Far Away Home (11 page)

“Aren’t you
havin’ any?” Johnny asked.

“No,” she
replied, “It’s all for you.”

He chuckled
softly and whispered, “I accept your apology.”

“I didn’t
apologize.” 

Johnny just
smiled and nodded. Aislynn let the matter rest as she became distracted by one
of the Mormons. Mr. Smith removed a rocking chair from his wagon, placed it by
the Mormons’ fire and gathered his children around it. He entered their tent
and emerged with a small bundle in one arm and his wife leaning on the other.
Mr. Smith invited everyone to meet the new member of the train.

Aislynn
presented a jar of quince preserves to the pale, nearly gray, Mrs. Smith, who
seemed barely able to lift her hollow eyes to meet Aislynn’s. The baby was
silent, purple-faced and wrinkled. Aislynn admired Mrs. Smith’s noble dignity.
Under primitive circumstances, she had given birth on the trail, quietly and
privately. It amazed Aislynn how frontier women accepted major life changes
calmly and without fanfare.

After standing
the late watch, Johnny crawled into bed. The light of day showed softly.
Aislynn started to rise, but he pulled her down. “You can sleep in. We’re not
leavin’ for a few hours.”

When Aislynn
asked why, Johnny put his hand on her cheek and looked at her silently for a
moment. “We have to have a funeral first.”

The baby and its
mother were wrapped in a quilt tied with a string. Several crates were
fashioned into a coffin while Aislynn and the children gathered rocks. The two
were put down in an unmarked grave and the rocks were piled on the loose dirt
to deter wolves. Words were said. Tears were shed. The train moved on.

Like most
travelers on the Overland Trail, Aislynn discovered boredom presented the greatest
challenge. She started the mornings fidgeting next to Johnny in the wagon seat.
When the tedium overwhelmed her, she jumped down and walked. She exchanged
words with some of the women and children who also chafed at the dullness of
the tiresome trip. She watched the mothers struggle with children who kept
themselves occupied by finding trouble and felt grateful she did not have
children to entertain.

Walking was
difficult. The way was slowly ascending, rocky and tangled. The unending wind
blew unending dust. Yucca plants, with their sharp stiff leaves, were
unbending. Sagebrush and prickly cactus tugged at her skirt. Aislynn had to
wear Johnny’s socks over her own stockings to keep her feet from blistering in
her loose boots. In contrast with the chilly nights, they had been blessed with
a few unseasonably warm days. Aislynn abandoned her excess underclothing and
wore her mourning dress under Sage’s shirt. She hoped the Dakota Territory,
unlike some states, did not have laws requiring women to be corseted. Even if
it did, she did not think anyone would suspect her lawlessness.

After the noon
stop, she would join Johnny in the wagon. She preferred to endure the sour
smells of the mules and their various excretions to walking in the afternoon
heat. The unfamiliar, fascinating topography had become commonplace. The head
snapping motion of the wagon made her teeth clatter and her eyes bounce in her
head, rendering reading or writing impossible. She chatted with Johnny to
occupy her mind and while away the time.

They passed
other trains trailing livestock. Aislynn thought they might find friends among
those emigrants, but their caravan moved quickly and none kept their pace.
Aislynn found comfort in the fact they were rapidly progressing through the
foothills.

Once they were
beyond Ayres Natural Bridge, they rode within sight of the North Platte River.
At first, Aislynn thought the North Platte impassable. So wide and blue, it
seemed a piece of the sky had fallen. Its water rushed through the grass. The
bottom appeared a soft, sandy tangle. Aislynn began to dread crossing.

They were four
days outside of Fort Laramie, when the weather changed. Dark clouds puffed out
of the horizon like smoke. A cold wind blew in light snows. They sheltered at
old Fort Casper, abandoned the previous year by the army but occupied by
traders. When the sun emerged and the melting commenced, they took to the
slushy trail. To Aislynn’s relief, the Fort’s bridge remained intact and
allowed them to cross the Platte easily. For two days, they pushed through cold
wind and heavy mud until they approached their first Sweetwater River crossing.

Unlike the wide,
shallow Platte, the Sweetwater roared with icy snowmelt. Narrower but deeper,
it rushed downhill. Lined along the bank, the wagons waited for their turn to
ford. They watched as the first, big supply wagon mired in the sandy bottom and
came dangerously close to tipping. Extra horses were hitched to pull it from
the Sweetwater’s hold. The captain moved the train northward a few hundred
feet, and the trial began with another supply wagon. They continued to move up
river slightly until they found a spot with a firmer, rockier floor.

Johnny tied one
end of a rope around Aislynn’s waist and circled himself with the other end. He
made her stand in the wagon bed behind him as he eased their wagon down the
slight slope. Aislynn clutched his shoulders and kept her eyes on Independence
Rock, the huge, granite monolith resting on the plain directly opposite them.
She tried to visualize them reaching this landmark, climbing to the top and
standing on firm, unmoving stone. The sounds of the wheels grinding on the
rocky riverbed and the stream thrashing under them rose to her ears. Icy water
splashed on to her hands and face. The wagon rocked and Johnny shouted at his
mules. He shook the reins hard, slapping their rumps. They jumped and the wagon
jerked forward. He smacked them hard once more, and they sprang up the south
bank.

Their train
passed the night with several other trains camped around Independence Rock.
Like the hundreds of Argonauts who had come before them, Aislynn and Johnny
engraved their names in the huge turtle-shaped granite. They climbed to the top
and squinting into the constant wind, they surveyed the inconceivably vast
land. A deceptive flatness spread before them edged by jagged, gray-blue hills.
Traveling distances were indiscernible for they had learned there were hundreds
of ups and downs hidden in the grass.

Looking down at
the camps surrounding the rock, they noticed the corral next to theirs had
excluded one wagon from its ring. Johnny concluded its occupants must have a
contagion. They decided to avoid this wagon for fear of illness.

While mounting
the tailgate steps, Aislynn stopped and studied the couple in the isolated wagon.
She did not think they moved like the infirmed. The woman progressed around a
small table lighting candles while the man stood mumbling into his open hands.
Aislynn noticed he had a shawl over his shoulders.  “Johnny,” she called. He
looked up from his book. “They’re not contagious; they’re Jewish.”

The following
day, the trains moved past Devil’s Gate, a huge cleavage in a granite ridge cut
over thousands of years by the Sweetwater. At its base, the river ran thirty
feet wide but the chasm rose almost four hundred feet and gaped three hundred
feet across at the top. Their wagons did not stop at the phenomenon; they
rolled on simply counting it as one more signpost of progress. Ahead stood
Split Rock; it had been in their view for a full day. Like the sight of a gun,
this cleft in a stark, granite hill aimed their vision west to the mountains
looming darkly on the horizon. Atop this harsh stone, as on many other
outcroppings, Aislynn noticed a solitary tree, pushing up through the raw rock,
green against the blue sky, beaten by the wind, bent by the snow, sustained by
the rain, growing and surviving alone.

After dinner,
Aislynn handed Johnny a plate and turned a cherry upside-down cake out of her
skillet. A smile crossed his face, “You are the best cook.”

“It’s not for
you,” she announced. She watched his face fall, “We’re going visiting.”

They approached
the exiled pair and introduced themselves. Aislynn held out the cake and said,
“This is for you.”

The young woman
burst into tears. Aislynn’s eyes darted between Johnny and the woman’s husband.
She considered leaving when the woman collected herself and sniffled, “It’s
been so long since anyone has extended us any kindness.”

California
bound, Sophia and David Rabinowitz were from the Lower East Side, and they knew
Mr. Freilischer. Like Aislynn and Johnny, they traveled with a freight train;
it seemed no other trains would take Jews. They shared the cake, coffee and
stories of home until the wind grew cold. Clouds expanded heavily in the
darkened sky. Great spears of lightning stabbed the earth and thunder vibrated
the thin air.

Retreating to
their wagon, Aislynn and Johnny readied for bed by dressing in coats and
quilts. She pulled the puckerstring closed and crawled into bed. Rain bounced
off the wagon cover which had been soaked in beeswax and linseed oil to prevent
leakage. The pinging of hail could be heard between the roars of thunder.
Although her eyes were tightly closed, flashes of lightning could still be
seen. Pulling the quilts over her head, she remembered reading nothing was as
fearsome as a ship tossed in an ocean with gale force winds batting at it. But
here, on this sea of grass, with the wagon bobbing and swaying, the wind
howling, the lightning flaring, and the thunder shaking the very ground she
relied on for stability, this seemed more fearsome than anything she could
imagine.

Burrowed under
the quilts together, Johnny pulled her close. “This would be a very good time
for us to practice kissin’.”

“How can you
think of that when we could die any minute?”

“We’re not goin’
to die. Besides, if we were, at least we’d be havin’ fun.”

The wagon shook
with the thunder. “I’m too scared to do anything.”

“You can lie
here and worry, believin’ catastrophe is going to strike, or you can enjoy the
time we have.” One thing Aislynn had to admit about Johnny, he was distracting.
As he kissed her, his hands started to wander over her back and slipped down
her buttocks, but she did not protest. Although she remembered Sean’s warning,
she knew they were far from naked, and he was keeping her warm.

Johnny’s
breathing became labored, and he pulled away from her. “I’m goin’ to go check
the mules,” he said as he scrambled to leave the wagon.

Aislynn bolted
upright, astonished at the interruption. “It’s storming!”

“You might use
this time to take care of your personal business,” he told her as he climbed
over the tailgate.

When she
finished her toilette, she peered through the puckerstring and saw him washing
his hands in the snow the storm was tossing at them. He reentered the wagon and
said, “Let’s get some sleep.” In the face of the continuing turmoil, Johnny
snored, while Aislynn tried to understand his behavior.

On Sunday,
Sophia and David’s train kept pace with theirs. They drove through the shallow
snow and arrived at Three Crossings. Despite the cold and the stress of
crossing the river three times, Aislynn’s day flew. She spent a good part of it
with Sophia. In the evening, they shared a fire, cooked and ate together.

Early the next
morning, they again traversed the river. The sun broke through the heavy sky,
and the snow melted. As the wagons rolled through the fresh mud, they passed
the Ice Slough, a boggy marsh, which by some natural phenomenon, held ice
through the middle of summer. As the sun warmed them, Sophia and Aislynn
chatted through the afternoon while sharing the wagon seat with David.

In the evening,
the trains camped near the final Sweetwater Crossing. Aislynn invited the
Rabinowitzs to join their camp. After dinner, David offered to play his violin
with the Mormon fiddler. To Aislynn’s surprise, the Mormon accepted his offer.
David explained Mormons viewed Jews with empathy, believing they were brothers
in opposition to the disapprobation from traditional Christians. On the soggy
grass, they laid a piece of canvas, and Aislynn and Johnny attempted to teach
Sophia to step dance.

The morning
dawned bright in the east, but dark clouds moved from the west. Aislynn and
Johnny sat poised in their wagon waiting for their train’s turn to cross. From
their vantage, they could look over the washboard terrain, and the Sweetwater
as it showed itself between two gently rising hills. Their unwelcome companion,
the bitter wind, blew around them.

Sophia and
David’s wagon stood in line at the end of their train. The river ran fast and
high. A lumbering supply wagon descended the bank and slipped like a ship from
dry dock into the water. Huge horses dragged it across guided by outriders. The
second supply wagon caught its wheels in the ruts of the first and started to
tip. The riders pulled on the ropes tied to the bed and easily righted it.

The third and
fourth supply wagons crossed and were followed by the train’s family wagons.
Last to take their turn were David and Sophia. Aislynn and Johnny watched them
pull up to the bank and descend. David had his foot on the brake as they
slipped down into the torrent. The Rabinowitzs' wheels sank; the wagon stalled.
The current collided with the wooden wagon bed and slowly pushed it over. The
cover billowed in the stream. When Sophia slipped into the water, her skirt
blossomed like a flower. The bloom closed over her head like a morning glory in
the evening as she disappeared in the abyss. David slapped at the water until
the wagon floated over him.

Johnny shouted,
“Where are the guides?” The outriders were on the opposite shore moving the
wagons along and riding away. Aislynn jumped from the wagon and ran to her
captain and his men. She stood on the edge of the river screaming at the
riders. “Help them! They’re drowning!”

The outriders
galloped downstream and pulled the limp pair from the water. Drenched in death,
the bodies were laid on the opposite shore. Captain Morton started across.