We cross about ten miles west of Fort Kearny, where the river is narrowest and the sandbars sit like miniature islands in the coffee-colored sludge. I overhear John telling Webb that the Platte is worse than the Missouri because it must be forded and not swum, and each step threatens to suck you under.
John doesn’t waste any time and puts Webb and Will on Trick and Tumble, attaching their leads to Dame and his string of mules. He leads them the way he did on the Missouri, showing them what he expects before he returns to the banks to coax them into the water.
“Keep going, boys. Hang tight, and don’t panic,” he says, and Webb and Will obey, murmuring softly, “Go, mules, go,” as Trick and Tumble rush through the waters, the silty bottom sucking at their hooves.
“Attaboy, Trick,” Webb encourages, like it’s all just a grand adventure. Will is a little more cautious, but Tumble trots through the water behind John and Dame, and they make it across without mishap, then wait for us on the far side.
We raise the beds of the wagons as high as they will go and tie down all the supplies as best we can. Little Wolfe is swaddled and secured in his basket, tied down amid the sundry supplies. It is the safest place for him, but Ma sits beside him, clinging to his basket with stark fear stamped all over her face. Pa drives one team, walking alongside the oxen with his Moses stick; Warren is still too weak to walk through a mile of turbulent water beside the oxen, so Wyatt drives the other. I climb up on the front seat, and Warren lies in back, promising to keep the supplies from tumbling out. Pa hems and haws, and Ma’s lips have gone white with terror. She prays loudly for the waters to be calm and the wagons to have wings.
With a crack of the whip and a “Giddyap,” we lurch forward into the Platte, the water lapping at the sides of the wagons, the oxen groaning, and the far shore so distant it’s like a mirage. Suddenly John is back, splashing toward us, shouting directions and then circling around, bringing up the rear. We are more than halfway across, gaining confidence with every rod, when Pa’s wagon begins to list to the side and Ma begins to holler. The supplies bump and slide as wheels sink deep. The water sloshes into the wagon bed, and Ma’s prayers become a scolding.
“Keep those oxen moving, William,” John yells to Pa, threading his rope through the front wheel and wrapping it around his saddle horn. He spurs Dame, and the wagon jolts forward with a sudden sucking sound. The oxen bellow, stumbling as the weight of the wagon surges against the yoke.
Just as quickly as Pa is freed, Wyatt begins to panic, pulling back on the team instead of pushing the pace. I don’t think twice but swing down from the box into the river to help Wyatt. The water isn’t deep, but it pulls at my skirts, and I wade ahead, determined to keep the wagon from getting stuck. I trip and go under, but only briefly, before I get my hands around the tug on the harness of the lead ox and pull as hard as I can. Everyone’s yelling as I’m yanking, but the wagon rights itself, and the team surges forward, crisis averted.
John leans down and, with a grunt and a hiss, hauls me up into the saddle in front of him, my skirts streaming and threatening to pull me right back down into the water.
“Please don’t do that again, Mrs. Caldwell,” he barks, his mouth at my ear, and I wipe the muddy tendrils of hair from my cheeks, inordinately pleased with myself. I am wet, filthy, and so close to John Lowry I can feel his heartbeat thudding against my back. Crossing the Platte is not as bad as I anticipated.
6
ELM CREEK
JOHN
It takes an hour to cross a single wagon, two to cross another, and by the time the entire train is assembled on the north side of the Platte, some with supplies that have been ruined by the water or lost in the finicky flow, there is little will to continue on. We stagger a few miles to finish the day and set up camp at a place called Elm Creek, about eight miles west of where we crossed.
That night we suffer a storm the likes of which I’ve never seen. The wagon wheels are staked and the animals corralled, but every tent is blown over, and the Hastingses’ buggy topples end over end, having survived the Platte only to be dashed to pieces by the storm. It is not the weight of the rain but the strength of the gale that accompanies it, and we spend the next day drying out at Elm Creek, though we desperately need to make up for lost time. And I am ill.
I say nothing to anyone, hiding my misery as I see to my animals, but I am in trouble, and I am scared. I tell myself it is simply the chill from the hours I spent moving wagons across the Platte and the storm that deprived me of rest and a chance to get dry, but by midnight my bones ache and my bowels are on fire, and I fall into my damp blankets after my watch, praying that Webb will stay away, wishing I’d seen my sisters like Jennie wanted me to, wishing I’d told my father goodbye when he’d stood on the banks of the Missouri and watched me go.
There is little privacy but distance, and I lurch from my tent to relieve myself beyond earshot of the wagons and the eyes of the second watch. I dare not go back to my tent only to have to rise again to empty my bowels. I don’t have the strength to do anything but huddle in a swampy ravine, disgusted by my own filth and unable to do anything about it. I’ve put a bit of peppermint and laudanum into my canteen—I consider pouring it out, not certain if the water I carry is the water that made me sick, but then consider that no water might be worse in my condition than tainted water. The peppermint eases the cramping, and the laudanum muffles the clanging in my head, though it feels like I am drifting away. The ache in my throat and the screaming in my limbs let me know I am still alive.
More than pain, I am riddled with deep regret. I have not told Naomi May how I feel about her. I have not told her that I want to watch her grow old. I have not told her so many things. And I desperately want to.
It is that desire, even amid the agony, that has me dousing myself in the creek to clean the waste from my limbs and my clothes and staggering back to my tent so that no one will spend time looking for me when morning breaks.
If I had known I was going to die, I would have urged the Mays to go back. The journey is only going to get worse, and they need me. I would have given Kettle to Webb and Dame to Naomi. When her face looms above my own, I am sure I am dreaming.
“Mr. Lowry. John?”
Oh God, she is in my tent.
“Go away, Naomi.”
I like her name on my lips and grit my teeth against another surge of fear. I want to say her name tomorrow and the day after that, but I know I’m going to die.
“John, you’re sick. I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t want you here.” I want my dignity, and there is none in the sickness that sweeps through the emigrant trains. Loose bowels and heaving sides—no one can keep the medicine down, though the medicine simply gives the fretting something to do. I’m not sure it helps all that much.
“I’m going to help you sit up,” she says. “You need medicine. It’ll make you feel better. I mixed it myself.”
“Please . . . go away. I can look after myself,” I moan.
“Drink,” she demands, scooping her arm beneath my neck. My head lolls against her breast, and I press my lips together to hold back the bile that rises against my will. I heave myself to the side before retching into a bucket she has placed by my head. I fall back, pushing her away with a weak shove.