The Darkness You Fear Page 7

  The harness chains make a musical sound, and the wheels drum upon the road in accompaniment. The drivers call out to the mules and oxen, “Get up!” or “Whoa, now,” and to my ears it sounds like a song.

  We have started late, but God willing, we will make good time. To our surprise, as we set out from Independence, the citizens of the town, who had seemed so intent on selling us shoddy goods at ruinous prices, came to cheer our departure. After we are gone, the town will sleep until the next season, or so I have been informed.

  I must admit here, for I intend to make these journals an honest accounting of our journey, that I have misgivings. I did not wish to leave the small homestead to which my first husband and I dedicated our lives. I married Cullum when I was but a girl, with no experience of the wider world, but for a long time, that didn’t matter. I was happy with Cullum. When Jed and Edwin were born, good strong boys, my life was complete.

  But Cullum was not a physically strong man. He suffered trying to keep the farm intact, and over time, he was forced to sell some of the better pasturelands to our neighbor, Jonathan Meredith. I admit that I was aware of Jonathan’s glances even then, and I was flattered, though I never acknowledged them.

  I loved Cullum, but the life of a farmer’s wife is not an easy one, and I could not help but look upon Jonathan’s more prosperous lands and feel envy. Jonathan was married to a nag. I’m sorry, but it must be said. Eliza was cruel to him in speech and manner. They had a daughter named Sarah, and whenever I had doubts about Jonathan, I simply watched him around her, for it is clear that she is the center of his existence.

  Then came word that Eliza and Sarah had been in a wagon accident. Eliza was killed, and Sarah gravely injured. When she recovered, it became clear that her legs will never function again, and while the rest of her body grows, her legs remain sticklike and small.

  It was shortly after this tragic event that Jonathan’s attentions toward me became more obvious and direct. God forgive me, I did not completely reject them.

  I thank God every day that Cullum never knew how I felt, for bless the man, he tried hard to be a good husband. The boys, who, if Cullum had lived, might have helped relieve his burden, only added to his worry when they were young. The responsibility wore him down, so that when he came home at night, he was but a shadow of himself.

  Jonathan helped us as best he could, paying Cullum for his help with the spring roundups and the fall harvests. Perhaps we would not have survived at all without Jonathan’s aid. I could not help but notice how powerful a presence Jonathan was. When he was around, Cullum seemed to fade away.

  I was a loyal wife, and I never strayed in so much as a glance, but…it was impossible not to notice the differences in their demeanors.

  Then came the awful day when dear Cullum did not return. I waited a full day, sending the boys out to milk the cows and do those chores that were Cullum’s to do. Then I set out the next morning with Perty, our old, broken-down nag of a horse, harnessed to our buckboard. We had but one good horse left, which we called Goldie and which Cullum rode. I arrived at Jonathan’s farmhouse in time to see the search party returning with Cullum’s body.

  No one ever knew what happened. He was found on the trail with a broken neck, and his horse was missing. People from throughout the county came to the funeral, and I learned that Cullum had been highly regarded, which surprised and pleased me. I was given small gifts of money, and in my desperation, I accepted them. I noticed when the funeral was over that Cullum’s horse, Goldie, was in the barn.

  “Found him this morning,” Jonathan said when he caught me looking. “Meant to tell you when the funeral was over.”

  “Thank you for taking care of him, Mr. Meredith,” I said.

  Jonathan was so kind over the next few months as I grieved poor Cullum’s loss. I allowed myself to smile at my neighbor when he was gallant, no matter how unseemly it might have appeared. How could I not? Jed and Edwin and I were helpless without him.

  When Jonathan proposed after the proper mourning period had passed, I immediately accepted.

  I now speak of matters that, as a good wife, I should not. But I have sworn to be honest in these journals, and it must be said. I have never seen Jonathan read anything but contracts, or write anything but his name, so I have faith that he will never read these journals. He will not be interested in the nattering of his empty-headed wife—or so he thinks me. And for all his faults, Jonathan has boundaries he does not cross, and I believe reading someone’s diary is one of them, strange as it sounds.

  By the time our first daughter, Nan, was born, I knew Jonathan was not the man I had thought him to be. I was so used to gentle Cullum, who never raised his voice, who never cast aspersions, who, if he said anything at all, was supportive.

  Jonathan was quite the opposite, always speaking in a loud voice and unhappy with everything I did. I could have endured this without complaint, even in these journals, if he didn’t also go after Jed and Edwin, who never measure up to their stepfather’s standards.

  It broke my heart when Jonathan told the boys that their father had been “worthless.”

  I was used to being let alone, for Cullum was so exhausted at night that he would fall asleep immediately. Jonathan still had energy, but no interest in marital relations except to have his own son. As soon as I was with child, he ignored me.

  When Mattie was born, I could see the anger in his face. I saw Jonathan looking at other women, and could sense him measuring them, wondering if they would bear him a boy.

  No doubt he had thought he had a sure thing with me, as I have already borne two sons.

  It is inalterably sad to me that he cannot take into his heart the two boys he already has. Jed looks up to him and does everything he can to please his stepfather, but nothing he does pleases Jonathan. Edwin stays out of the way and is never in the same room as Jonathan, though Jonathan doesn’t even seem to notice.

  There is no doubt that he loves his own daughter, Sarah. It gives me hope to see them together, Jonathan so tender with her, helping her up the steps, teaching her to ride a pony.

  So it surprised me when he announced that he had sold the farm and that we were moving to Oregon. I fear that the fragile girl will suffer on this long journey, unlike my daughters Nan and Mattie, who are excited by the prospect.

  “I’m doing it for Sarah,” he said. “This farm will never provide more than a hardscrabble existence. We need to go someplace where I can take care of her.”

  “Then let us go home,” I said. “My parents will help us, and you told me that you inherited your grandparents’ place in Maryland.”

  He snorted. “A field of rocks. No, we must go westward. That is where the future is; that is where I can make enough money to help Sarah…to help all of us.”

  I said no more. It is not a woman’s place to tell her husband where the best opportunities lie. But it is because of Sarah’s crippled legs that I fear for this trip.

  May 5, 1845

  I have decided not to erase the previous entry, though it is unfair to Jonathan, who, after all, is doing what he thinks is best for his family. If he believes that going to Oregon is what is best for us, I must not question it. Sarah seems happy, though she constantly apologizes for how we must help her. She is a sweet girl, and no one minds.

  I do not wish to start this journey in complaint, and I shall endeavor to write of only the good things that happen along the way. As we set out on our long adventure, I cannot but hope that it shall give us all a fresh start.

  May 10, 1845

  The weather is tolerable, if confounding. The sun beats down until we remove the covering over the wagon seat, only to have wind blow and sprinkles of rain fall on us moments later.

  The road is so rutted that our wheels must follow the path of others, no matter how we might wish otherwise. The rain softens the tracks but makes them harder to travel, and Jonathan becomes enraged, whipping the horses, including poor Goldie, who is of advanced age. Goldie is
the last reminder, other than Jed and Edwin, that I have of Cullum, and I hate to see him treated so.

  “Can we not move to the side of the road?” I asked, for I had seen others do that, and they seemed to be making better progress than us. By this time in the season, there are many different roads, and few are following the earliest paths, even if they appear to be straighter. Indeed, we have fallen behind the others. There is a small group of us at the rear of the train who have banded together, pulling our wagons close at night.

  There are the Catledges, Augustus and Abigail. Gus seems much older than Abigail, but despite the discrepancy in age, they have begot a daughter, Becky, who is about the same age as my Edwin. They have taken under their wings a young stowaway, Mary, who has been put in charge of the children—all but Jed, who insists at staying at his stepfather’s side.

  There are the Parsonses, Bart and Karrie, with a son and daughter, Cager and Allie. I am thankful for their company, and that my children have companions of their own ages to play with.

  When I made the suggestion that we try a different path, I spoke without thinking, for I was happy. Our small group had banded together the night before to eat a deer that Gus had shot, and Bart had brought out some whiskey, and in a moment of weakness, I drank some of the foul liquor. It did not take much to make me tipsy. I was not sorry, for I was still in a good mood the next day, despite my headache.

  Jonathan glared at me, for I rarely make suggestions, and he treats all such advice as unwanted. He might have done as the others, finding a new path, if not for my interference. Sarah suffers in the back of the wagon, and he simply doesn’t see it because he is riding ahead.

  I could see Jed also glaring at me, as if he agreed with his stepfather, but I understand this behavior, and I forgive him no matter what, while his stepfather sees fault in everything he does. Instead of rebelling, my eldest son hews ever closer to his demanding stepfather. My youngest son, Edwin, stays close to my side, and sometimes when I look at him, I see gentle Cullum as I first saw him, kind and handsome and still hopeful about life.

  And so we stayed on that dreadful, rutted road. After a few hours, Sarah, in some discomfort despite being cushioned by as many blankets as I could find, begged to be allowed to ride Goldie. I hesitated, for she had never ridden without Jonathan accompanying her alongside, but the poor girl was suffering, so I agreed.

  In midafternoon, Goldie collapsed without warning, and Sarah was trapped beneath him. Jed and Edwin tried to move the dying creature, but couldn’t. Jonathan came riding up, and with the strength of a father, whose daughter is threatened, managed to lift Goldie’s hindquarters enough for Jed to pull Sarah free.

  Jonathan marched to the back of the wagon and pulled out his rifle.

  “No, Jonathan,” I implored him.

  He ignored me, put the barrel to Goldie’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  We spent another hour trying to get the harness and tack off the dead horse. We probably should have stored his meat, but we were falling farther and farther behind the others. The Catledges and the Parsonses moved off the main trail, forced off by our blockage, and when we finally started up again, we too moved to the side, as I had suggested all along.

  Sarah was again ensconced in the back in her blankets. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said in a little girl voice.

  Jonathan’s face softened, and he reached out with his huge, rough hand and stroked her cheek gently. “It is not your fault, daughter,” he said.

  He turned away from her and glared at me, and I was suddenly certain whose fault he thought it was.

  I shall always remember the sight, looking back on poor Goldie’s yellow mane glowing in the last light of day.

  It was at that moment that I knew we had left our past lives behind forever.

  Chapter Eight

  Diary of Ellen Meredith

  The Oregon Trail, May 15, 1845

  I love the mornings on the trail, the bright dew still fresh on the green plains. The smell of bacon and coffee and the bustle of the overlanders around me make me hopeful that all will be well.

  The land is flat, and in the distance stretch patches of wildflowers whose myriad colors make me wonder if we shouldn’t stop here and stake our claim. The land must be fertile for such profusion to exist. But the men, as ever, have their hearts set on Oregon.

  Our journey thus far has been uneventful. The trail is well blazed, with few surprises. There is the weather to contend with, as always. The wind blows steadily in our faces, a warm wind on most days, though if the heavy clouds roll over us, the breeze can have a bite.

  The other thing we have to contend with is our fellow overlanders. There are so many types of people: immigrants who don’t even speak English, down-on-their-luck bluebloods, adventurers, and those of us, like me, who were reluctant to come but are loyal to their loved ones. The huge wagon train has broken into groups who travel, camp, and cook together.

  Our small group is congenial to each other. The only visible strain is between my husband and the other men. Jonathan has a tendency to boss them around, as if only he knows what to do. Their wives do not hold it against me, fortunately. Meanwhile, the children are enjoying the travel, seeing it not as hardship but as an adventure. I try my best to emulate their example.

  The younger ones are oblivious to the tensions between the adults, though I have seen Jed cast worried looks toward his stepfather when he gets loud.

  In our homestead, Jonathan never drank. But both Mr. Parsons and Mr. Catledge are fond of a few sips of whiskey after everyone else has gone to bed, and he has been joining them. Jonathan comes to my side late at night, and he is more affectionate than I am accustomed to. I have tried to accommodate him, though I fear getting with child on this long journey.

  When I dared to say something, he grew angry. “You’ll give me a son,” he grunted into my ear. “I want a son.”

  There is little privacy in our nightly campsite, for we are huddled together for safety, but everyone pretends not to hear certain things. I am ashamed that it is happening where Jed and Edwin can hear, but I cannot refuse my husband.

  May 18, 1845

  We followed the Platt River for several days, and it was only when we left that flat, well-traveled terrain that we ran into difficulties. Each group has to decide which path to travel, and some drivers seemed to have a knack for determining which way is easier, which is faster, and which has the most fuel along the way. The farther one goes from the established trails, the more wood can be found for the campfire, but the more dangerously isolated we become.

  I had thought to bring everything our family might need in Oregon, but I’ve realized that we must lighten the load. I carefully stacked the extra set of dishes alongside the trail. I suspect that more belongings will be discarded over the coming days.

  If we should have need of anything, we can find what we need in the discarded piles of other travelers as they also take pity on their poor oxen and mules.

  May 21, 1845

  We are entering Indian country. Though we haven’t heard of any attacks this season, there are always raids, and if any cow or horse wanders out of sight, it often cannot be found the next day.

  The men speak excitedly at night around the campfire about how they will deal with the savages if they dare attack. Their voices get louder as the whiskey flows. But in the morning, as the men sleep in a little longer than usual, we women tend to speak of the opportunities that such an encounter with the Indians might provide.

  The young servant girl, Mary Perkins, seems to have to most knowledge of the Indians. “We can trade with them,” she said. “Everyone says so. They will give you an entire deer or buffalo for a few shiny beads, or a knife, or even a hat.”

  We are all wishing for fresh meat. Everything that is left in our wagons is canned or salted, or hardtack, or dried vegetables and fruits. Everything is becoming stale or moldy, and when we stumble across fresh game, even if it is merely a rabbit, it tastes wonderful.
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  As the days passed, I began to look forward to meeting some of these Indians, whom I have previously only seen on the streets of Independence, well-groomed and wearing white man’s clothing (and looking terribly unhappy).

  This morning, we finally came across a small encampment of Indians. The Indian braves stayed back and watched as their women approached us. I was able to get a haunch of buffalo in exchange for a spare blanket, and I was well satisfied with the deal.

  Our men stayed back as well, staring suspiciously at their counterparts.

  I looked into these Indian women’s eyes, and they looked no different than those of my fellow travelers. The delight the maiden took in my humble blanket, which I had knitted myself, was the same as my own daughters’ was when I first showed it to them.

  The trading was conducted peacefully and amicably, with both sides satisfied, and I look forward to our next meeting.

  June 1, 1845

  The rain and wind are unrelenting. Even when the sun is shining, we can’t be sure the weather won’t turn against us within minutes. Before leaving Missouri, I worried whether we would find enough water along the way. Never did I imagine there would be too much.

  The three men in our group take turns choosing the path to follow. Mr. Catledge most often stays close to the central trails, which are rutted but direct, but which offer very little in the way of fodder. My husband always chooses the most outlying route. Though it takes a little longer for us to catch up to the rest of the wagon train, there is plentiful fuel and clean water, and sometimes we even see wildlife that hasn’t yet been hunted or scared away. Mr. Parsons most often chooses a path somewhere in between.

  This matches the personalities of the three men as I have observed them. We have learned to stock up on food and wood when following my husband’s lead and to enjoy an early night when we follow Mr. Catledge’s lead. It has worked out strangely well, and after some initial grumbling, we have fallen into a comfortable pattern.