The Blessing Stone (64 page)

Emmeline was mending her skirt by the light of a lantern when the Hopkins’s eldest daughter came shyly up. She was the child of Mr. Hopkins’s first wife; Albertina was her stepmother, and the girl was terrified of her. Therefore she brought her secret fears to Emmeline, the midwife. After hearing the first halting words of the shamed confession, Emmeline quickly grasped the situation—the girl had been spending time alone with one of the teamsters and the inevitable was bound to happen. “I’m afraid it might be true,” she said quietly, patting the frightened girl’s hand. “That’s the first sign that a baby is coming, when your monthly show does not happen.” As the girl began to weep, mostly out of fear from her stepmother’s wrath, Emmeline grew practical. “I heard tell of a preacher in the wagon train just up ahead. I shall ask Dr. Lively to ride up there and bring him back. You’ll be married and no one will be the wiser.”

The preacher, who had been presiding over more graves than he ever thought possible, was only too happy to retrace the miles to conduct matrimonial services in the Tice Party, and in fact a few families came with him, for the diversion and the need for celebration. After the Hopkins daughter and the teamster spoke their vows, presided over by a queenly Albertina who was none the wiser of her stepdaughter’s secret, a merry party broke out, with fiddle music and dancing under a starry sky, and Silas Winslow took the happy couple’s picture.

During the festivities, as they ate unfrosted cake and drank warm cider, Emmeline looked at Matthew in the light of the campfire and thought,
He has gained confidence. Not the nervous young man of three months ago. And the sunburn suits him.

She went on to analyze exactly what it was about Dr. Lively that made him seem special to her out of a company of so many men, most of them stronger and more rugged than Matthew. And she thought,
It is his kindness.
Because no matter what the circumstances, how dire or stressful a situation, Matthew could be counted on to help out without having been asked; he willingly shared his food and his wagon, frequently giving rides to exhausted women when their own husbands were oblivious to their needs; and inquiring after everyone’s health and comfort when others were too weary to give a damn.

In that same moment, as Emmeline was thinking of Dr. Lively and starting to allow that he wasn’t so bad looking after all, and maybe even handsome, Matthew was also thinking about Emmeline Fitzsimmons. But his thoughts weren’t so broad or encompassing as hers. His mental focus was very singular: now that he thought about it, Miss Fitzsimmons’s curvaceous figure was rather fetching after all.

Ft. Bridger, so named by its founder, Jim Bridger, had served as a trading post for the past five years—a settlement of crude log buildings, Indians in buckskins, trappers, woodsmen, and emigrants heading west. As they neared the fort, the Tice Party encountered a wagon train heading
east,
the dispirited emigrants having given up and decided to return home. For the most part, it was severe loss of life that had broken their dream, and the party of twenty wagons consisted mostly of women and children and a few old men. The Tice Party itself was lighter by twelve wagons and thirty-two souls, and after nearly three months on the trail, they were a more ragged bunch than when they had left Independence, despite efforts to maintain certain standards of civilized behavior. The children were barefoot and in shameful disarray, men sported long unkempt beards, clothes were soiled and torn. Even Silas Winslow, dandy and photographer, sported stains on his fancy checkered waistcoat and smears of axle grease on his once expensive clothes that no amount of soda and ash could remove. Nor were they in the merry spirits that had once regarded this trek as a lark, for jealousies and hatreds, arguments and feuds, resentments and bitter rivalries had erupted along the trail so that many once-friends were now enemies. But they were happy to have arrived at what they saw as the jumping-off place for the final leg of the journey: from here they would turn north toward Oregon.

And here, too, some would make a decision that would turn out to be their death warrants.

Passing through the fort was a mountain man who had made it all the way west and was now headed back east, a man who was warning anyone who would listen that they might hear tell of a new shortcut and they should avoid it at all costs. “Take the regular wagon track and never leave it,” he advised Amos Tice and other wagon masters. “Taking the shortcut could be fatal.”

But Tice countered: “If there is a shorter route, then taking the roundabout one is foolish.” He spoke as if he were thinking of the well-being of his emigrants, but something had happened to Amos Tice in the last miles before reaching Ft. Bridger—he had undergone a complete change of heart, although none of his fellow travelers knew it. Jean Baptiste, the French trapper who had visited the wagon train for a day, had been traveling with more than furs from the Sierras, he had also been carrying a poster that he had brought with him from a place in California called Sutter’s Sawmill. To keep the Frenchman from showing the poster to any of the other members of his wagon train, or the members of trains that were coming behind, Amos Tice paid Baptiste handsomely for it. This was because at heart Amos Tice was an intensely greedy man. His sole reason for leading folks to Oregon had been to claim as much free land for himself as possible, and to make a profit on emigrants’ hopes and dreams. But all that changed when he saw the poster the French trapper carried, for it announced the discovery of gold in California.

Tice bought the poster, the Frenchman rode on, and Amos kept the news to himself. He had been mulling the problem over the last few miles to Ft. Bridger, wondering how to get to California. To abandon the wagon train would mean he would have to travel alone, a highly dangerous proposition. There was safety in numbers, it was why wagon companies had been formed in the first place. Getting his people to go with him to California was therefore Tice’s secret objective. Once there, he would abandon them and set about the business of getting extremely rich on gold. But how to convince his party to agree to change the route? The blessed solution had come ironically from the mountain man who was warning everyone
against
listening to rumors of a shortcut to Oregon.

Tice fanned the flames of the rumor, saying that he had heard the alternate trail was not only shorter, it was a more pleasant route and that Oregon-bound emigrants needn’t suffer the hazards and hardships of their predecessors. Next, Tice invented a map. It looked authentic—he labored over it a day and a night in secret, making sure it looked used, well worn, and reliable. He also made sure that the trail they took steered well clear of Mormons who had settled just the year before near an area they would be crossing. Amos Tice had been among the militiamen who had arrested and jailed (and then murdered, although Tice himself was not the executioner) Joseph Smith just three years prior, and so no love was lost between Tice and the Latter-day Saints. Then he presented his new plan and the “genuine” map to the gathered company in their camp outside Ft. Bridger. The enthusiasm and excitement in his voice wasn’t fake, for his mind was filled with visions of streams running thick with gold nuggets.

“It’s as plain as day,” he said, spreading the map out for all to see. “The Oregon Trail goes up this way across perilous mountains and then there’s a long and hazardous river journey on rafts where many folks have already perished. I propose this here route. Look, it’s straight across nice open flatland, then a hike through a mountain pass. In California we turn north and follow the flattest, most pleasant route cooled by sea breezes, where there’s fruit trees as far as the eye can see.”

“But isn’t it longer?” asked Charlie Benbow.

“In miles, yes, but the other route is longer in time and misery and danger. Remember South Pass through the Rockies? How easy and pleasant it was? Well, the Sierras ain’t even nothing like the Rockies. Crossin’ them will be like a stroll in the park!”

They believed him.

However, they wanted to think it over. After all, this was the last outpost, and beyond was untracked wilderness. So while Tice’s people mulled over his proposition to take the shortcut, they used the few days of rest to make further repairs to wagons and harnesses, to rest and feed horses and cattle, and to make up food for the trail ahead. Their mood was optimistic. Paradise lay just over the next ridge of mountains, the California Sierras. Tice’s group could almost feel the soft breezes of the Pacific against their faces.

But several had their doubts. Matthew Lively did not jump at Tice’s new plan, preferring to consult the Guiding Spirit in the Blessing Stone (although his gut feeling was that the shortcut was not a good idea). He allowed Emmeline to join him, for he was now used to showing her the stone and explaining how it worked. They sat on the tailgate of his wagon, encircled in the warm glow of a lantern, while the rest of the camp went on about its noisy business beneath the stars. Matthew used his slate again, with the words “yes” and “no” written on it. As he quietly enquired, “Should we take the new cutoff?” Emmeline sat solemnly watching the crystal twirl before coming to a rest before the word “yes.”

Matthew frowned. He hated to doubt the wisdom of the crystal, but something deep within him said they should continue on the old northward trail. Emmeline agreed. While believing herself to be adventurous in nature and willing to try anything new, it seemed folly to abandon a sure trail for one untried, no matter how promising it sounded. “Spin it again,” she said.

The answer came up “yes.”

Matthew rubbed his chin. “The Blessing Stone says we should follow Amos Tice.”

“And what do
you
think we should do?”

Matthew had no idea. He had never really made a decision of his own in his life. Even when he was a boy and his mother made the decisions for him, she consulted the crystal first. “My mother always said the spirits guide us, and that we should heed them.”

“Even if your own intuition tells you otherwise?”

“My own intuition, I am ashamed to say, has always been weak. When I was a boy, I let my brothers lead me around. When I was older, I imitated my peers. I’m afraid I am a follower, Miss Fitzsimmons, and I shall go wherever leaders such as Amos Tice, or the Guiding Spirit in the crystal, tell me to.”

He regarded her in the golden lamplight and noticed the beautiful amber color of her eyes. “What will
you
do, Miss Fitzsimmons?” He asked it with a lump in his throat, for he was afraid of her answer. It was only this moment of tremendous decision that Matthew realized his feelings for Miss Fitzsimmons ran deep.

“I find you a comfortable traveling companion, Dr. Lively,” she said quietly, “and I believe we work well together. If I leave your company now, I should be hard pressed to find someone else so amiable to invite me along. Therefore I will go wherever you go, Dr. Lively.”

Matthew felt his heart race. He swallowed and licked his lips. “Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said quickly, “there is something you should know—”

“Hoy there,” came a voice through the darkness. They saw Silas Winslow saunter up with his trademark swagger, bowler hat tilted forward on his brow. “I am not going with Tice, Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said, ignoring Matthew, his rival for Emmeline’s affections. “I’m heading north with a new company that is forming under Stephen Collingsworth. If you find yourself without a ride, I shall be happy to escort you to Oregon.” He laid a hand dramatically on his chest. “And I assure you, my dear Miss Fitzsimmons, of the utmost gentlemanly propriety while I am your protector.”

Emmeline blinked at him, and opened her mouth to speak, when they were suddenly interrupted by shouts.

“Dr. Lively!” came a voice through the camp. “Dr. Lively! Joe Strickland’s been hurt bad!”

The teamster lay moaning in his wagon, unconscious from pain. It was explained to Matthew that his foot had gotten stomped by an ornery ox that didn’t want to go back into its yoke. One look at the foot told even the most inexperienced eye that Joe was in serious trouble. Bone jutted through skin, and while the blood was beginning to stanch, a horrible purplish color was spreading from the toes up. With Emmeline’s assistance, Matthew bathed the wound, applied salve and then covered it in clean bandages. When he tried to press the jutting bone back into place, Joe cried out and sank into even deeper unconsciousness. His face turned an alarming gray and he sweated profusely. As Joe was traveling alone, Emmeline volunteered to take care of him.

That night decisions were made. Various wagon companies were divided up, with some of the original Tice Party deciding to go with Collingsworth on the northern trail, and newcomers from recently arrived wagon trains opting to join Tice on his shortcut. Silas Winslow, smitten with Miss Fitzsimmons, decided to join the Tice Party after all.

They said farewell to people they had traveled with since Missouri, promising to meet up with them in Oregon. Although new members had joined, with wagons and cattle, wives and children, the Tice Party was smaller now, consisting of thirty-five wagons, sixty-nine men, thirty-two women, seventy-one children, and three hundred head of cattle and horses.