Wildwood Creek (11 page)

She thrust the box into my hands, and I grabbed it just in time to keep it from landing on the floor. “These are directions to the location, maps of the set, and detailed instructions.” She slapped an overstuffed accordion folder on top
of the cardboard box, and it slid sideways, landing against the crook of my arm. I shifted and clamped my chin to the stack to keep from losing it. “The keys to a production vehicle should be waiting with the guard at the box office. I have already signed for it.”

When I looked up again, Tova was staring at me like a serial killer about to go on a rampage. “Do not screw this up, Allison. If you do, I will make certain that not so much as the
smallest
community theater in the
minutest
backwash at the
farthest corner
of the map will even
consider
hiring you in this business. Do you understand?”

I felt my life flashing before my eyes. I hoped it didn’t show. “Yes, of course. You can count on me. I mean it. Whatever it takes,” I babbled out. A muscle knotted in my neck, and I realized that I was unconsciously recoiling from Tova’s murderous gaze, dragging the folder with me.

“If I had anyone else to send, Allison, I would
not
be sending
you
.”

“Yes, of course, I know that.”
Wrong thing to say.
Now she thought I was being a smart aleck. Her mouth twitched on one side, nerves and sinew straining for control.

“Follow the instructions to the letter. Do not deviate. Do not stop to admire the wildflowers. Do not linger over the blue, blue sky. Do not even
consider
sharing the information in that folder with
anyone
, or taking
any
stowaways along with you.” Of course, by
stowaways,
she meant a certain roommate, whose name we would not mention. “Are we clear?”

“Absolutely.”
Holy cow!
She was sending me to the set.
Me!
Through the haze of fear and the wild static of nervous adrenaline, it was just starting to dawn on me as I glanced down at the label on the folder.

I’d just been slated for the granddaddy of all production assistant errands.

A batch of butterflies hatched in my stomach, and it was all I could do to keep from grinning ear to ear. I struggled to appear appropriately miserable until Tova finished threatening me one last time, then left the room.

A muffled gasp slid out once she was gone.

I was headed to
Wildwood
!

B
ONNIE
R
OSE
M
AY
1861

I
find myself longing now for my first sight of Wildwood, no matter how great my uncertainty of the conditions that will be meeting us there on our arrivin’. There’s not a soul in our party can tell me what we’re to be expecting, save for the master of our wagon guard, Grayson Hardwick, who travels with shipments being brought to Wildwood and other settlements on the Texas frontier. Other than Mr. Hardwick, the whole of the party are like myself, never havin’ seen such country as this before. Even the territory up Weatherford way, where we’d settled with Ma and Da, was not so rugged and uncivilized as this land west of Waco Village. The sharp hills of limestone rock and live oak have a beauty, to be sure, but there is also a lonely desolation and far too much cover for a raiding party to lie in wait.

Altogether, twelve men accomplish the drivin’ of the wagons, seven working as a way of providing for passage to Wildwood. It’s clear enough this is an arrangement that’s been employed by Mr. Delevan many times before—the trading of passage for labor. Upon arrivin’ at Wildwood, the men who haven’t money to purchase land will work mining claims for
Mr. Delevan, in hopes of earning their way to a stake in the gold strike area.

In our travels thus far, we’ve made our way past only a small village or two, and thrice, we’ve been visited by Indians as we went. They were Tonkawas each time, and friendly, but Mr. Hardwick kept Maggie, me, and Essie Jane under canvas in a wagon during his communication with them. I’m gathering that it’s not the first time there’ve been women along with the ox carts and the mule wagons for this journey, but Mr. Hardwick is not one for talking. He is a tall, lean, and hard-edged man who seems to know his work and keep to the business of it.

Now his patience is worn thin, as we’ve been camped here for days along the banks of the rain-swollen Brazos, near the ferry landin’ at the home of Samuel Barnes and his wife, Elizabeth. There was talk in the house last night that the Tonkawa have seen parties of Comanche about the area. “It’s the ones you don’t see you’ll favor yourself to worry about,” said Mr. Hardwick as he finished the coffee and sweet biscuit Mrs. Barnes had offered up. He seems not perturbed by the news, but today I’m noticing that he wants to be across the river and so do the other men. Having only just come west, they’ve no experience with hostiles, and they’re not lookin’ for any. Four of them have wives and children they hope to bring at a later time, and the other three are brothers—Ryan, Jack, and Sean, only a few months off the boat from Dublin.

The river’s currents swirl wicked, but it’s the mood of the men that’s concerning me most. Mr. Hardwick seems the type to fear nothing of man nor beast in this world, yet it’s clear enough he’s troubled. He’s paid the ferryman extra to bring us across, against the better judgment of Mrs. Barnes, who’s lived by the river many a year now, after starting the ferry with her first husband, a man who died in the river when a
boat swept over, spilling a wagon and a team of mules, as well as all on board.

But Mr. Hardwick has his mind set on it today. There’s no more time for delay, he insists. The weather looks ill off in the distance and despite the dry and brick-hard ground, if rain falls upstream, we could be held here a week or more, yet. Mr. Delevan won’t have it, is Mr. Hardwick’s final reasoning, as if he believes that even the river would not dare overtake something belongin’ to Mr. Delevan. If we can accomplish this crossin’, we’ll push hard and make Wildwood in four days or less, regaining a bit of the schedule we’ve lost.

So our decision’s been made, and while we’re gathering up the last of the camp, Maggie May says her good-byes to two of the Barnes children she’s come to fancy as friends. I find Big Neb hiding in the shade of the live oak grove, down on his knees in the leaves. His eyes are closed, and his lips are movin’. Beads of moisture glitter on his mahogany skin. He’s praying, I see, so I wait. He hears my footsteps and climbs quickly upright, fearful that I’ve found him here, off to himself.

“I hope you’ve prayed for the both of us,” I say, and smile to let him know I wouldn’t speak a word of this to Mr. Hardwick.

“Yes’m,” he murmurs quietly and skirts me, like a horse that has known torment from one hand, and sees the self-same potential in all.

He stops at the edge of the brush, looking toward the river. The line of his jaw trembles like a wee little child’s.

“Mr. Hardwick intends you to cross on the raft with the bay mules, to hold them quiet,” I tell him. It was Mr. Hardwick who sent me to discern where Big Neb had gone off to. The second mule team has been difficult throughout the trip. Not so skittish as horses, but worse by far than oxen. My father taught me enough about mules that I know there’s no
foolishness in them. They look after their own hides, despite what their masters ask of them. A mule won’t run himself to death under the whip, as will a horse. The bay mules won’t like the river crossing, I know it. They’ve too much sense for it.

Big Neb seems to feel this same way. The closer we walk to the ferry landin’, the more the quivering spreads over his body, until even his breath trembles in and out.

“We’ll make the crossin’ in fine shape.” I wish my words could bring a sureness of it, but there’s none to be had. The noise of the river has begun filling my ears, the rush working its way inside me. I wonder if Mr. Delevan would be having us risk our lives this way, if he knew of it. Would he be insisting that we hold to his schedule?

I stop along the bank, and Big Neb continues on. Mr. Hardwick has spied him now and calls for him. Maggie waits down by the landin’, watching the proceedings as the ramps are set and preparations made to bring across Mr. Hardwick, his saddle horse, and the three young Irishmen, Ryan, Jack, and Sean, along with various packets. Once across, they’ll help work the lines from the other side and manage the packets of provisions that’ve been taken off the wagons for transport on the ferry.

“Big Neb don’t swim none,” Essie Jane tells me. She’s come from nowhere, as she tends to do. “Got ’im a pow’ful fear a’ the river.”

“We’ll make the crossin’ well enough, all of us.” I feel the need of promising it again.

“I don’ swim none, neither, miss,” Essie Jane whispers, her voice little more than air passing. “Them what live in the house here say they’s bones un’er dat water. Bones a’ animals and men, hid down in the deep-dark. Bones a’ the missus’ firs’ husband, even.”

Her words sink through my skin, kindle the fear that’s been
lit inside me for days now as I’ve watched the river. “I won’t be hearing talk of that sort, Essie Jane.” My voice comes out hard, and she ducks away as if I might strike.

I yearn to share words of comfort and prayer, of the God who shall protect us in the wilderness, but what good are lofty words from one soiled as myself? Despite all that the good reverend and the missionaries have said, I fear that God must esteem that which men esteem, and despise that which men despise. That He, too, knowin’ of my shame, must surely despise me.

I slip my hand between us and wrap my fingers around Essie Jane’s, taking comfort in the bond of flesh to flesh. “We’ll cross on the same raft together. I’ll make certain of it. I’m a strong swimmer. Like a codfish, my da always told me, rest his soul.”

Essie Jane regards our fingers in surprise, a circle of white flesh over brown. Her hand remains rigid, unbending. Perhaps she’s only minding her place, or perhaps she knows that even a codfish would have trouble in this river.

We stand watching from the hill, while below the first raft makes it over, is unloaded, then returns empty with the ferryman. Mr. Hardwick returns, as well. He oversees the second load—the one with a wagon and the skittish bay mules. Big Neb stands at their heads, his hands wrapped in the harness reins, clinging on for the life of him. His fear creeps up the riverbank like the comin’ of a fog. I won’t catch a breath until he’s safe across, I think. It comes to my mind that Ma’s roses are travelin’ with him, tucked in the box of the wagon. I say a special prayer, biddin’ Ma and Da be asking the saints to watch over the roses and the men and the crossin’.

Beside me, Essie Jane whispers a prayer of her own. Some part of the Twenty-third Psalm, but it’s short by a few words. She repeats over and over again the parts she knows. “The
Lord, He be my shepherd, He takin’ me to the green pasture. He makin’ me a place by the still water, and the water don’ overflow me. . . . The Lord, He be my shepherd, He takin’ me to the green pasture. He makin’ me a place by the still water. . . .” Her fingers tighten and cling to mine. I don’t think she knows it.

The raft bobs low in the water as it sets out, the current splashing over the mules’ feet. A parcel slides, and pushes them from behind. Mr. Hardwick catches the box, straining to stop it, then pulls hard on the reins to hold the mules from going over Big Neb and turning the raft in the water. The ferryman yells to the men onshore and the lines are tightened. The sun glistens against Big Neb’s head and the coats of the sweat-soaked mules. Muscles tremble beneath their hides as they’re forced back a step and the raft is righted again. All who are watching send up a cheer as the boat reaches its destination.

I catch my breath as the raft is unloaded, the nervous mules being brought off and lashed quickly to a tree. On the opposite shore, the Irish boys begin reloading the wagon until it’s time to take up the ferry lines again for another crossin’. Mr. Hardwick comes to the water to board, bringing Big Neb along.

“He be comin’ back again,” Essie Jane whispers, and before I know what I’m about, I’m running down the hill waving my arms, yelling for Mr. Hardwick to leave Big Neb on the other side. He’s made the crossin’ once, and once should do. If the mules had pushed him in just now, he’d be dead surely enough. A man of his size and weight wouldn’t have a chance of surviving this river, unable to swim.

Captain Engle put Big Neb and Essie Jane in my charge upon our leavin’ the
New Ila
, and I feel that I’m responsible for them. I cannot help but think, were the captain here, he
wouldn’t force a man onto the ferry repeatedly, knowing the man is only inches from death. The animals and supplies are of importance, but are nothin’ compared to a man’s life.

Mr. Hardwick looks my way a moment, but goes on with his plan. He and Big Neb come ’cross with the empty raft again. I find myself thinking of Captain Engle—James—and wishing once again that he were here to look after us. Many times I’ve thought of that last moment I saw him on the deck of the
New Ila
. What if I’d made the other choice and stayed behind when the supply train struck off for Wildwood?

As the ferryboat makes shore, there’s a fire in me, and I’m storming toward the river, words spillin’ out of my mouth. Mr. Hardwick has barely a foot on land before I’ve set upon him. “I’ll not have Big Neb brought across again. Did you not see me asking you to leave him on the other side? The man can’t swim. If he falls from the raft, it’ll be to his death.”

The men managing the loads stop to look at me, as do the half-grown children of the ferryman, who’ve been scurrying about, each with a job to be done here. Down the way, I see Maggie May watching, wide-eyed. Essie Jane is beside her now. They’re drop-mouthed at my ranting. I feel my hair pulling loose from its ribbon. In the excitement this mornin’, I’ve forgotten to re-bind it. Red curls fly around me like licks of fire. I imagine I’m making quite a spectacle of myself. Nothing a proper lady would do.

Mr. Hardwick’s narrow face says as much. The faint scar beneath his eye twitches. I wonder how it came to be there, and then I’m afraid of knowin’. His lashes flare over angry gray eyes and his fists clench, and I’m wonderin’ if he might strike me. He’s a rough sort, this man. The sort to have lived a life on the frontier and done what was needed for surviving.

“You’ll mind yourself, Miss Rose. And I’ll run my supply train my own way.” The scar beneath his eye twitches again,
and he leans close to me, adding in a whisper, “Cross me one more time, and you’ll find yourself in the river.”

But words have come in my mouth, and they fly out wild as the whips of hair slashing across my skin. “Big Neb and Essie Jane were left in my charge by Captain Engle upon our leaving the
New Ila
. I’ll see them brought safely to Wildwood, and if not, I will be certain that Mr. Delevan is made well aware of the reasons.”

Anger and fear mix a strange brew inside me. Mr. Hardwick’s eyes search my own. I haven’t an inklin’ what he’s looking for—my resolve, perhaps? I keep my gaze steady. He’ll not see me waver. Truth be told, I’ve no way of knowing if my words would hold any sway with Mr. Delevan. For the most part, it is only my hoping that makes him into a decent man. My hoping, and the fact that he would take me into the teaching position at all, knowin’ my story as he does. Who but a good man would go to such trouble and expense to bring me so far and provide a new life for Maggie May and me?

Mr. Hardwick blinks once, slow. He shakes his head the slightest bit, and I think I’ve bluffed him in this game of cards we’re playing.

“Then pray the raft doesn’t turn,” he says, and walks away. Below, they’re loading the ferry again. A team of oxen this time and several packets, but no wagon. Three more men will cross on the raft. One of them kisses his rosary, holding it up to the light before he tucks it away. Big Neb is again put in front to hold the oxen steady.

They make the crossin’ without incident, and then Mr. Hardwick returns on the raft with Big Neb again, as I feared he would. There’s no profit in confronting him, so I keep silent.

Supplies and wagons and livestock move across, raft by raft, and I’m holdin’ my breath each time. The current pulls
the raft sideward, playing with it like a naughty little boy handling a toy made from sticks and string. An ox team pins Big Neb hard against the railing, and his deep voice cries out, the rail looking as if it might break and spill him into the water with the animals atop him. Beside me, Essie Jane gasps, and Maggie May throws her hands over her eyes. She knows the power of the river. When the Indians were moving their encampment, we saw the drownin’ of a girl and her baby brother. The horse slipped from under them, and there was naught could be done about it. Afterwards the keenin’ and cuttin’ of hair and skin was terrible to behold.