Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (18 page)

She and Micah didn’t stop shouting or waving their arms until the rafts faded into the distance. Then Samantha collapsed onto the riverbank.

There would be no catching up to the rest of their company.

She and Micah were alone.

Alex shut the door of the schoolroom and momentarily thought about putting a lock on the door. Then he laughed at himself. The
schoolhouse was the one place in all of Fort Vancouver that thieves would probably avoid. There were only books, slates, and chalk inside, and the fort’s children seemed to evade all three quite well.

After observing Alex’s final attempt at teaching yesterday, McLoughlin quickly concurred that Alex was not gifted as an instructor. He could manage the clerks and oversee the inventory, but the governor told Alex that he was in no way supposed to go into the classroom again. Alex was quite willing to obey that command. And the students were certainly pleased about it.

Someone shouted his name, and he turned to see Simon rushing across the piazza.

When Simon reached him, the man bent over, clutching his knees as he caught his breath.

“What is it?” Alex asked.

Simon took several more breaths before he stood. “We have visitors.”

“More Americans?”

Simon nodded, his black eyes flashing in the light.

“Where’s McLoughlin?”

“Henry said he went to check on the livestock.”

Alex sighed. It would take a good half hour for a messenger to run to the barns and maybe another hour for McLoughlin to return. “I shall take care of it.”

“They’re just outside the front gate.”

Alex walked slowly toward the entrance.

Captain Loewe and his company had spent the night outside the gates and left with ample supplies that McLoughlin provided for them. They promised to reimburse McLoughlin his expenses, but Alex doubted the governor would receive any of his money. McLoughlin didn’t seem concerned. He didn’t even ask for collateral in the event that they reneged on their loan.

Ezra Loewe had said more Americans might come, and apparently he was right. After this party arrived, how many more would follow?

Alex stepped outside the palisades and saw an elderly woman being supported on both sides by an elderly man and a rugged-looking younger man with long brown hair.

Alex looked back and forth between the men. “Which of you is the leader?”

The younger man stepped forward. His clothing was soaked, his face streaked with mud and sweat. In his eyes was the same determination of Ezra Loewe, but Alex saw disappointment in them as well. And humility.

The man reached out his hand. “I’m Jack Doyle.”

Alex hesitated, staring at the man’s hand for a moment before he shook it.

“These are my friends, Prudence and Arthur Kneedler.”

Alex examined the gray-haired woman still leaning against her husband. Her mouth was bleeding.

“My wife seems to have caught camp fever,” Mr. Kneedler said.

“Our surgeon can examine her.” He motioned to Simon. “Could you escort them to Doctor Barclay’s office?”

“Of course.”

Alex stopped them. “Is your son Tom Kneedler?”

Mr. Kneedler nodded.

“He and his wife are waiting for you in the valley.”

Mrs. Kneedler lifted her head, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you,” she murmured.

As they walked away, Doyle turned back to Alex. “We’re looking for the other members of our party. Families by the name of Oxford and Parker.”

“A man named Ezra Loewe passed through here several days
ago with his company, but I do not know the names of the people with him.”

Doyle shook his head. “These families would have come later, yesterday perhaps.”

“They did not stop at the fort,” Alex said. “Perhaps they went on to the Willamette.”

Doyle teetered on his feet for a moment and then righted himself again. “We’re going to the Willamette as well.”

Alex looked down around the man’s feet. “Where are your things?”

“Down by the riverbank, but we don’t have much food left. We were hoping to purchase some food and perhaps lodging for the night.”

“Do you have livestock?”

He shook his head. “We traded them for transportation on the river.”

Alex studied Doyle’s gaunt face. He may not want the Americans here, but this man clearly needed food. And McLoughlin would insist that they feed the man and his friends. “You must be hungry.”

Doyle nodded.

He hesitated for a moment, but he knew what McLoughlin would want him to do. “Come along,” he instructed. “We will feed you.”

Doyle looked back down at the river. “I can’t stay. I have to return for the rest of our party.”

“How far back are they?”

“I’m—I don’t know.”

Alex turned to the Indian guide, talking in the local jargon that blended French, English, and Indian dialects into one language. “Did you bring them from The Dalles?”

“They were ten miles west of the Great Dalles,” the guide said.

Alex turned back to Doyle. “Did you stop at one of the missions?”

“The father was ill...he was going to die.” Doyle’s words had begun to slur.

“If they went east, they might have found help.”

“That’s what I told her...but she doesn’t listen.” He stumbled again, catching himself on one of the palisades.

Alex shouted at two men near him—the blacksmith and one of the mill workers. They rushed to the surgeon’s office and retrieved a stretcher. With Mrs. Kneedler resting at the office, they helped Doyle to an empty room in Bachelor’s Hall.

He had no fever, but he was clearly unwell...either from lack of sleep or perhaps from the fear of what happened to the rest of his party.

Doyle sat up suddenly, looking around the room. “I have to go find her.”

Alex put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “In the morning, my friend.”

Samantha swatted the rump of the lead ox. “Get up,” she commanded before she changed her mind. George wandered slowly forward, seemingly confused about why he should move without his yoke.

George and Abe had been faithful companions since they’d left Missouri—patient, gentle, and determined. Even when they were set free each night, they never ran away.

She wished she could take them with her all the way to the Willamette, but the trail along the river had narrowed to a footpath. It was impossible for an oxcart to traverse it and almost impossible to herd their oxen through it.

Hunger plagued her stomach. She should slaughter one of the oxen and eat him. Jack and the other men in their company would do it with little regret; even Papa had been practical about their need to eat. But she couldn’t kill either of these animals. They had more than earned the right to enjoy the rest of their lives in this new country.

George and Abe wandered back through the crevice that led into a valley. Tears were silly, especially after all she’d lost, but they came anyway. The animals had been part of the Waldron family for almost seven months.

Now she, Micah, and Boaz would have to carry the most essential supplies with them.

She strapped Micah’s bedroll and several changes of clothes to his back with cords. He hiked his knapsack over his shoulder with a bright smile, and Samantha didn’t know how he continued to smile.

Perhaps he would stop smiling if he understood the direness of their circumstances, but she wouldn’t educate him on what would happen if they didn’t make it to the fort soon. Or the fact that Fort Vancouver was located on the north side of the river and she had no idea how to cross it. She needed Micah’s smile to keep walking.

What remained of their dried beans and ground coffee was on Boaz’s back. Samantha’s possibles bag was strapped over her shoulder, her flintlock rifle in her hands, and she carried her clothes and bedroll on her back along with the bag of Papa’s gold, their coffeepot, and a ladle wrapped in her grandmother’s quilt.

She took a small bag of the fishhooks to trade with the Indians if necessary and one of the bags of seeds Papa had coddled for the entire journey. She didn’t know if the seeds were fruit or vegetables, but she would plant them in memory of Papa. His last surprise.

The other seeds, she left in the cart.

She brushed her hands over their family’s Bible and Mama’s copy of
The Pilgrim’s Progress
before she wrapped them in Mama’s shawl. They couldn’t carry much now, but she would be back to get their heirlooms. Maybe in the spring.

She left the cart as close to the rock cliffs as possible, the tent canvas and then a mass of branches protecting their things. Stepping away, she breathed deeply of the cool air. She needed the air to revive
her, strengthen her. She didn’t know how many more days they would have to walk, but she couldn’t let anything stop her from getting the three of them to their new home.

That evening, she and Micah found blackberry bushes in a canyon. The few berries that remained were dry and shriveled, but they ate them anyway before unrolling their bedding under a giant fir tree. She built a fire from the branches Micah gathered and cooked beans in the coffeepot for their supper. Then they slept in front of the fire, she on one side of Micah and Boaz on the other, huddled together under the quilt to keep from freezing in the frigid air.

Never in her life had she felt such cold. It stole through her skin, stowing itself deep inside her bones. If only she could fall asleep. It would take away the chill for a few hours.

She shivered beside her brother, praying for rest for her tired body and relief from the cold. She didn’t want to move, afraid to wake Micah as the hours crawled by.

They should have brought a heavier blanket for them to sleep under, should have packed more food in their wagon.

They should have stayed in Ohio instead of coming to Oregon.

She didn’t want to feel anger toward her father, but it bubbled inside her anyway, unwelcomed. Papa had brought them on this journey, and then he had left them alone to freeze to death in the wilderness. It wasn’t his fault that the bear attacked him, that he’d died, but she was still angry with him for leaving when they needed him so much.

She rolled over, squeezing her eyes closed, but the more she wanted to sleep, the more sleep seemed to evade her. She shivered again, and suddenly her blanket felt heavier over her body. Warmer. She reached up on top of the quilt, but her fingers brushed over the coarse fur of a pelt instead.

Confused, she ran her fingers over the fur again. Had she somehow forgotten that she’d brought a pelt? Or was she losing her mind?

Something rustled in the trees, and she realized that someone had come to their side and placed the covering over her and Micah, like Mama would have done.

“Who are you?” she whispered to the wilderness.

The hoot of an owl was her only answer.

Fear rose within her at the thought of someone following her, but it subsided just as quickly, turning into thankfulness as the warmth lured her to sleep.

“Thank you,” she whispered again as she faded away.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack tried to stand by his bed, but his legs shook in rebellion. It was so frustrating, being bedridden at this outpost when Samantha and Micah might be lost in the wilderness.

He’d hoped that either the Oxford or Parker families would come to the fort so he could ask them to return for the Waldrons, but the rest of the Doyle party never arrived. It seemed they had gone on to the Willamette before winter immobilized them.

They should have told Jack they were going on their own, but perhaps they thought he’d taken the Waldrons and Kneedlers to the mission. He supposed he couldn’t blame them for not turning back on the trail. They’d come so far, pushing their animals and families incredibly hard in order to set up a home before winter.

Mr. Kneedler said that his wife was recovering quickly, and for that Jack was grateful. Instead of calling her ailment “camp fever” as the traders had done, Doctor Barclay called it “scurvy.” Many of the sailors who arrived at the fort had this scurvy, and he insisted that fruits and vegetables were the cure, including the onions Mrs. Kneedler had avoided on the trail. Their hosts took some of their choice produce from the root cellar and mashed it for her to eat.