Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (6 page)

“I’ll try, Papa.”

He gave a quick nod. “I’m going to tend to the animals.”

She watched him walk away, outside the circle, before opening the barrel on the side of their wagon and dipping her ladle into the water Jack had given them. Taking a small sip, she savored the coolness on her tongue. Then she spooned three cups into the coffeepot to boil over the stove with a teaspoon of fresh grounds.

At least they still had coffee.

The dogs were romping around the wagons as if nothing had happened, and she wondered what had riled them up last night. The
animals were just as tired as the people. There was no reason for them to be up barking unless something was wrong, but the men should have spotted the source of any trouble.

As she sipped her coffee sweetened with a bit of sugar, she crushed dried corn in a mortar and cooked it over the stove with water, sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. Then she added small chunks of dried apples to it. The porridge was easy to prepare and had been tasty the first weeks of their journey, but she would give just about anything now to have scrambled eggs or flapjacks for breakfast. She hadn’t eaten an egg since they left Missouri.

A few of their fellow emigrants—pilgrims, she liked to call them—brought chickens with them on this journey, but the animals hadn’t lasted long. Others had brought cows to milk, but only three of those remained. Cows needed more water than the oxen, and it was much harder to find places for them to graze. Her father had decided not to bring more than three oxen and a horse, choosing instead to save their money and buy cows and chickens when they arrived in the Willamette.

“Good morning,” Lucille said as she strolled into camp, little Katherine Morrison toddling beside her. Katherine had not left Lucille’s side since Gerty handed her child to Lucille before the stampede.

Lucille didn’t seem to mind her little shadow one bit. Even more than she wanted to be a wife, Lucille had once confided in Samantha, she wanted to be a mother.

Lucille held a pail in each of her hands, and Katherine clung to one of the handles. Lucille’s blond hair was tucked neatly back inside the bonnet she’d somehow managed to keep a pale pink color for the past thirteen hundred miles. When they left Missouri, Lucille had been heavier than most eighteen-year-old women, but they’d all lost weight after walking fifteen or so miles every day.

In spite of the dust and lack of water, Lucille still managed to
look refreshed and sprightly in the morning. She was blessed with an endearing calm and a naiveté that seemed to shield her from the storms, as a seashell protected a pearl from the ocean’s waves.

“What a fine helper you have,” Samantha said.

Lucille beamed down at the girl. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Katherine gently swung one of Lucille’s pails, and Samantha saw milk splash against the sides. If only Papa had brought one cow...

Lucille set the pail down. “Did you sleep well?”

“I don’t think any of us slept well.”

Katherine toddled toward Boaz and sat down beside the dog’s belly, snuggling up against his fur.

Lucille nodded toward the center of the wagons, lowering her voice to a whisper. “The captain is having terrible fits this morning. I think he’d shoot every one of our dogs if he could.”

“Well, he’s not touching Boaz.”

“My parents won’t let him anywhere near Shep either.” Lucille held out one of the pails. “I thought you might be thirsty for a little milk this morning.”

Samantha reached for the pail and held it to her chest. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re the best friend ever?”

The flecks in Lucille’s brown eyes flashed in the sunlight. “I believe someone did—the last time I brought her milk.”

Samantha smiled. “This will be so good for Micah to drink.”

Lucille arched her eyebrows. “It would be good for you to drink a little of it too. You look like the slightest breeze might blow you away, and then who would I talk to around here?”

Samantha almost said
Jack
, but she stopped herself. She and Lucille were the only unmarried women in their party, and she didn’t want anything to come between them. As long as they didn’t talk about Jack, everything was fine.

Lucille leaned closer. “Honestly, Samantha, you’re beginning to look like an apparition. You need to eat more.”

Samantha shook her head. She felt fine.

Lucille glanced over the circle of wagons again. “Have you seen Jack?”

Samantha poured the three or so cups of milk into her own pail. “Not this morning.”

“I thought he might want some milk too.”

“How could he not?”

“Oh, here he comes,” Lucille said, waving at him as he rounded the circle.

Jack met Samantha’s eyes and then looked away so quickly that she couldn’t tell whether he was angry at her about last night. He stopped in front of them, tipping his hat. “A fine morning, ladies.”

“Indeed.” Lucille blushed as she held up the pail. “After such a rough night, Mama thought you might want some fresh milk to drink.”

He glanced over at Samantha and gave her a quick wink before he took Lucille’s pail. “That’s awfully nice of you and your mother. I will enjoy it with my porridge.”

Lucille looked concerned. “Who’s making you breakfast?”

Jack laughed as he did every time Lucille offered to cook for him. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I can still make breakfast on my own.”

“Of course you can—”

“But Mrs. Kneedler offered to fry something up for me today—without onions, of course.” Everyone knew that Mrs. Kneedler refused to eat onions because of her sour stomach. The rest of their stomachs had grown stronger from the camp food.

Jack cleared his throat as he turned toward Samantha. “How are you this morning?’

He had winked at her, so he must not be too angry. “Quite well.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He glanced over at Lucille and then looked down at Katherine, who was still snuggling with Boaz. “How is she?”

Lucille’s cheerful voice turned sad. “She doesn’t seem to realize she’s lost her mama.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Jack said.

Samantha bristled. “She might be able to tolerate it, but I hardly thinking that losing her mother is for the best.”

Jack looked back at Lucille and then nodded toward his wagon, two wagons down from the Waldrons’. “Would you mind if I had a word with Miss Waldron about some pressing business?”

Lucille’s long eyelashes batted for just a moment before her gaze dropped to the milk pail. “Of course not.”

“It’ll be just a moment,” he promised.

She and Jack stepped toward his wagon, and when he looked down at her with those light blue eyes, her heart seemed to skip a beat again. She wished she could make it stop doing that. It hindered her ability to think straight.

“You scared me last night,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to scare you or any of the men.” She dug the toe of her moccasin into the dusty soil and twisted it. None of them seemed to understand that she only wanted to help. “Papa said you never found out what was upsetting the dogs.”

“Some of us stayed up, guarding until dawn, but we didn’t see anything unusual.”

“Maybe there were Indians out there.”

“If there weren’t, those dogs were loud enough to bring an entire war party to us.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lucille waiting for him. He nodded his head toward her and then looked at Boaz before turning back to Samantha, his eyes heavy with concern.

“If I were you, I’d keep him with you today,” Jack warned.

“Is the captain that angry?”

He gave a slow nod of his head.

“I’ll keep him close.” When she glanced at Boaz again, she saw that Papa had returned. She wished both Jack and Lucille a good morning and rushed toward her family’s wagon.

Papa shooed Micah out of his bed, and the three of them ate their porridge quickly before they tore down the tent and packed up the wagon. When the last bedroll was tossed into the wagon box, Samantha cinched up the canvas flap.

“On to Oregon!” the captain shouted again, and the lead wagon began to roll.

“On to Oregon,” she replied with the others.

When they stopped again, she hoped it would be near water.

Alex saluted the fur-trapping brigade good-bye as they prepared to spread across the Columbia District like the web of a spider, ready to snare its prey. Some of the officers would lead parties north and west on horses trimmed with ribbons and bells. Others would travel across the Columbia River and trap animals in the canyons and forests along the southern shore. And the final party would row up the river in long birch-bark canoes to bring back pelts from the east.

The parties all carried metal traps, guns, and enough supplies to last for six months. Most years they didn’t return with their bales of pelts until late spring, but this year McLoughlin had asked those companies who set up camp within thirty miles of the fort to return next month with their pelts. None of them knew when the annual supply ship would arrive from London, and with the decrease in pelts, they needed as much fur as possible to fill this ship.

Each year it was becoming increasingly difficult to trap the quantities of pelts they had harvested in the earlier years of Fort
Vancouver. As more people came to this territory, the animals retreated farther into the hills. For as long as Alex could remember, Hudson’s Bay Company had shipped an average of 61,000 pounds of animal pelts each year to make hats and coats and an assortment of household goods. But if they didn’t get more fur, this year’s shipment would be an embarrassment, not only to Alex but to McLoughlin and their entire company.

McLoughlin stood on the boat landing in front of all of them, a glass of white wine in his hand. In a booming voice that commanded the attention of the voyageurs ready to embark into the wilderness, he prayed for God’s blessing on their bounty and for the safety of all their people. Then he toasted them. A brigade of officers and trappers climbed into twenty-five waiting bateaux and began rowing up the Columbia River.

Alex turned to McLoughlin. The governor’s gaze often intimidated those in his presence, but today it only inspired confidence in Alex. “You’re in charge while I’m gone,” McLoughlin said, his voice still loud for all to hear.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll need to keep an eye on Calvert until our new teacher arrives,” McLoughlin reminded him. “Make sure he’s doing his job.”

“I shall do my best.”

McLoughlin mounted his horse, swinging his leg over the side. “And make sure those children actually attend his classes.”

“Of course.”

McLoughlin stared down at him. “And please attempt to be nice to any other Americans who might arrive while we are gone.”

“I cannot promise that.”

McLoughlin lifted the reins. “Our duty remains to help those in need.”

“I will try, sir,” Alex said, but the words tasted sour in his mouth.
If word returned to London about his role in helping Americans, he would never be permitted to take his uncle’s place as president of the committee when he returned to London next year.

McLoughlin snapped the reins, and he and Madame rode east with their party.

The remaining officers and servants walked back up the hill, toward the fort, but Alex lingered on the landing as he surveyed the calm bend of the Columbia River that led to the ocean. If only the Americans stayed away while McLoughlin was gone... Then Alex wouldn’t have to choose between his future on the committee and his God-given duty to help those in need.

Chapter Five

“We found a stream!” Doctor Rochester shouted from his saddle, and cheers rippled over the company.

The moment the wagons stopped, Samantha untied the rawhide strip from around Boaz’s neck, and he bolted toward the water. Just as Jack predicted, Captain Loewe ordered that every dog remain tied up when they ended their journey today. It wasn’t fair, though, to punish the dogs for trying to protect them, and it certainly wasn’t fair to keep them from water when they were so thirsty.

Samantha took Micah’s hand and then picked up the folds of her calico dress with her free hand. They raced toward the small grove of trees that blazed golden in the sunlight.

The captain might be angry with her for stealing Boaz away to the stream, but she couldn’t imagine him being any angrier than he’d been last night. Lately it seemed that he was angry about pretty much everything.

Beneath the knobbed gray trunks of the trees, a carpet of sage and dried sweetgrass stretched across the dry valley to the peaks of the Blue Mountains. Several children tumbled along the valley floor near Samantha and Micah, turning somersaults in the grass after hours of riding in a bumpy wagon.

Samantha was tempted to toss away her yellow bonnet, which had failed miserably at keeping the sun off her face, and tumble with the children, but Lucille and the other ladies—not to mention her father—would be mortified at the thought. No one frowned at her playing
when she was a girl. It was only after she became an adult that the other adults began frowning. A lot.

Boaz jumped into the water, rolling to soak his gray fur. She lifted her skirt to her knees, kicked off her moccasins, and hopped into the cool water to wash away the heat and dust. Then she cupped her hand and sipped the sweetness of the stream, savoring every drop as it soothed her throat.