Remember Me by Del Robertson

Chapter 1

Chapter One

 

Her fanny hurt beyond measure.

Those were the words that she longed to write in her journal. After all, it was her journal, her thoughts, and most importantly in her mind, her maltreated fanny. She knew her turn of phrase was inappropriate and such language would be frowned upon. Even if no one else’s eyes were ever privy to her private musings.

Sarah tapped the feathered end of her quill against her chin as she thought of more suitable prose befitting a proper lady.

 

Oct 7, 1835

If I never ride in another wagon, it will suit me fine. I cannot emphasize enough the contrast between the plush cushioned seats of the horse and carriage buggies in St. Louis and the haphazardly constructed ox-drawn wagon that I precariously cling to for dear life. Every dip, every rut, every rough patch of trail jostles the hard wooden seat beneath me to the point that my knuckles ache from gripping the edges of the board so tight. My entire body protests the torture it now endures at the incessant, repetitive bouncing accompanied by every turn of the wagon’s wheels.

 

A particularly rough bump caused Sarah’s quill to scratch across the sheet, leaving a jagged diagonal line along the bottom of the page. She blew to dry the ink before closing the soft leather-bound journal, wrapping both book and quill in one of her monogrammed linens, and placed the entire bundle in a canvas bag she had designated for its protection.

Tommy had both surprised and delighted her when he had gifted the set for her birthday. She did not know how he found the means to make such a frivolous purchase. She thought he had invested his last remaining funds into this excursion. Of course, he might very well have purchased it long ago and set it aside for a future occasion. He sometimes found bargains too good to pass up whilst on his travels.

It seemed as if there was no place Tommy hadn’t seen. She often envied him the freedom of traveling the country as he did. He was gone for long stretches at a time and his trips to St. Louis seemed few and far between. Every time he came home for a spell, there would be a celebratory dinner party. She’d serve drinks and sit on the edge of a chair in the parlor, listening attentively as he regaled them with tales of his travels.

It was hardly socially permissible for a woman to sip brandy with the men while they smoked cigars and imbibed in after-dinner libations. As soon as her older brother, Daniel, noticed her presence, he would admonish her behavior and chase her from the room. She’d pretend to be suitably chastised and retreat to the kitchen, where she would pull up a stool, press her ear to the adjoining wall, and listen raptly to Tommy’s traveling tales.

Through Tommy, she’d learned that it was the details that were important. Like how the train conductors kept their buttons, buckles, and whistles polished at all times. That the Indians aimed their arrows at the coaches’ panels and curtains as those parts of the stage were the most flammable. How the drivers and passengers would disembark a stage chased down by bandits, standing by the side of the dusty trail as the outlaws robbed them at gunpoint and stole the strong box before riding off. As soon as the bandits were gone, the drivers would calmly assist their fares in reclaiming their seats. They would then resume their journey, as if nothing amiss had happened.

He described in such vivid detail that she could imagine what it was like to travel on a steamboat where cargo and livestock were loaded before deck passengers. On a steamboat, every one and everything else was given precedence over the passengers that could only afford deck tickets. The rich passengers had luxurious rooms on the upper levels and ate grand meals for dinner. The crew had modest, interior rooms and ate a simple stew made from the food scraps left on the plates of the rich; the mixture left simmering in a giant pot all day and into the night. The deck passengers had simply that for a room, the deck. Men and women mingled together with the livestock on deck no matter blistering sun or pouring rain, summer or winter. They ate what provisions they had brought themselves, usually dried meat, heavily salted so as not to spoil. They slept where they could find a place to curl up on the deck, one eye open lest they be robbed and murdered in the night.

Tommy’s tales about gunfighters that would kill a man for looking at him sideways and showgirls that would kiss him for the same reason were entertaining, but lacked any real substance. She could not fathom the notion of gunslingers standing in the center of the street at high noon, determined to shoot each other down. Nor did she believe that three women would go to bed with one man while his friends awaited his return downstairs for a card game. She decided those stories were just fillers to capture the imagination of the audience.

As well as their pocketbooks, thought Sarah, recalling that oftentimes after Tommy told his stories, several benefactors paid him for the evening’s entertainment.

Daniel was never one of Tommy’s supporters. Indeed, he seemed irritated by the attention and notoriety bestowed upon Tommy whenever he was home. It was as if he were a long-lost relative that everyone flocked to see and dote on. She recalled many a time that Daniel put a damper on the evening, citing that their guests must leave because he had business to attend to first thing next morning.

There was no doubt that Daniel did have important business and that he quite often rose early. However, she did not think it was important to the extent he made it seem whenever their brother was in residence. She often wondered if Daniel was so rigid because he was eldest born and took his responsibilities accordingly. Which, of course, he could not be faulted for since he provided for his wife as well as his sister and their aging mother. Observing him, though, she also wondered if he wasn’t more than a little resentful that, as the second born son, such expectations and burdens were never placed on Tommy’s shoulders.

She glanced at her brother walking beside the wagon. Misting rain ran off the brim of the hat pulled down low about his face. The collar of his long coat was up and his shoulders were hunched. Each step taken caused clumps of clinging brown mud to cake his boots and make a squelching sound every time he pulled a foot free.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Tommy turned, blue eyes blinking against the rain as he looked up at his sister. His gaze was usually sharp and alert, always on the lookout for a deer or rabbit or even a plump bird. He had to be, for small game was the source of their meals. Not that Tommy was a particularly good provider. As a shot, more often than not, he missed a moving target.

It seemed to her that being a fair shot was not the only skill Tommy was lacking. He wasn’t proficient at chopping wood. He certainly didn’t know how to throw a rope. Even his cooking skills were pitiful. He wasn’t even an early riser. It seemed she constantly had to rouse him from slumber and rush him to pack up camp each morning so they would not be left behind. She wondered how he had ever managed all the travels he claimed when he seemed so out of step with everyone else on the wagon train.

Their single ox traveled at a much slower pace than the others’ teams of horses and oxen. The families just starting out, usually newly wedded couples of Dutch descent, traveled with lighter wagonloads pulled by pairs of sturdy Gelderland horses. Well-established families with a husband, wife, and the requisite three or more children, traveled in bigger wagons nicknamed prairie schooners for their long length and canvas tarp-like sails that were drawn by two or four teams of oxen, depending on the weight of the load.

It seemed that Tommy had severely underestimated when they needed to purchase pack animals for the trip, as well as the demand of such animals. They had ended up at the edge of the last civilized trading outpost in need of a horse that had not gone lame and were hampered for both currency and supplies. Even the little wagon they’d traveled in thus far was no longer sufficient for the job. It would not hold a fraction of the supplies they would need going forward and he’d had to sell it for a loss.

In hindsight, it would have been wiser to purchase what they had needed earlier on the route and deal with the inconvenience of transport than to put it off and pay a more exorbitant amount for less.

“I’m a gentleman accustomed to traveling alone, and as such, have little requirements beyond purchasing tickets for transport by stage, train, or riverboat. It’s hardly my fault that I am unfamiliar with the nuances necessary for traveling burdened down with a woman in tow,” he said.

And, really, what defense could she make for her gender?

There were many times in her life thus far that Sarah cursed her value, or lack thereof, on being a woman. That Tommy often reminded her that she was like a great rope looped about his neck, weighing him down, made her feel less significant than the ox that pulled their wagon.

She stared at the hindquarters of the great beast plodding along ahead of them. Not for the first time, she was envious that it didn’t seem to have the common sense to be miserable in its labors. She secretly rued the day that ox had lumbered into their lives.

 

†

 

“Now, Sarah, you just stay out of the way and let me handle all the negotiations.” Tommy opened the rickety wooden corral gate surrounding the livery stable and ushered her inside.

“At least let me help with the supply list,” she said.

“Wagon outfitting is man’s work.”

A man wearing a leather apron and brandishing a set of tongs, the tips still bright red from the fire, waved his hand, indicating that he would be with them shortly. Tommy nodded his head in acknowledgment and proceeded to look over the leather goods, tacks, and harnesses on display.

As Sarah reached out to finger the leather of a fine looking sidesaddle, Tommy slapped her hand away.

“You can look about,” he pointed a finger at her, “but don’t touch anything.”

“Thomas, you needn’t speak to me as though I were a rambunctious child in a china shop.”

“You heard Daniel. The price of you being allowed to come with me is that you mind me and do as I say.”

That and the cost of half my dowry, she thought.

“If I don’t, Thomas? What are you going to do, abandon me somewhere along the side of the wagon trail?”

“Of course not. What would be the sense in that when I could at least make a few dollars selling you off?”

“Selling me off?”

She, of course, had heard of such things, but that was something that happened to those unfortunate enough to be born into a poorer station, like the baker woman or the chambermaid. It didn’t happen to nice, proper society ladies.

“Men out here are always looking for wives to keep their house and raise their children. Pretty thing like you would fetch a fair price. Unless you open your mouth. Then, I’d probably have to pay to get them to take you off my hands.”

There was laughter in his voice and mirth danced in his eyes. Still, she didn’t appreciate his sense of humor. She wondered if times were hard enough, was it something he might actually consider.

The shop proprietor approached them. He tipped his head in her direction then promptly turned his attention to her brother. They exchanged pleasantries and entered into negotiations for a converted farm wagon and what appeared to be the last set of available oxen. While Sarah kept her hands clutched in front of her and her mouth shut.

In truth, she was less than intrigued with her brother’s haggling and wandered off to the back of the stables. There, she found not a single horse in sight, only a lone, little brown mule with darker tufts of fur stretched out in a cross shape on its upper back and shoulders. It nuzzled her, looking up at her with the biggest brown eyes she’d ever seen. Before she fully realized what she was doing, she was petting it and speaking to it in a low, soothing voice. As if it understood her language, its little ears twitched with each word her lips imparted.

“Sarah? Sarah.”

Impatience rang clearly in Tommy’s voice and she rushed to join him.

“I’ve managed to purchase a wagon and an ox,” he said.

“And, the other?” She dubiously eyed the least attractive of the sway-backed beasts of burden.

“We have one wagon and one ox. Oh, and you’ve got yourself a mule.” He tossed a knotted rope at her and jerked his thumb toward the rear of the stables.

As she looked beyond the ugly beast of an ox, she noticed the state of the wagon. It wasn’t the model she thought he’d been negotiating for. It appeared to be much shorter in length than the other wagons that were in their party. As she looked it over, she noted there really wasn’t much of anything about it that was like the other wagons. It certainly didn’t seem as sturdy, lacking considerably less iron plating than she’d seen on the other models. The box frame built to mount the canopy appeared to have been hastily constructed, some of the nails hammered in crookedly. Looking at the height of the frame, she doubted if either she or Tommy would be able to fully stand up beneath the canopy. That would mean crawling in and out daily. That wasn’t the worst of it, though.

“It’s pink,” she said, her voice as flat as the wagon’s coat of paint.

“It’s not. It’s red, faded from the sun. The owner hadn’t gotten around to repainting it.” Tommy began stowing their gear into the back of the wagon.

“Why ever would he have painted it pi…red?”

“The original owner was some old farmer. He thought someone was sneaking on his land at night, stealing his lumber. He’d supposedly lost a plow, a tool shed, and an outhouse.”

“Are you certain he didn’t simply move his outhouse and forgot the new location?” She snickered behind her hand.

“I think he must have been a little touched in the head. He painted every bit of wood on his land bright red. Figured that way he could find it if anyone stole it again.”

“It’s still pink.”

She pursed her lips when he paused in loading their wagon to glare at her. He let out a long sigh of what sounded like pure exasperation.

“I’m sure it’ll be the prettiest colored wagon on the entire trail,” she said.

That didn’t seem to make her brother any happier as he lifted her trunk of clothes from the ground and into the back of the wagon. It had been the only significant piece of luggage she had brought from home. His spare clothes were packed in a smaller traveling case. They’d brought a few meager pots and pans, a family quilt, and provisions their mother insisted they pack. Everything else that was needed, such as medical supplies, tools, additional food, and any other essentials Tommy deemed necessary would need to be purchased prior to leaving this so-called last outpost.

He made a lot of exaggerated groaning and puffing sounds as he loaded their wagon. For her part, she carried the piece of rope Tommy had given her and went in search of the man who owned the livery stable. With a little luck and perhaps a minimal amount of eyelash batting, he could be persuaded to prepare her little mule for travel.

Soon, they were on the trail, following behind the rest of the wagon train; a big ox pulling their ramshackle, creaking, painted wagon, and a tiny mule tied to the rear slat, straggling along behind them, all bound for Texas.

 

†

 

It was a rough day and she spent many hours vacillating between sitting on the hardwood seat and walking beside the wagon. By the time they came to a halt that night, her posterior was aching, her feet were numb, and she didn’t think she could either ride or walk another mile.

When they joined the other settlers, most of the folk ahead of them had already unhitched their animals, set their camps for the night, and had eaten their meals. As Tommy tended to the ox and the mule, she went through the process of unpacking their wares. Everything was jumbled and disorganized and it seemed to her that Tommy had been in such a hurry that he’d just thrown everything into the back of the wagon all willy-nilly.

She had just sat back on a log, looking about in desolation and frustration at not being able to locate a skillet, and lamenting in general the lack of wits she’d had to ever come on this trek, when a set of boots came into her vision. She looked up to see a man standing over her, felt hat pushed back on his head revealing oil-slicked hair. As he looked down at her, he wiped a grimy hand against the leg of his woolen trousers.

“Ma’am. My name’s Matthew. We saw you struggling a bit and well, me and the missus, we fixed a sight more grub than we need for the night.” He extended a tin plate that held a biscuit, beans, and a few scraps of meat.

“Thank you, but won’t you need that for your morning meal?” She looked around Matthew’s frame and spied his female companion and two tow-headed children staring back at her.

“Ma’am, take the grub.” He thrust the plate toward her.

She reached up and took the offering and drew it down onto her lap. She felt embarrassed and ducked her head, steadfastly avoiding looking at him. There were several moments of silence before she heard him shuffle away.

“What was that about?” Tommy squatted on the ground beside her.

“He was just offering us some of their fare,” she said, looking up.

“Yeah?” His gaze followed the man as he retreated to his campsite.

He reached over, taking a slab of meat off the plate with his fingers and popping it in his mouth.

“You just be careful that’s all he’s offering.” He turned to look at her. “I’ve seen the way some of the men have been eyeing you.”

“For goodness sake, Tommy. He was only being neighborly. He has a wife and children.”

“Yeah, well, not everyone is from fine Irish descent like we are, dear Sister. You don’t know what sort of unsavory lot might be on the same trail with us.”

“I think you’re just angry at them for laughing at your not-pink wagon.”