Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 (2 page)

“Emily, we’ve been over this,” Ernest drew his light eyebrows together. “I know what’s best for us. We’ll have a fresh start in Oregon.”

Emily eyed Ernest carefully. She had been schooled in proper decorum and she knew it wasn’t her place to question his decisions, but she felt he was concealing something. “You’ve never told me the entire conversation you had with your father. What exactly transpired between the two of you?”

Ernest looked uncomfortable recalling the hot words that had passed between him and his father. “He and I disagree on a number of things, Emily. Suffice it to say that he isn’t happy with my decision to go west.”

“You and he haven’t spoken since you told him of our plans,” Emily reminded Ernest.

“Yes, but he’ll come around, I’m sure. Let’s mount up,” Ernest said shortly, wanting to avoid further discussion. “Your father is expecting us.”

“Ernest, you know Daddy is going to try to talk you out of this.”

“Like he does every time I see him. At least he’s still talking to me,” Ernest said wryly, his handsome face barely concealing his discomfiture.

They mounted their horses and proceeded at a brisk trot, traveling the remaining few miles to Sunnyvale, Emily’s childhood home.

As Calliope’s easy gait carried her closer to home, Emily thought about the turn her life had taken. She was newly married to a handsome man who came from a good neighboring family. Their life had looked so promising. Ernest would be given a large tract of land to farm from his father’s ample acreage. They would live close to her family and she would see her daddy often. It had looked like the perfect marriage.

Did she love Ernest? She glanced sideways at him as the horses trotted side by side. His trim physique sat easily in the saddle. His straight nose hooked slightly, but it was softened by full lips and a strong chin that could almost be called obstinate. Dark golden hair was neatly contained beneath his riding hat. He was certainly handsome. He was a good and kind man, if not practical, she was discovering. No, she didn’t love him, but love would come in time. At least that’s what Nellie, her nanny, had told her, and she was closer to Nellie than she was to her own mother.

Emily sighed. If she had known before the wedding about his wanderlust, she never would have agreed to the marriage. Now it was too late, and she would have to honor her vows and follow him to Oregon.
For better or for worse
. She had lost much sleep over this.
Why does the woman have to make all the concessions?
she wondered. She and Ernest had argued many times, but nothing would change his mind. In spite of his affection for her, this longing to go west was strong, and she didn’t know how to fight it. Her tears, although obviously disturbing to Ernest, did not weaken his resolve. He was convinced that a better life was waiting for them out west and that Emily was too young and naïve to realize it.

She sighed deeply, and when the mare’s ear flicked back in response, she patted her neck.

“Never mind, Calliope,” She murmured, dropping behind Ernest and his gelding. “We are mere females, and we need to remember our place.”

Calliope snorted and Emily smiled ruefully.

“I know,” she said, scratching the horse’s withers. “I don’t like it either. Maybe it will be different out west. Maybe women aren’t bound by such strict conventions in Oregon.”

Emily looked up and saw Sunnyvale in the next valley. Her heart swelled at the sight of her childhood home. On a whim, she turned to Ernest and said, “Race you to the gate!” As she gave Calliope her head and squeezed her calves into the mare, Calliope leaped forward, joyfully stretching her legs into a full gallop. Ernest, at first startled by the horse, quickly followed suit. The pair, forgetting their earlier disagreement, abandoned themselves to the joy of the race like children who never concern themselves with what lies ahead. But like the seasons, life always changes, and the wind in their faces had a promise of the winter to come.

The Beginning

Chapter One

Independence, Missouri
April 27, 1852

“I refuse to leave even one of these books behind, Mr. Hinton. How am I going to spend all of the long and lonely hours on this journey if I don’t have my reading material? I will surely go mad!” Emily Hinton’s voice was strident. She had become increasingly difficult the nearer they came to departing Missouri on the overland trail to Oregon.

“Emily, the wagon is too heavy. Some things will have to be left here.” Ernest Hinton sounded exasperated. He was looking at a few boxes packed with books.

“All of these books were gifts from my father. They are priceless to me!”

“Emily, are you listening to me? Can you understand what I’m saying?” Ernest was losing patience.

“Oh, I understand very well, Mr. Hinton. My books must be left behind to make more room for your tools.”

“We are going to need these tools in Oregon, Emily. The tools are necessities.”

Brenna Flannigan leaned against her wagon close by and watched the little drama unfold as Emily Hinton stomped around the boxes and pieces of furniture spread out in the dirt. Ernest followed her with his arms outstretched, imploring her to listen to reason. Brenna eyed the accumulation and couldn’t see how they would get it into the already packed wagon’s four by ten foot interior.

She had met the Hintons a few days earlier when they pulled their wagon in and camped next to the Flannigans. Emily was a very pretty young woman not much older than Brenna was, but she conveyed a superior attitude, and her deep brown eyes had appraised Brenna’s plain and practical dress.

“I’m happy to make your acquaintance,” Emily said, squeezing Brenna’s hand lightly with her gloved fingers. Her beautiful green dress was the finest Brenna had seen since leaving New York, and her dark brown hair was swept back into a flawless chignon under a matching bonnet.

“Pleased to meet you,” Brenna replied.

“This is my husband Ernest and my companion Nellie.” Emily’s deep-set eyes critically surveyed Ernest, who looked more like he was dressed for church than for wrangling stock and preparing for a two thousand mile journey. She lightly brushed dust from the lapel of his tailored tweed coat. Ernest bowed slightly, tipping his hat.

“Miss.” His lips smiled slightly, but the smile never reached his eyes. He was eight years older than Emily and good looking. His features were angular and his expression was serious—almost intense—and Brenna’s cheeks flushed under his scrutiny.

Nellie, a small wiry woman about the age of Brenna’s mother, glared at Brenna, not bothering to disguise her distaste. Brenna’s smile froze on her face and she glanced at Emily and Ernest, wondering what she had said or done to displease Nellie.

Emily spoke shortly to Nellie. “Please get my wrap. The evening air is a bit chilly,” and Nellie promptly disappeared into the wagon.

“Pay no mind to Nellie,” Emily said cursorily. “She’s not in favor of this undertaking, and I’m afraid the whole ordeal has affected her manners.” She looked pointedly at Ernest, barely concealing her displeasure. “I’m inclined to agree with Nellie, but my husband insists that we go to Oregon.”

Brenna mumbled something about how she thought the journey might be exciting, and Emily sniffed.

“It’s time for tea, Ernest,” Emily said, and she took his arm and they walked through the dust and back to their wagon.

Brenna remembered the icy looks from Nellie over the next few days. They weren’t just for her—the rest of her family had remarked on the obvious unfriendliness of the woman. Everyone else they had met since setting up camp in Independence was cheerful and helpful. The Flannigans had spent many evenings with the Bensons after the day’s work was finished. They were a large family from Iowa. The oldest daughter, Rebecca, was Brenna’s age, and a couple of the boys became fast friends of Brenna’s younger brother Conor. Brenna’s father Michael and Thomas Benson were both farmers and liked each other immediately. They had spent hours discussing tools, methods of farming, and farm animals.

Brenna sighed, feeling the warm wood of the wagon against her back. It was a beautiful April morning. For as far as her eyes could see, Independence, Missouri was a sea of people making final preparations to embark on the overland trail to Oregon. She had never seen so many people in one place before. Not even in New York City. She watched the bevy of activity around her. Teams of oxen and mule were harnessed to farm wagons and prairie schooners. Large rounded hardwood bows held up oiled cotton bonnets that covered the interior of the wagons to create more space. Children, animals, and barrels and crates of tools and supplies were everywhere as the next wagon train was preparing to depart. Brenna’s slender frame was tight with tension. Although to the casual eye, her posture may have given the impression that she was bored or disinterested, her intense blue eyes and furrowed brow belied this and discouraged any passers-by from striking up a conversation.

Her dark eyebrows drew together when she saw Ben Hansson, the blacksmith’s son, walking in her direction. She looked around for somewhere to escape, but she was too late. He had spotted her and his pace quickened. At eighteen, two years older than Brenna, Ben was easily six feet tall and one hundred eighty pounds. His father had started him shoeing horses and mules at twelve years of age, and his build reflected the hard work. His arms looked like the limbs of large trees. Ben and his father Hans Hansson had met most of the people as they made the rounds, making sure the teams were properly shod for the journey. Soon, he was standing next to Brenna, his cheerfulness irritating her on possibly the most important morning of her life.

“Hi, Brenna.” His easy grin extended up into his sun-browned face and slanted his pale blue eyes upwards. A floppy hat covered most of his straw-blond hair. “What’re you doin’ standing out here in the sun?” Ben talked easily and had a quick smile. He had befriended Brenna and enjoyed teasing her. She didn’t feel like being teased this morning. Brenna tucked a stray black corkscrew curl behind her ear.

“Waiting on my folks,” she replied, trying to hide her annoyance.

“What’re they doin’?” Ben asked conversationally.

That’s a good question
, Brenna thought. They had left an hour ago with Conor, her younger brother, to get some last minute supplies and talk to the captain. Her anxiety was increasing by the minute as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the tension from the crowd seemed to be rising with it. Ben tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully surveying her, waiting for a reply. Brenna realized she hadn’t answered Ben, and she felt the blush on her cheeks.

“They’re talking to the captain,” she said shortly. Redheaded Tommy Benson ran past them laughing, trailing a blue ribbon behind him. Four-year-old Deborah Benson ran after him complaining loudly, her blond curls flying behind her, trying to catch the elusive ribbon. Fifty feet away, burly Thomas Benson cursed as he struggled to harness a young ox.

“Captain is bound and determined to leave on time whether folks are ready or not,” Ben said affably. “Some are goin’ to have to wait for the next train.”

“Oh, we’re ready,” Brenna said firmly, looking at the teams of oxen harnessed to the well-stocked wagon. They didn’t have to carry much feed for the oxen because the grass would be abundant. It was almost May, and the prairie was already greening. There were provisions in barrels for six months, and the journey to Oregon could take that long. Two hundred pounds of flour took up a lot of room. There was also chipped beef, rice, tea, vinegar, mustard, saleratus (baking soda), and tallow. That along with the bacon, coffee, lard, beans, salt and sugar, and cooking pots and utensils also took up precious space in the small interior. Her father’s Sharps rifle, powder, lead, shot, and some of her mother’s furniture were packed also. Ben looked appreciatively at the carefully packed wagon. The tar bucket hung from the side, ready for caulking the wagon bed for river crossings.

“What’s your pa bringing in the way of tools?” he asked, surveying the jockey box hanging on the side of the wagon. Brenna lifted the lid and they gazed inside.

“Looks like he has most everything he needs here,” Ben murmured. “Bolts, linchpins, skeins, nails, and a jack. He’s got some extra leather to repair harnesses and some farm tools. But what about hoop iron? These wooden wheels shrink from the dry air and dust, and then the hoop iron comes off.”

“He was going to try to find some this morning.”