Impatient With Desire (12 page)

T
oday Leanna slapped Elitha, who slapped her back.

“Stop it!” I yelled. “Stop it this instant!” When we had all calmed down, I gathered the whole family and said, “Until rescue comes, our only hope of survival is each other. We have to help each other—”

“She never stops talking about food,” Leanna said.

“I’m sorry,” Elitha said, “I just can’t help it.”

“Yes, you can,” I said. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“I’m sorry I slapped you,” Leanna said. “Sometimes I feel wild, as if I’m going to burst into a thousand pieces.”

Then both of them cried and hugged each other, and I thought, I know the precise feeling, Leanna.

George shook his head. “With both Reinhardt and Spitzer dead,” he said, “we’ll never know what happened to Wolfinger in the second desert.”

Wolfinger Disappears

B
efore we set out, Betsey, we knew we had to cross a forty-mile desert between the Humboldt River and the Truckee River to get to California. We also knew that Hastings Cutoff involved a “dry drive.”

“Thirty miles,” Hastings said the “dry drive” was.

It was eighty.

“Two days and two nights,” he said.

It was six days and six nights.

We crossed the “dry drive,” the Great Salt Lake Desert, September 4–9th 1846. The Reeds lost two wagons, the Kesebergs one, we lost one. Thirty-six head of working cattle vanished. James Reed lost his entire herd, except for one ox and one cow. Once the most prosperous, now he had least of all. He had to promise two for one in California to Mr. Breen and Mr. Graves for two scrawny oxen that could barely drag the big family wagon along.

In the second desert in October, the Indians shot more cattle. The Eddys abandoned their only wagon; they had no oxen to draw it. Mr. Eddy, carrying three-year-old Jimmy, and his wife, Eleanor, carrying baby Maggie, walked the forty miles. I left my crate of books, so painstakingly chosen for my new school, keeping only Dickens for Eliza. But we reached the Truckee River; from then on, we would never be out of reach of water. We had all gotten across, except for the Wolfingers’ wagon, which was expected soon.

Mrs. Wolfinger woke George at dawn, and a few moments later, he roused me. “Wolfinger’s young bride is very upset. I can’t make out what she’s saying.”

She was hysterical, nearly unintelligible. I held her very firmly and told her several times in German to speak slower, until I made out the gist and turned to George. “She says her husband never came in.”

Mr. Spitzer and Mr. Reinhardt weren’t in yet either, but Mr. Keseberg said everyone was getting upset over nothing. “They will be helping Wolfinger cache his goods,” Mr. Keseberg said. “They will catch up.”

That made sense, because after Mr. Spitzer and Mr. Reinhardt abandoned their wagon in the first desert, they had thrown their few bundles into Mr. Wolfinger’s remaining wagon. But Mrs. Wolfinger continued to cry and beg, until George told our nephews Solomon and William and their friend John Landrum Murphy to saddle up and go back into the desert to look for signs of the three men.

We waited at the edge of the desert while the sun rose higher, and we began worrying about the boys too. Around noon, they appeared driving Mr. Wolfinger’s wagon, flushed with heat and self-importance, vying with each other to get the news out first.

“We found his wagon and brought it in!”

“It was untouched!”

“Cattle unhitched, standing right next to it!”

“Still chained together!”

“No sign of Wolfinger, boys?” George asked. “Or Spitzer or Reinhardt?”

“Indians must have attacked them,” the boys cried.

“Indians don’t leave oxen,” George said.

Patrick Breen snorted. “Indians, my foot. Wolfinger was a rich man, and those other two Dutchmen, I’ll stake my life they’ve seen the inside of jail more than once—”

I doubt that Mrs. Wolfinger could understand Mr. Breen’s thick brogue, but she began sobbing again, and I led her away. “You come with us. One of our teamsters will drive your wagon.”

Without vote or discussion, the men chained up. We could still get in
half a day’s travel. We already had lost too much time. No one wanted to go back in that burning desert again. “It’s a matter among foreigners,” one teamster said, another adding, “Their concern, not ours,” and no one disagreed.

Two days later, our fifteen wagons made a meager nooning stop, mostly to rest the jaded teams. We had coffee and tea left. William Eddy held out a small bag of sugar. “This is it for us.”

“Hallo!” a voice called.

We stared in disbelief as Mr. Spitzer and Mr. Reinhardt approached our campsite.

“Indians attacked us,” Mr. Reinhardt said. “Killed Wolfinger.”

“Carried him and his oxen off,” Mr. Spitzer said. “Burnt his wagon.”

George looked coldly at them. “His wagon and oxen were untouched. We brought them in.”

Mr. Reinhardt looked down, but Mr. Spitzer maintained his gaze with George.

Patrick Breen exchanged a look with his wife, Peggy: What did I tell you?

Doris Wolfinger gestured to Mr. Spitzer, whispered to me, “Die Waffemeines Mannes.”

I pointed to the gun at Mr. Spitzer’s waist. “She says it’s her husband’s gun.”

George curtly gestured for Mr. Reinhardt and Mr. Spitzer to fall in. I looked at him questioningly. “Write down what everybody says in your journal,” he said. “The proper authorities can settle this when we get to California. Right now we need every person we can get.”

S
ister, there is no way George can relay the children. He keeps talking about it, and his spirits are better, but he has to know his arm is getting worse. We must get out of here, but how? I can’t leave him. The children are too little—

I stopped writing there this morning, because George called me. “We’ll give the rescuers a few more days,” he said. “If they don’t come, and the thaw holds, we’ll walk out. Jean Baptiste will carry Georgia. I’ll carry Eliza. You and Elitha and Leanna will help Frances.”

In spite of myself my eyes cut involuntarily to his bandaged arm, and he saw.

“I’ve got it all worked out,” he said. “Milt’s going to help us.”

I stared at him for a moment, calculating his plan, repeating it in my head and then aloud to hear how it sounded. “Jean Baptiste will carry Georgia. You and Milt will carry Eliza. Elitha and Leanna and I will help Frances.”

He nodded.

“George, I think we could do it with Milt.”

We looked into each other’s eyes, Betsey, and saw hope there. “Yes, yes,” I said. “I’m sure we can do it with Milt.”

M
uch of the morning, George sat at the table instructing Leanna on how to carry his flintlock. “One way’s to carry the rifle with your dominant hand, the muzzle forward,” he said. “You’re right-handed like me, so try that.”

Leanna stood next to him, painstakingly following his instructions.

“See how your wrist and forearm are ahead of the lock? That way it can’t get accidentally cocked or discharged. But you can also cradle it, if that’s more comfortable for you. Your mother and Elitha prefer that.”

My father taught me the cradle because, even when I was 10 years old, the gun was more than half as long as I was tall. Elitha was tall for her age but took to the cradle right away. She’s an expert shot, but hunted only once because the falling pheasant plunged her heart.

“Now the nice thing about the cradle is that your fingers support the trigger guard bow, and your open hand covers the lock and pan, protecting them.”

Leanna carefully shifted the rifle to the cradle position.

“See how the main weight of the rifle’s on your left forearm now,” George said. “Which one feels better?”

“I want to try both some more,” Leanna said.

George nodded approval. “Tomorrow I’ll show you how to load it, and then we’ll practice shooting.”

Leanna beamed—she’s younger than Elitha was when she
got that privilege—and shifted from one carry to another a dozen more times.

After so much inactivity, all the movement and talk is thrilling. One more day of preparation, and then Jean Baptiste can fetch Milt.

At the hearth I crisped strips of hide to carry with us, while Elitha lined our dresses and coats with layers of silk for warmth. Next to her, Frances looked dismayed as a steady drip came through a new place in the ceiling. Elitha put her arm around her. “No, it’s good, Frances. We want the thaw to continue. We’ll be able to leave. Mother and Father told Leanna and me. We have a plan all worked out with Jean Baptiste and Mr. Elliott.”

Leanna cradled the rifle again and said, “I think the cradle.” She laughed. “Just like a little baby,” she said, and Elitha looked over and laughed. We all laughed.

The shelter teems with hope.

J
ean Baptiste, crying, motioned me outside. He had to tell me twice. I couldn’t hear it, couldn’t believe it.

I came inside, stood there unsteady on my feet in the smoky dimness. Flames cast shadows on the wall. Dante’s Inferno. The only sound was Doris Wolfinger’s sobs. I wrenched her blanket back, shook her by the shoulders. “Stop crying!”

She instantly stopped crying and stared at me in panic and fear. I stared furiously at her and left.

“What
is
it?” George said.

I didn’t even want to say it aloud. It was terrible to even form the words in a whisper.

“Milt died.”

I burst into tears. “Milt died February 9th. Dead all the time we’ve been making our plan. Margret and Virginia weren’t strong enough to bury him. Five days Milt lay dead at the Murphys’. The Breen boys finally went and buried him.” I sobbed while George held me.

The Reeds’ teamster from Springfield. Steadfast and brave.

It wasn’t until I was recording Milt’s death in the Bible that I registered the terrible disappointment on George’s face.

I
came back from Elizabeth’s near twilight, and George was gone.

I followed his heavy, dragging footprints to just beyond the clearing. His back to me, his gaze was fixed on something in the dim light. He tried to raise his rifle but was too weak. He tried to reposition himself and make another effort.

“George,” I said softly.

He turned, hissed. “Quiet. You’ll frighten the deer.”

My eyes filled with tears.

He made a third herculean effort, bringing the gun above his shoulder, painstakingly lowering it until he had the deer dead in his sights.

And then he saw in the crosshairs what I saw: A tree with hacked branches, moving in the wind.

He turned around, broken. “I’m Hardcoop,” he said. He let the gun drop to the snow and walked away.

Taking two steps for every one of his, I struggled after him, screaming at his back. “Hardcoop helped me with the children! He cared for Luke as tenderly as if he were his own grandson! Hardcoop did every single thing he could!”

George stopped, turned. “I’m sorry.”

Together, tears streaming down our faces, we wrested the gun from the snow.

W
hile Elitha and I consoled Georgia and Eliza, Shhh you’re okay, the teamsters righted the wagon and hurriedly repacked it. The snowflakes whirling about us, George and Jacob were hastily repairing the broken axle when suddenly Jacob’s chisel slipped and gashed George’s hand, red blood spurting on white snow. Jacob was beside himself. Oh my God, George, I’m sorry, I’m—I ran to get bandages, and George made light of it, consoling his distraught brother, just for an instant his eyes meeting mine over the deep cut that went diagonally from his wrist across his hand to his little finger, before we cast them down to see the stain spread across the snow.

T
hat is the letter to you I found in the Bible. I can think of many things that would have interrupted me, but not what I intended to tell you.

A salutation when I wrote it, now it looks like a call for help.

T
he prairie grass rolls and undulates, rolls and undulates. Elitha looks up from her book and says, “It looks like waves, Mother.” “Soon you’ll see
real
ocean waves,” I say. The prairie grass turns into ocean waves, bigger and bigger waves, spectacular ocean waves turn into waves of blowing snow, blowing higher, higher, until the waves are massive tidal waves just about to drown us all, George goes under first, I reach for Frances, for Eliza, Georgia slips away, I frantically grab Elitha, Leanna’s gone, there’s no way I can save them all—

“Tamsen, Tamsen,” George calls. I open my eyes, stare at him in fright. “What were you dreaming?” he asks. “Nothing,” I say. I look at him. “I
believed
it would be advantageous for them.” “Of course. Of course,” he says, holding my shaking body the rest of the night.

I never went back to sleep. I was afraid to go back to sleep, even shutting my eyes, I saw those terrible waves, the children slipping under, the white, icy fingers of my uncle reaching out to embrace me. I was more tired today than I have ever been, I could hardly force myself to move. Bathing George’s wound, my hands shook.
Drip
. No matter how many holes we stuff, Betsey, we always miss some or new ones appear.
Drip
. The single persistent drip hit like a metronome, it pounded in my head. Jean Baptiste and I strung a rope across the shelter to hang the children’s
clothes on. We stretched out damp clothes on every available surface. I lay stockings across logs by the fireplace.
Drip
. Frances watched the drip with a little smile on her face. No one has told her the plan is off. George’s wound has spread farther up his arm. I felt a scream rise up in me and tried to stifle it.
Drip
. I looked up at George, his sad eyes watching me closely.

“The children have not had one dry garment on in more than a week, and I don’t know what to do about it. George. We must hold on for the children!”

George reached across the table with his other hand and took mine. “We got through the Wasatch.”

I looked into his calm, sad eyes and felt the stillness, the steadiness, at the center of his being flow into me.