Authors: Avi
Hard Gold (6 page)
She studied me, then said, “Mr. Early, I’m inclined to be interested in you.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
She reached forward, took firm hold of my arm, drew me close, leaned down, and whispered into my ear, “Mr. Early, I’ve seen you about town with a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to being your father. I suspect you are no more an orphan than I. Indeed, I believe you
are
running away and therefore a brazen liar.”
I pulled back, shocked.
Miss Eliza giggled at my reaction and added, “But, Mr. Early, you should know I find liars most entertaining, for they have deep secrets. I shall keep yours to myself.”
“Th-thank you … Miss Eliza,” I stammered.
“We’ll talk again, Mr. Early, I’m sure,” she said. “And if you desire my friendship, you shall never,
ever
call me Miss Eliza—I answer to Lizzy and nothing else.” With a toss of her hair and a smirk, she walked away.
All I could do was look after her, aware that my face had grown hot, red, and stupid. Worse, if she knew about me, perhaps others would.
B
EFORE I could collect my wits, Mr. Bunderly reappeared. “And what do you think of my daughter, Mr. Early?” he asked.
“Most agreeable,” I mumbled, hardly knowing what else to say.
“Indeed!” he returned. “I can think of many words to describe Miss Eliza, but I doubt
agreeable
is to be found in her dictionary.”
He went on to inform me that his plan was to go directly from our town to Council Bluffs. Once there, we would join with a bigger wagon train, then leave immediately for the diggings.
All I knew about Council Bluffs was that it was over in Pottawattamie County, maybe forty miles from Cass County, sitting on the eastern shore of the Missouri River. It’s where Jesse’s first letter had come from. Getting there would put me farther from home than I’d ever dreamed.
Next Mr. Bunderly led me to meet the three other families who would be in the train. They all had young children, which explained their need for extra, older hands. There was a Mr. Griffin, his wife, and son; Mr. Wynkoop, his wife, and three daughters; and a Mr. Hicksby, his wife, and two young sons, twins.
When people back East thought of the wagons going west, they concocted really pretty pictures.
Then there were those who were being taken along like me—to work the train. They were a Mr. Tecknor, a Mr. Armon, and a Mr. Mawr. These men looked to be in their twenties, so among the extra hands, I was by far the youngest.
As I was to learn, all of these folks came from out of town but about Cass County, coming together for convenience. It meant my fear that I would be known was much reduced.
There was one exception. When Mr. Bunderly introduced me, Mr. Mawr looked somewhat familiar, but I didn’t think it out, not then. I was too anxious and excited, wishing we would leave. Though I was as yet unrecognized, every slow-passing minute had me half expecting Adam or Pa might appear and haul me home.
So, midst the fussing with this and that on the wagons, getting them ready, adjusting the yoked oxen, loading children and chickens, I was doing two things: trying to keep out of sight, while wanting to act as grown up as I could, particularly in case Miss Lizzy might be observing me.
I stayed therefore as close to the Bunderly wagon as possible, keeping my hat brim low. I even thought of getting into the wagon to hide. But when I stole a look, I found it was stuffed helter-skelter with boxes, barrels, blankets, a feather bed, and tools—even a pig—so many things I could hardly tell what was in there, much less find a place to hide.
As I would learn, Mr. Bunderly had brought along some four hundred pounds of corn flour, one hundred of sugar, seventy of rice, and two hundred and fifty pounds of bacon, plus beans, coffee, molasses, and some dried fruit. I saw a Dutch oven—in which sat a six-barrel pepperbox pistol—and a tin coffeepot. An old Bible, blankets, and some medical ointments were there, plus more, too much and varied to enumerate. All had been set about in no particular design or order.
But as I turned from the wagon, I saw something disturbing: among the people who had come to see us off was Judge Fuslin. And he was staring at me.
I turned away in haste and dove behind the wagon. Then I peeped around to observe the judge speaking to one of the men who was coming with us, Mr. Mawr. Only then did I recollect where I’d seen him before: he’d been with the judge when I had told him about Jesse. I had little doubt Fuslin understood my intentions: I was going west with the train to be with Jesse. My stomach must have turned six times. Being in the train meant I’d be leading his friend, this Mr. Mawr, right to Jesse. Oh, how I regretted bragging to the judge!
I was still wondering what to do when one of the wagon drivers—Mr. Wynkoop—yelled, “Let’s get a-going!”
That was when old Reverend Gideon Fobbscott from our Episcopal Methodist Church, a white-bearded fellow in black frock coat, stepped forward. “Neighbors!” he cried in his rough, booming voice. “I should like to bestow a final blessing upon our emigrant friends!”
People quieted down as the minister stepped up on a porch that overlooked the wagon train. He then commenced his preaching. He went on for a time, and I’ll confess, wanting to leave as quickly as possible, I paid but scant attention. Still, in the middle of his sermon he said something that I would never forget.
He said: “Gold looks like a god’s eye, bright, bold, and beautiful. It’s smooth and soft, the way a god’s touch should feel. You can bend it, shape it, and darn near chew it. It won’t change on you. It won’t rust. Get enough gold in your hands, and you can buy yourself a palace.
“But,” cried the minister, and it seemed as if he was pointing his stubby finger right at me, “gold can make a person crazy. Because if you get gold seeping into your heart and mind, if you let it take over your soul, it will turn you into a hard devil. The only thing your gold can buy you then is a cold coffin in a colder grave.”
His words chilled my heart.
Next moment Mr. Wynkoop called, “Westward ho! Gee!” and cracked a long bullwhip over his oxen team. The great beasts leaned into their yokes. One bellowed. Wheels groaned but turned. Wagons lurched. Wood and leather creaked. As we began to roll forward, the crowd shouted, “Godspeed!” “Farewell!”
I felt true distress at leaving my parents behind in such a fashion. And what was I to do about Mr. Mawr? Was I to be a stalking horse, leading him straight to Jesse? I didn’t think he had ever seen Jesse, but no doubt Judge Fuslin provided a description.
Not sure whether to stay or go, I stood in the middle of the road, only to feel a pluck upon my sleeve. I turned, and there was Lizzy.
“Orphan boy,” she taunted. “Ain’t you coming, after all? Did I scare you off?”
“I’m coming,” I murmured and hastened to catch up with the wagons.
Laughing, the red-haired girl ran ahead of me, scrambled onto the tailgate of her wagon, and watched me run. She even stuck out her tongue at me.
One of our wagon owners, Mr. Griffin, and his son, Peter, had fife and drum, and led the way out of town playing a stirring “Yankee Doodle.” The crowd cheered. It was like the glorious Fourth of July!
The music quickened my steps and allowed me to show some spirit, though I will, in the name of honesty, admit to feeling a mix of joy and sickness all at once.
“Jesse,” I whispered to myself by way of encouragement, “hang on! I’m a-coming to see the elephant!”
I
T WAS almost noon when we got going, taking the road that led west from Wiota. Mr. Bunderly asked me to walk beside his oxen team (with a prod stick). He sat in the driver’s seat, reins in hands, his sad-eyed wife by his side. Miss Eliza began in the wagon, but she soon got out and started walking by my side, talking nonstop about her pet pig, Apollo, who trotted at our heels. She told me all about what she hoped to do out in the Cherry Creek diggings.
When I gave but scant reply, she fell into silence.
“Mr. Early?” she suddenly asked. “Do you not care for young ladies?”
I felt my face grow hot. “Don’t know anything about them.”
She made a quick glance back at her parents, and then she whispered, “Mr. Early, my mother keeps telling me to be ladylike, but I say it will only prove to be a hindrance in the uncivilized lands to which we go. Have you any opinion on that subject?”
Hardly knowing what to say, I fetched up with, “I suppose you’re fine the way you are.”
She laughed, tossed her red hair back, scooped up the squealing pig, and left me.
No, sir, I hardly knew what to think of such a creature.
The weather proved decent when we began, but in late afternoon a violent rainstorm came down. My first thought was that was good for our farm. In haste, I helped us camp near a village whose name I didn’t know. I don’t think we had gone but five miles.
When the storm passed over, lightning cracked close enough to send the milk cows scattering. I was told to go after them, which I did. When I had led them back, I was asked to light a fire in the rain so a meal could be cooked. It took a while, but I did that, too. That’s when I began to grasp how little Mrs. Bunderly, with her poor health, would do. But since it was considered women’s work to do the cooking, Lizzy—without complaints—was the one who dodged the smoke and set forth the bacon, corn cake, beans, and coffee, which were good enough. She took pains to feed her mother first.
Chores done, I crawled beneath the wagon on the wet ground and wrapped myself in a blanket provided by Mr. Bunderly, for such was the bed he had promised in his notice.
Lizzy, who had brought the blanket to me, squatted down and peered in. “Wish they’d let me sleep under here,” she announced, before retiring to the comfort of the wagon.
I began to consider that she might be daft.
May 3
The day dawned agreeably and so we started early. Then one of the wagons (Mr. Hicksby’s) had to stay back so his brake lever could be adjusted. Mr. Mawr showed himself to be a forceful man. Though he was a hired hand, he debated with Mr. Wynkoop, insisting we move forward. Mr. Bunderly took no part in the debate. Whether Mr. Mawr was right or wrong, I don’t know; but his will prevailed, and we went on.
I kept alert regarding this Mr. Mawr. He was a large, imposing man with broad shoulders, clean shaven enough to show a constant scowl. Dressed himself in buckskin. Now and again he took note of me, a nod here and there, but we exchanged no words. That was fine with me. I tried to convince myself that perhaps I was wrong: that he had no particular interest in me or Jesse.
All told, that second day we went about seven miles and camped near a slow creek.
May 4
Shortly after we started, we came upon a half-mile of marsh. Though we tried to go forward, our wagons sunk up to their axles. We had to wait till Mr. Hicksby’s wagon joined us. He grumbled and said we should have waited before starting across the marsh. In the end we had to empty the wagons, then haul long and hard to pull the wagons forward one at a time. Then reload them. Miss Eliza helped.