’s mangy dog that chased his milk cow one time too often.” The crowd roared with laughter. The dog had been an annoyance for the last two months.
Boggs gave it a few experimental thumps. “Okay, line up. Children first. Here we go.”
What followed was pure chaos, but chaos bred of joy. Whooping and hollering, the children raced to get into position at the first of the line. Women and the older girls, many of them wearing Sunday dresses, lined up immediately behind the children. The men—weapons over their shoulders like soldiers marching to battle—brought up the rear.
Kathryn turned to Peter. “Come on, Peter. Let’s go.”
He gave her a quick look. The land was thick with sagebrush and not very level. It would be a challenge for crutches. “Are you sure? We can just wait here.”
Suddenly her eyes were shining. The thrill of the moment and the sight of Old Glory, with its red and white stripes and twenty-eight white stars on a field of blue, had deeply stirred her. Memories of celebrations past with family and friends and far finer circumstances than they now enjoyed flooded her mind. “We’re Americans now, Peter,” she whispered fiercely. “And this is our birthday. You bet I’m sure.”
Back at camp, shortly before noon, the Reeds and the Donners were putting things away. To their surprise, Edwin Bryant and William Russell came over to join them.
Russell was weaving a little and it was evident his celebration had been enthusiastic. “Well, Reed,” he boomed, shaking the other’s hand, “we’re going to pack up and head out.”
Reed nodded. “Heard that was the case. Good luck to you. I think we’re going to lay over here for another day, recruit the teams and do some repairs. That means this will likely be the last we see you until we all reach California.”
“I certainly hope so,” Bryant said fervently. “We’ve delayed long enough. But now that Hiram Miller has agreed to accompany us, we’re going to push ahead with all dispatch.”
George Donner frowned in mock dismay. “You stole our journal keeper right out from under us, you know, not to say anything about one of my teamsters.”
Bryant laughed. “I’ve seen Miller’s journal.” He nodded to-ward Reed. “Giving it to James here will be a definite improve-ment.”
“We’ll miss you,” Margret Reed spoke up, a touch of sadness in her voice. “It has been a pleasure for us to get to know each of you.”
Russell touched the brim of his hat. “And for us too, ma’am.”
Reed stood up. “Stay here for one moment. I have something I want to show you.” He turned and walked swiftly to the back of the big wagon. He went inside and they could hear him fumbling around for a moment. When he returned he was holding up a bottle of brandy. “Gentlemen, look what I have here,” he crowed.
Kathryn shot Peter a look of dismay. He frowned. That had been their one comfort at Fort Laramie. Even the Donner brothers had bought a pint or two, but their drinking had been quiet and subdued. Reed had stayed away from it entirely as far as Peter knew.
Reed set the bottle down on the small table in front of the wagon. It was corked and had an expensive-looking label. “When we left Springfield, some of my gentlemen friends gave me this as a send-off present,” he explained proudly. “They gave me specific instructions that it was not to be opened until the Fourth of July.”
He turned to his daughters. “Virginia. Patty. Get some glasses, please.”
Peter moved over to stand beside Kathryn and take her hand, but there was no way they could comfortably leave now.
In a moment glasses were produced. Reed uncorked the bottle with some flourish and splashed the liquor into them. Very solemnly now he handed them around to the men present. To Peter’s surprise, Mr. Reed handed one to his wife. She smiled at him and took it without comment. Then suddenly Reed was holding out a glass toward Peter.
His eyes widened. “Uh, no, thank you, Mr. Reed.”
Colonel Russell turned sharply. “What’s the matter, boy? This is a celebration. We’re about to make a toast.”
“I . . . The Lord gave a revelation on not using alcohol, and Kathryn and I have committed ourselves to honor that.”
Reed was watching him, his eyes showing open disappointment. The glass was still extended in invitation. “It’s just a toast, Peter. No more.”
“I . . . thank you, Mr. Reed, but I can’t.”
“Ingalls here is a Mormon,” Bryant explained to his partner.
Russell, already showing that previous toasts had loosened his tongue and lowered his inhibitions, swore. “I don’t care if he’s the Augustus Caesar. This is a grand day, and one little toast isn’t going to hurt him.”
Margret Reed stepped in quickly. “It’s all right, Peter. We have some lemonade for you and Kathryn and the children.”
She poured quickly while the awkward silence stretched on. Then, when they were ready, Reed turned solemnly. “My friends and I promised each other that I would look to the east and drink to them, and they would look to the west and drink to us.” He raised his glass high, pointing it toward the east. “To America.”
“To America,” they all joined in.
As Peter lowered his glass, he saw James F. Reed watching him. His eyes were dark and hooded, and Peter couldn’t tell what thoughts lay behind them.
Joshua did not return to the bluffs until about three in the afternoon. He had gone down to the ferry to see how soon it would be the Steeds’ turn to cross. There he had found John Taylor, and they ended up spending the next six hours helping the brethren find more efficient ways to get the wagons loaded and unloaded.
When he came back to camp, Savannah and Charles, with little Livvy in tow, were playing near the back of the wagon. When Savannah saw him approaching, she waved. “Hi, Papa.”
“Hi, kids. Where’s your mother?”
“She and Aunt Lydia went to visit Brother and Sister Hendricks.”
“Oh. I’ll go find her.”
He didn’t have to go far. James and Drusilla Hendricks were camped on Mosquito Creek a little farther upstream from where they were. But he had gone only about half the distance when he saw Caroline and Lydia approaching. He stopped and waited for them to reach him.
“Hello, dear,” Caroline said. “When did you get back?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
He turned and they started walking back. “So how are Brother and Sister Hendricks?”
To his surprise, the two women exchanged a quick glance, and then Lydia looked away quickly. Something had passed between them, and it had been painful. He decided to let it lie.
“They’re fine,” Caroline finally said. “James can get around pretty well with crutches now, and that helps.”
He nodded. James Hendricks had been shot in the back of the neck at the Battle of Crooked River back in the fall of 1838 and been paralyzed from the neck down. Over the intervening years he had gradually improved, but he was still far from being able to care for his family, especially out here on the trail. Drusilla had simply taken over, lifting him when necessary, though he was probably a hundred pounds heavier than she was, taking in laundry, knitting mittens and scarves, doing whatever it took to sustain the family. Joshua had come to have tremendous respect for her.
“Well, at least she’s got that oldest boy,” he said. “What is he, sixteen now?”
Again there was a silent exchange, only this time Joshua saw the stricken look on Lydia’s face. She dropped her head. “I’d better see what my children are up to,” she murmured, and with a little wave to Joshua, face still averted, she hurried away.