pearl_smithers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pearl_smithers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
prairie_schooner2012-11-14 11:02 pm
pearl_smithers) wrote in prairie_schooner2012-11-14 11:02 pm
(no subject)
When grey dawn reached the western edge of Nauvoo it breathed light upon a flurry of activity. Horses braced themselves against the tug of men who had become their owners but the night before, and now reeked of tobacco and liquor. Crates and barrels, were stacked and lashed upon the bed of wagons while children climbed over them, shouting to each other as their parents struggled to stretch the limp, bleached canvas over wooden bows, that would be their only roof for the next few months.
Amidst the confusion, Pearl, holding the hands of the two youngest Vandenberg children, Rachel, all of four with her round brown eyes and tousled hair, and seven year old Zeke, followed Mrs Vandenberg, carrying the baby, as she threaded her way through the crowd, consisting mainly of large Mormon families and hard eyed trappers, till she reached the small string of wagons that waited to the side of the main camp.
There, they found Mr Vandenberg and ten year old Jeremiah loading sacks of cornmeal, while Bjorn Lundgren checked the oxen’s harness. He waved cheerfully when he spotted them. She had only met Mr Lundgren and his wife Ina the day before, a newlywed couple from Sweden. Farmers, they seemed pleasant, but between them spoke only just enough English to get by.
At least she consoled herself, the Zalinskys, of Polish stock from New York, were quite conversant, though the husband, a blacksmith, had a thick accent, while his wife spent most of her time fretting over her baby and walking round the wagon to double check everything was lashed, hammered and tied firmly in place.
“Good morning!” Mr Brady shouted, his tone that of a man sitting on his porch, reclining after a hearty meal, while bathed in golden rays, rather than occupied in securing a large cooking pot to the side of the wagon, fingers, numb and stiff in the dim chill of early dawn. Pearl paused to give Rachel and Zeke a boost into the Vandenberg’s neighboring wagon, then darted forward to help him.
“There!” Pearl’s slender fingers had an easier time weaving the coarse rope through the iron handles. She stepped back to study her work. Suddenly the wagon lurched forward, causing them both to start, there was a shout at the front, followed by a string of profanities and the snorting of oxen as the wagon bolted forward. She recognized the man trailing in the wake of dust as one of the animal handlers someone who they had found loitering outside a saloon, and engaged on the spot for what she and Mrs Vandenberg agreed was far too high a fee.
“Kathleen!” Mr Brady ran forward and seized his wife’s arm. Mrs Brady appeared shaken, but little the worse save for a fine coating of dust. The front of skirts appeared rather odd, and it took Pearl a moment to realize that some cloth had been ripped away by the wagon wheel. She suppressed a shudder as she remembered stories she had heard back in town of how many died beneath the wheels, limbs or head crushed beyond recognition. She had dismissed such stories as the stuff to turn a traveler’s stomach. But suddenly it seemed like only one of the smaller dangers that lurked along the trail ahead, like sharp toothed creatures in the underbrush.
Yet somehow, she thought as she swung into the saddle and idly knotted one hand in Iris’ mane, she could hardly wait to set off.
Amidst the confusion, Pearl, holding the hands of the two youngest Vandenberg children, Rachel, all of four with her round brown eyes and tousled hair, and seven year old Zeke, followed Mrs Vandenberg, carrying the baby, as she threaded her way through the crowd, consisting mainly of large Mormon families and hard eyed trappers, till she reached the small string of wagons that waited to the side of the main camp.
There, they found Mr Vandenberg and ten year old Jeremiah loading sacks of cornmeal, while Bjorn Lundgren checked the oxen’s harness. He waved cheerfully when he spotted them. She had only met Mr Lundgren and his wife Ina the day before, a newlywed couple from Sweden. Farmers, they seemed pleasant, but between them spoke only just enough English to get by.
At least she consoled herself, the Zalinskys, of Polish stock from New York, were quite conversant, though the husband, a blacksmith, had a thick accent, while his wife spent most of her time fretting over her baby and walking round the wagon to double check everything was lashed, hammered and tied firmly in place.
“Good morning!” Mr Brady shouted, his tone that of a man sitting on his porch, reclining after a hearty meal, while bathed in golden rays, rather than occupied in securing a large cooking pot to the side of the wagon, fingers, numb and stiff in the dim chill of early dawn. Pearl paused to give Rachel and Zeke a boost into the Vandenberg’s neighboring wagon, then darted forward to help him.
“There!” Pearl’s slender fingers had an easier time weaving the coarse rope through the iron handles. She stepped back to study her work. Suddenly the wagon lurched forward, causing them both to start, there was a shout at the front, followed by a string of profanities and the snorting of oxen as the wagon bolted forward. She recognized the man trailing in the wake of dust as one of the animal handlers someone who they had found loitering outside a saloon, and engaged on the spot for what she and Mrs Vandenberg agreed was far too high a fee.
“Kathleen!” Mr Brady ran forward and seized his wife’s arm. Mrs Brady appeared shaken, but little the worse save for a fine coating of dust. The front of skirts appeared rather odd, and it took Pearl a moment to realize that some cloth had been ripped away by the wagon wheel. She suppressed a shudder as she remembered stories she had heard back in town of how many died beneath the wheels, limbs or head crushed beyond recognition. She had dismissed such stories as the stuff to turn a traveler’s stomach. But suddenly it seemed like only one of the smaller dangers that lurked along the trail ahead, like sharp toothed creatures in the underbrush.
Yet somehow, she thought as she swung into the saddle and idly knotted one hand in Iris’ mane, she could hardly wait to set off.
no subject
Their wagons were prepared, although it was hardly a communal matter. The Waltons were very exclusive, hardly speaking to anyone except Charles on occasion or Mr. Horne. Henrietta watched them keenly as she folded some blankets in the back of their wagon, their affluence like a sparkling gem among the rocks she'd become accustomed living with.
Mrs. Walton mostly hovered around her husband, a moth devoted to its candle. Or she was more akin to a butterfly, with her exceptionally fine dress for the occasion. Perhaps, Henrietta wondered, she wore it on account of the occasion. What would it be like, to only have such fine things that you had nothing else to wear on a journey?
Mr. Walton was handsome; taller than Charles and most men in their group, save for Mr. Malone. Although he wasn't very muscular or large, he carried himself with importance. She could easily see him on the streets of a city, dismounting a chestnut steed, and striding into the capitol on important business. Henrietta watched as, in between directing Malone and Horne onto lashing some barrels into their wagon, he took time to tenderly answer his wife's anxious questions.
"Henrietta. As far as I know, folding blankets isn't a two man job." Charles' voice came suddenly into her thoughts. She blinked at him out of her reverie. "I'm going over with Mr. Boyd to meet the other parties. Care to come along? Miss Smithers will be there."
"Oh - certainly." Henrietta alighted from the wagon with a rough jump and shook her skirts. Better get used to it - she sighed. You'll be swimming in dust by the time this is over.
The siblings joined Mr. Boyd, a man that was like a saw - rough around the edges but continually moving and cutting his way through things. He was not the most diplomatic of folks, but a good leader, although he tended to get caught up in some nostalgia for the Californian gold rush a few years past.
As they strode over to meet the other group, Henrietta spotted Pearl. "Good morning," she called with a wave of her hand. "Ready to go?"
no subject
"Don't worry," Pearl lowered her voice, "a lot of the tales you hear about things out west--just a lot hooey. They make 'em up to scare the Easterners. " She shrugged. "Besides most of those troubles, they can be avoided if people were just a bit more careful."
She held up her rifle, the glass beads of the sheath catching the light. The colors of the pink flowers that woven across the case looked more somber and muted than usual in the pale morning sun.
"You see this, a Dakota brave gave it to me, going away present. Before that, " She lowered the rifle, and patted the pouch strung at her hip "they gave me this too. Indians aren't nearly as scary as they'd have you believe. The ones I knew were always friendly, our town was on good terms with them."
There was a shout and a loud rattling from the front of the train, an enormous cloud of dust billowed up, and the rattling continued. Both young women craned their necks, they could see four red and white spotted oxen lumbering in a vaguely south westerly direction. The wagon they pulled had several large copper lined pots dangling on the side, burnished interiors reflecting the growing light with a harsh glare.
"It's Mr Boyd! C'mon!" They both broke into a slow run.
"And remember, "Pearl slung her rifle over her shoulder, " all those stories about torturing men and ravishment of the women, most of them aren't true, if mad Indians catch you, they're more likely to shoot you before anything else."