Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 (9 page)

Michael tossed and turned in his bedroll while Kate slept like a baby next to him. He had found James Cardell and asked him for herbs to brew a calming tea for Kate. She dutifully drank her tea, and when they finally lay down for the night, she sank into a deep sleep. All of his restlessness failed to rouse her, and he was glad of that. She needed the sleep. So did he, but he couldn’t quiet his mind. The emotions of the evening had brought a flood of memories.

When they left Ireland, it was under semi-martial law. British troops were all over Dublin expecting a rebellion. Anyone could be arrested and imprisoned indefinitely without formal charges or a trial. Michael remembered having mixed feelings when their ship left from the River Liffey: Heart-wrenching sadness over leaving his homeland, anxiety about the long journey to New York, and relief in the promise of a better life.

Conditions on the ship were not good. Hundreds of men, women, and children lived below decks with no ventilation and no sanitary facilities. Many were sick, and burials at sea were frequent, and usually, to the dismay of these devout Catholics, without religious rites. Michael insisted that his family spend as much time above decks as was permitted, and he adamantly refused to allow Kate to minister to the sick. He had watched too many caregivers succumb to the illnesses they were treating. He had brought some food aboard to supplement the pound-a-day they were each allotted, and he kept a close watch on these secret stores. Starvation, sickness, and poverty brought out the worst in people, and he observed otherwise kind and generous people steal and commit other crimes out of desperation.

“But we made it,” he muttered, half asleep. A cousin had taken them in to live in his lodgings in an overcrowded tenement in New York City. The tenement was barely livable but it was a roof over their heads, and they lived there almost four years until they had saved enough money to head west.

“We made it then, and we’re going to make it now.” With those words on his lips, he finally drifted into sleep. He slept peacefully the few hours before daybreak because it wasn’t soldiers and starving people he dreamt of, but a beautiful green valley at the base of rolling hills and a small log cabin with smoke curling from the chimney.

The Long Night

Chapter Seven

Ash Hollow
Mile 504

Brenna Flannigan lifted the bucket of water she had drawn from the cool spring nearby and poured some into the pan. The trip down Windlass Hill that morning had been strenuous. All the travelers had helped each other and used ropes to prevent the wagons from barreling downhill. The glade where they were camped was beautiful and abundant with wild roses and ash trees. Mrs. Mueller watched Brenna carefully, her shoulders stooped, and her gray head bent.

“Just a bit more water, dear,” she said in German-accented English.

Brenna dutifully poured another cup into the pan. She was helping Mrs. Mueller with the mid-day meal. She first met Mrs. Mueller when the Mueller wagon had been moved up from the back of the line to a position behind the Flannigans’ wagon. Mrs. Mueller’s son John, a pastor from Ohio, was with her. His wife Greta had died a few weeks ago, an early victim of cholera, and the captain had moved them forward when Brenna, with the permission of her parents, had volunteered to help them. Mrs. Mueller was a small elderly woman who, as Brenna noticed, bore a strong resemblance to Brenna’s grandmother who had died in Ireland. The resemblance was uncanny, especially her eyes, which were always smiling. Even when her grandmother had been too sick to get out of bed, she would smile at Brenna, and her blue eyes would twinkle as she would take Brenna’s hands and say, “Your destiny is in the stars, a gra’.”

Brenna had been born Christmas night in 1835—doubly lucky as her grandmother loved to tell her.

“It’s good luck to be born at night as you have the gift of seeing spirits and the Good People. And being born on Christmas is also good fortune.”

Her grandmother had seen a shooting star shortly before Brenna was born.

“That was a sign that your life will be remarkable.”

Any time Brenna was blessed with fortune or happiness, her grandmother told her it was because she was special. Brenna came to believe she was special, and she believed that if she saw the Good People, they would bring her wealth. But she hadn’t seen the Good People yet, and she hadn’t seen any spirits, even though she was always on the lookout. Sometimes she felt her grandmother’s presence watching over her and protecting her.

Her grandmother was always telling her stories of the Good People.

“Some call them the Little People or the fairies, but that’s bad luck,” her grandmother warned.

It was also bad luck to put shoes on a chair or place a bed facing the door. And one should never bring lilacs into the house or cut one’s fingernails on a Sunday. Oh, there were so many admonishments, and Brenna was careful to always keep them in mind. But as lucky as she was supposed to be, she wasn’t able to keep her grandmother from dying, even though she had spent hours on her knees praying. No, her grandmother had died, and Brenna blamed herself. She hadn’t been good enough or lucky enough to save her, and she had cried bitterly for many weeks after. Her parents and the parish priest had tried to console her, but nothing had helped.

“Don’t let that tea steep much longer, dear. John doesn’t like it too strong.” Mrs. Mueller’s heavy German accent was fun to listen to.

“Yes, ma’am.” Brenna poured hot tea into tin cups and gave one to Mrs. Mueller, who carefully measured a teaspoon of sugar into it.

“Go and tell John that lunch is ready, dear.” Brenna looked about and saw Reverend Mueller leading one of the oxen back from the river. He was short and slight, and had no facial hair. His dark chin-length hair was always tucked behind his ears, giving him an almost feminine look. She walked up to meet him as he guided the large animal back to the wagon.

“Reverend Mueller, Mrs. Mueller sent me to fetch you for lunch.” John Mueller smiled gratefully at Brenna.

“Thank you, Brenna, you’ve been such a great help to us. Since my wife Greta died, my mother has had a hard go of it.” His voice was soft and deep—surprising for such a small man.

“‘Tis my pleasure to help, Reverend,” Brenna replied shyly. This man of God was a bit of a curiosity. Not a priest, but like a priest. He held Saturday evening prayer meetings for any who cared to attend, and his simple and generous nature and quiet piety had attracted many followers. Brenna’s parents, sorely missing the community of worshippers from the crowded borough of New York City, were among the attendees. As the days and weeks passed, sickness and tragedy had touched everyone in the wagon train, and the travelers increasingly turned to prayer for strength and guidance.

Two days ago, one of the scouts got sick with cholera. The wagon train, already behind schedule, had left the man on the side of the trail with a “watcher” who would stay with him the short hours he would live and then quickly bury him. Brenna had seen this happen more than once, and she grieved for the poor souls who didn’t even have a marker for their graves. They had passed other graves on the trail, and one was so shallow that wild animals had dug up the body and left the bones lying about. Someone from their group had taken the time to bury the remains.

Brenna handed Reverend Mueller his lunch and tea. Lunch consisted of breakfast leftovers of biscuits and bacon.

“Will you share this with me?” John asked.

“No, thank you, Reverend, I’ve already had my lunch.” Brenna always ate with her family. She knew every wagon was carefully rationing their food. She wanted to help the Muellers—not be a burden to them.

“She never eats our food,” Mrs. Mueller said, “even though we have plenty now that Greta is gone.” Her voice caught as she said this, and John looked at his mother sadly and sighed.

“It’s true, Brenna. You know you’re always welcome.” Brenna smiled at him as she busied herself cleaning up the campsite. It was a hot day, but Mrs. Mueller still wore a heavy shawl over her dirndl. She had lost weight over the past weeks, and Brenna was worried about her. Still, in spite of everything, Mrs. Mueller’s blue eyes twinkled merrily each time she saw Brenna, and she usually had a story from the old country to entertain her. As Brenna finished up the dishes, Mrs. Mueller asked, “Have you ever heard the tale called ‘Little Red-Cap’?”

“Nay, I have never heard the tale. Will you tell it to me?”

The minutes slipped by as Brenna sat transfixed, listening to the story of a little girl who had walked to her sick grandmother’s house in the wood with a basket of food, only to find a wolf there who had eaten her grandmother, dressed in her grandmother’s clothes, and was waiting in her grandmother’s bed for little Red-Cap to arrive. Then the evil wolf had swallowed her! Luckily, a huntsman happened by and cut the wolf open, and the little girl and her grandmother sprang out! They then filled the wolf’s body with heavy stones, killing him. Brenna’s eyes were wide as Mrs. Mueller finished the story, dissolving into giggles.

“That’s a good story, not?”

“Yes, I’ll have to tell it to Conor and the Bensons. They always want to hear the new stories you tell me.”

“Well, I have a lot more to tell. You know, I went to school with Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm in Kassel in the old country. They’re the ones who wrote all the stories I tell you. They collected stories from everywhere and they wrote them down. I have one of their books. Those boys made a name for themselves!”

Later that night as Brenna lay in her blankets unable to sleep, she thought about Mrs. Mueller as a young girl in school with the Grimm brothers. She imagined them playing by the Fulda River that flowed through the little town of Kassel. Mrs. Mueller had described Kassel in vivid detail, and Brenna loved picturing it. She finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of meandering rivers, wolves, and little girls in red velvet caps.

The next day, the weather changed. The morning was foggy and cool, and traveling was pleasant, but by mid-morning, what had started as a fine mist had developed into a steady drizzle. Everyone was exhausted after maneuvering down the steep grade of Ash Hollow. They were camped at the bottom next to a cool spring for the mid-day meal. Mrs. Mueller was uncharacteristically quiet during the break. Brenna thought that maybe she hadn’t slept well and left her to her thoughts.

By the time the wagons circled to make camp for the night, everyone was wet through to the skin. Brenna spent longer than usual at her chores before going to the Mueller wagon. When she finally did, Reverend Mueller told her that his mother was in the wagon and hadn’t been feeling well. Brenna tried not to look alarmed as she went to the Mueller wagon and climbed up. The small space John had made for his mother to rest was empty. Brenna climbed out of the wagon and found the reverend attending to the oxen. The drizzle was steady, and her hair was stuck to her head. Her clothes dripped water and hung from her slender frame.