Janet Quin-Harkin Page 6

  Libby had just dozed off to an uncomfortable sleep on the hard wood of the deck when she was woken by a gentle touch. “Mama?” Eden’s frightened little face peered into hers. “Bliss doesn’t feel well.”

  Libby shot upright, banging her head against the lifeboat above her. “What is it, darling?” she asked.

  “My tummy hurts bad, real bad,” Bliss said. Her little face was flushed and puckered up with pain. “Make it stop, Mama,” she begged.

  Libby felt cold sweat break out. “Stay with her, I’ll go find a doctor,” she whispered to Eden. Treading her way cautiously over sleeping men, she found a young doctor sitting by another cholera victim. The man was shaking with convulsions. “You’ll let my wife know, won’t you, Doc?” he asked, gasping between vomits. “Name’s Anson, just outside Buffalo. They all know me. Tell her I tried my best. . . .” Then he convulsed once more and lay still. Libby stared in horror. It was the first time she had ever seen a person die. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, shivering in the night air, and touched the young doctor lightly on the shoulder.

  “Can you come quickly? It’s my little girl,” she said.

  A look of concern spread across his boyish face. “Little girl, you say?” He shook his head and followed Libby across the deck. Bliss was lying doubled over, holding her stomach. “It hurts, Mama, make it go away,” she wailed.

  The doctor bent down to examine her. “Any vomits? Diarrhea?” he asked. He prodded her stomach.

  “Don’t,” Bliss complained.

  He straightened up, looked at Libby, and smiled. “Has she eaten anything she is not used to?” he asked.

  “A peach, this afternoon,” Libby said.

  The smile broadened. “Just a good, old-fashioned case of colic,” he said. “Do you have any peppermint? A couple of drops should be all it takes.”

  “Thank God,” Libby said, hugging the child close to her.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHEN THEY DOCKED at the upper landing near Independence the next morning, the first sight that attracted the attention of the passengers crowded against the rails was not the town they expected to see, but a gentle countryside completely covered with tents. The tent city stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. The smoke of hundreds of campfires hung in the humid air and a steady stream of men passed to and from the river, collecting water.

  “Holy cow! Looks just like an army,” a young man beside Libby commented. “Waitin’ ready for battle.”

  “What are they all doing there?” Libby asked, still scanning the improbable scene.

  “They’re waiting to join companies, ma’am. Waiting for their chance to set off.”

  “Is that how this works?” Libby asked, delighted to have found somebody who seemed to know something, “One joins a company?”

  “That’s right, ma’am,” the man said. “You signs yourself on with a company that’s already formed, if you don’t have enough men to form one of your own, and that way you gets across safe and sound.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” she asked.

  He grinned, the fresh, hopeful grin of a young man with adventure about to face him. “You bet ya,” he said. “I aim to sign me on with the biggest and best company I can find. That way I’ll eat well and not get myself scalped by Injuns.”

  “What does this cost?” Libby asked, thinking of her money, now down to just over two hundred dollars, tucked carefully in a pocket inside her blouse.

  “They say the companies usually ask a hundred dollars,” the young man said. “That’s fair enough, I reckon, although it sure seems like a lot of money to a farm boy like me. We could get us a hired hand for a year for less.”

  “You’re from a farm?” Libby asked, enjoying watching the excitement on the young, freckled face.

  The young man nodded. “South Carolina. Loveliest country on God’s earth,” he said. “I got me a chance to buy the farm next to my pa’s if I can raise the money. I aim to make a fortune quick as possible then go home and marry Bonnie Birdwell.”

  “Good luck to you,” Libby said.

  “From what I hear, we’ll need it,” the young man said, pushing his hat back on his head as his turn approached to walk down the gangplank. “I already lost my partner to cholera and him the fittest, toughest farmhand you ever did see. One morning he was talking and laughing and playing cards down in the saloon. Next morning we was carrying him ashore to bury him.”

  The line of people reached the top of the gangplank. “I’ll be happy to give you a hand with your bags, ma’am,” the young man said to Libby. “Seeing as how you’ve got the two littl’uns.”

  “Thank you very much,” Libby said, gratefully handing them to him.

  At the bottom of the gangplank the young man tipped his hat. “Well, goodbye to you, ma’am. Nice talking with you. Luke Hollister’s my name.”

  “I’m Libby Grenville, Luke,” Libby said. “I’ll see you in California, maybe.”

  “You’re heading for Californy? A little bitty woman like you?” Luke stammered. “My mam didn’t even want me to go, telling me I was too young. Her eyes would pop clean from her head if she saw these young’uns going.”

  “How old are you, Luke?” Libby asked.

  “I’m nineteen, almost,” Luke said proudly. He touched his hat again. “Well, goodbye to you, Mrs. Grenville. Nice talking with you. God willing we will meet again out West.”

  The moment they reached the shore, Libby directed her children into town, away from that tent city. Her first priority was to have the children safely housed in a respectable hotel before she went out looking for a suitable company to join. It was a mile or so walk into the city of Independence, along a delightful sandy road, shaded by oak trees and looking very like any country road in New England. To begin with, she enjoyed the cool shade and soft sand under her feet, but as the heavy bags began to weigh her down and the straps cut into her hands, she found herself wishing these really were New England woods and that she was not alone here. All her confidence and bravado of a few moments earlier evaporated under a great rush of homesickness at finding herself in such familiar countryside so very far from home. She found herself remembering outings along such leafy lanes, picnics under such spreading oaks—civilized picnics with checkered cloths and wicker hampers of cold meats and lobster and chilled champagne. . . .

  The little girls spotted squirrels and bright birds and danced along as if they were on an afternoon’s outing. From beyond the woods came the rough shouts and laughter of men, the constant braying and snorting of mules. Libby looked at the two little figures dancing ahead of her and seriously considered not going any farther. She could find employment easily enough in Independence, she reasoned. The children could live in a real house in a real town and she’d write to Hugh to tell him to join her as soon as possible. Then she reminded herself why she had come on this journey. Hugh would not leave California until he had made his fortune. For the first time she found herself wondering whether he had reached California safely by now. Who would know if he had been carried from a river steamer, wrapped in his blanket to be buried in a sandbar or had died unnoticed in that tent city? Doubts crept into her mind that her journey might be for nothing and she might never see Hugh again.

  “There’s nothing for it but to go on,” she said, emerging from the cool woodlands with a sigh and gathering the children as she approached the bustling city.

  Main Street looked as busy as Boston the week before Christmas. Heavily laden wagons groaned through the dusty streets. The air resounded with the crack of whips and the harsh curses of wagon drivers. Horsemen galloped up, weaving skillfully past the wagons and pedestrians. People were hurrying to and fro with packages and sacks, going in and out of stores and banks. But the shoppers were all men and they each carried a gun at their sides. Libby was turned away from the two respectable-looking hotels.

  “I don’t think you’ll find a vacant bed in town,” she was told. But at Ma Zettel’s Board
ing House, in a small back street at the edge of town, they had better luck. Ma Zettel was a big woman with hair severely scraped back into a bun and skin like tanned leather. She looked formidable as she stood in her doorway with big arms folded across her chest, but as she looked down at the two timid little figures holding onto Libby’s skirt, her stony face softened and creased into a thousand smile lines. “Well, ain’t you the prettiest things I seen in a month of Sundays,” she said, bending down toward Bliss. Bliss held out her little hand. “How do you do, I’m Bliss Grenville,” she said. “I corned a long way in a big boat.”

  The outstretched hand convinced Ma Zettel. She straightened up and looked Libby in the eye. “I can’t let them sleep along of a lot of heathen men,” she said. “I’ll squeeze you in somewhere.” She led them up to a tiny room in the attic which was normally a storeroom. “I’ll get a couple of camp cots put in here before day’s out,” she said, shifting a pile of trunks to one side with her tree-trunk arms as she spoke. “At least you won’t be bothered up here.”

  Libby now knew what she meant and nodded gratefully.

  Ma Zettel looked at Libby with interest. “Your husband’s out getting stocked up, is he?” she asked, then went on, before Libby could reply, “Well, if he hasn’t got his mules yet, my brother-in-law has a fine pair he’ll sell for a hundred and twenty the pair, and that’s a bargain the way things are going around here, as anyone will tell you.”

  “I don’t have a husband or a team with me,” Libby said. “I’m going out to join my husband and I’m hoping to join a company to travel with.”

  “My dear Lord!” the woman said. “You’ve got spunk. I’ll say that for you. Two little precious dears across all that waste and no man to protect you. Still, I’ve watched many a party set off over the past few years and there’s been women among them you’d have thought would blow away with a breeze. But they’ve made it through to Oregon or California, and sometimes had a baby along the way, while their big strong husbands are the ones stricken with every sort of ague and fever.”

  Libby laughed. “I’m tougher than I look too,” she said.

  “I’m sure you are, my dear,” Ma Zettel said. “Now, what do you say to a nice cup of coffee? I was just going to pour one for myself.”

  Libby took the girls down to the parlor and enjoyed the cool, leather chairs while the coffee revived her.

  “Now I have another favor to ask,” Libby said, when her cup was empty. “I have to find a company to join and I’ve no idea how to set about it. Would it be too much of an imposition to leave the children here? They are very good and amuse themselves easily.”

  “No trouble at all,” Ma Zettel said. “I’ll take them into the kitchen with me and they can help with the baking. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my precious ones?” she asked.

  “Yes please,” Eden said, looking at her mother as if someone had just offered her a present. “Cook never let us help with baking at home.”

  “Right then, off with you to the kitchen,” Ma Zettel said. “And good luck to you, my dear, in your plans.”

  Libby hesitated, not sure what to do next. “I find a company that’s about to leave and see if I can get a place with them, so I’ve heard?” she asked.

  “That’s what they all seem to do,” the landlady said.

  “And there’s no public stage line for travellers on their own?” Libby asked.

  “A stage line?” A smile twitched on the leathery face. “I did hear talk of getting one started but I don’t think it ever amounted to anything. They’d lose too many coaches and drivers to make it profitable.”

  “Oh,” Libby said.

  “You’re worrying that you won’t be able to handle your own team?” the landlady asked.

  “My own team?” Libby looked horrified.

  “That’s what they do. They get their own teams and then sign up along with a company. But maybe you could find yourself a man to drive your wagon.”

  “Buy my own wagon as well as the hundred dollars to join a company?” she stammered.

  “Oh yes. The joining fee just pays for supplies and protection. They all have their own wagons.”

  “They must cost a lot of money,” Libby said hopelessly.

  “Prices are real inflated right now,” the woman agreed. “Most of the men will pay anything to get started to the gold. You’re looking at two hundred for the wagon and another hundred for the team at least.”

  “And if I can’t afford that much?”

  “Then you don’t go, or you walk,” the landlady said flatly. “Unless you could find someone with space to spare, to take you along with them.”

  “Oh,” Libby said. She put out her hand against the doorpost to steady herself. Despair was fighting with anger that she had not troubled to find out the facts before she set out on such a crazy journey.

  “Don’t give up heart now, my dear,” the landlady said, putting a big, heavy hand on Libby’s shoulder. “I hear there’s a fine, well-equipped party about to set out this week, run by a Mr. Sheldon Rival—a bigwig out of Chicago, so they say. He had a dozen wagons shipped here and a hold full of supplies with him which he aims to make a fortune with in California. He might have wagon space for the children at least. You could walk alongside. The wagons don’t move fast if they’re pulled by oxen which these are.”

  “Thank you,” Libby said. “I’ll go and try to convince this Mr. Rival to take me with him. Any idea where he’s camped?”

  “Camped?” Ma Zettel asked. “He’s at the Independence House—best hotel in town. He’s taken the whole second floor.”

  Libby felt hopeful and excited as she made her way to the big brick building on Main Street. At least Mr. Rival was a civilized man from Chicago—a businessman like her father. She could talk to him as one cultured person to another. The desk clerk pointed her in the direction of the restaurant when Libby asked for Mr. Rival’s rooms.

  “He’s taking his lunch,” he said. “You can’t miss him. Big fellow, dressed real swanky.”

  Libby went into the restaurant. It was spacious and cool, decorated with large potted palms and marble pillars. She stood behind one of these as she looked around for Mr. Rival. He was, as the desk clerk had predicted, very easy to spot; a large red-faced man, probably in his forties, with at least three chins, into the last of which a napkin was now tucked as Mr. Rival bent over, slurping soup noisily from a bowl. Libby could see the glint of gold at his cuff links and watch chain. The top of his head was starting to bald although the rest of his hair was very black, making Libby guess that he dyed it. He was accompanied at the table by two wiry young men who looked like Libby’s impression of a cowboy. They both listened politely as Mr. Rival spoke nonstop between slurps of soup.

  “I don’t intend losing one bag of that flour, you hear me? Not one bag. You’ll get your pay when I roll into the streets of Hangtown and not before. Understood?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Rival,” two voices chorused like children in a school.

  Libby walked over and stood before him. Seeing her shadow, he raised his eyes, soup still dripping down his chins. “Watta you want?” he growled.

  “How do you do?” Libby said politely. “I’m Elizabeth Grenville and I understand that you are shortly setting out for California. I’m travelling there alone and thought you might have space to take me on one of your wagons, for a fee, of course.”

  She was very conscious of the way Sheldon Rival looked her up and down, then licked the soup from his lips. “Thanks, little lady, but it’s more profitable for me to transport flour than fancy girls,” he said. “Flour will make more for me than you will.”

  “How dare you!” Libby said, almost having to restrain herself from slapping his face.

  Sheldon Rival looked amused. “Why else does a lady on her own go out to California right now?” he asked. “There’s good money to be made in ‘entertainment’.” He put such meaning into the last word that the two men with him laughed.

  Libby�
�s face had flushed bright red. “I’d like you to know that I’m a respectable married woman from a good Bostonian family,” she said, “and I’m travelling to California to join my husband. I was not asking for your charity or your patronage. I can’t manage my own wagon and I thought you might have room in one of yours if I pay my way.”

  “Like I said,” Sheldon Rival drawled, already looking down at his food again, “my wagons are full of supplies. A sack of flour is worth more to me than what you’d pay me. And sacks of flour don’t talk back.” He laughed as if he’d made a good joke and the other men dutifully laughed too.

  “I can see I’m wasting my time here,” Libby said in her best Bostonian manner. “I thought I’d be dealing with a civilized man, but I’m talking to an overgrown monkey in civilized clothing. Good day to you, Mr. Rival.”

  She heard laughter from a table behind her as she turned to make a dignified exit from the dining room. She gave a frosty stare in the direction of the laughter and found herself looking at the smiling face of Gabe Foster.

  CHAPTER 7

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Libby blurted out before she remembered that she had sworn never to speak to Gabriel Foster again.

  Gabe’s smile broadened. “I thought I’d take a trip out West and see for myself what the frontier looks like.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up at her with obvious enjoyment. “Besides which, I heard that there were all these men sitting around with nothing to do all day. So I thought I’d volunteer my services and do them a good turn by amusing them with a few little card games.”

  “You are still despicable,” Libby said.

  “And you are still adorable,” he said, “although I see it was misplaced concern on my part to worry about you surviving in the wilderness. I watched you dealing with old Rival there. It’s a wonder he wasn’t turned into an instant snowman with that icy stare you gave him.”

  “The man is an uncouth idiot,” Libby said. “I feel myself fortunate that I was able to observe his true character before I signed on with him.”