Wagon Train Reunion
Mrs. Littleton turned to look into Abby’s face. “You’ve had your losses, too, I can tell.”
Abby’s mind flooded with sorrow as she recalled kneeling beside Andy’s lifeless body. He was but fourteen years old. If only she had spoken up and asked Andy not to ride that high-spirited horse. Instead, she had bragged to the snobby Isabelle that her brother could ride any horse they found. She had been wrong. She’d never told Mother or Father of her responsibility in Andy’s death. Her sorrow and guilt had led her to promise Mother to take care of them. In her mind, she hoped she could replace Andy, become the one Mother counted on.
“My condolences over your husband’s death.”
Of course Mrs. Littleton meant Frank, but Abby could not find it in her heart to feel sorrow at his passing. Yes, it left her penniless and back home under her mother’s rule, but it freed her from Frank’s cruelty. She shuddered. She’d never told her parents what marriage to Frank had been like.
Mother had seen him as the key to a promising future for the Binghams and when Abby protested over his offer of marriage, Mother had reminded her of her promise.
“Marrying well is the best way you can help us,” Mother had insisted as they discussed Frank.
“But I don’t love him.” Her throat still tightened as she thought of that day. If only her promise didn’t bind her to do her mother’s bidding.
“Love is a luxury few of us can afford.”
“But you love Father, don’t you?”
“I’m happy with our arrangement.”
Abby realized later that love was nothing but a flight of fancy. But at the time she still believed in it.
Out of guilt and duty, and a desire to please her parents, she’d obeyed her mother and married Frank. To be fair, he’d been attentive and gentle when courting her.
That had ended the day of their wedding.
Mrs. Littleton patted her arm. “A new beginning will be good for all of us. And please call me Sally.”
“I’m Abigail or Abby to my friends.”
Sally chuckled. “Then I’ll call you Abby.”
Abby glanced at her mother still sitting nearby on her wooden chair. No mistaking the disapproving scowl. She sighed. She tried, oh, how she tried, to please Mother, but nothing ever seemed enough. Why, mother had even hinted that it was Abby’s fault that Frank had died penniless. His grave had barely been covered over when agents from the bank had come and carried away everything but her personal belongings and had given her three days to leave the house. The harsh truth about her husband had been reinforced yet again. Not only was he cruel behind the closed doors of their home, he was foolish in business. She’d gone back to her parents’ home. Where else could she go? Though it had reduced her to striving for her mother’s approval and always falling short.
Mother would never let her forget her promise.
She remained convinced that Andy would have fulfilled all her dreams of advancement. And now she expected Abby to be the means.
“You’ll need to find a suitable suitor soon,” she’d been saying since they made plans to head West. “In Oregon, there are far more men than women. That means you can have your pick of the best.”
Abby hated the reminder of her duty. Surely she’d paid for it with her marriage to Frank. However, one thing no bank, no demanding mother or cruel husband could take from her was her faith. God would provide the strength she needed for every test and trial. And please, God, a chance to start over.
Sally shifted and glanced at the sun overhead. “It’s noon. I need to start dinner but I hate to put Johnny down.”
“Let me hold him while you cook.” Abby held out her arms. By rights she should offer to make the meal, but she doubted Sally and her husband would appreciate her efforts.
Sally shifted the sleeping Johnny to Abby’s lap. “You never had any little ones of your own or did they—?” She clapped her hands to her mouth to stop the words.
Abby understood Sally feared she might have brought up a painful subject—like she’d had babies and they died. “No, we never had children.”
“I’m sorry.”
Abby brushed Johnny’s hair off his forehead. Oh, to have a child of her own to love and cherish, though she couldn’t be sorry Frank had not given her one. It would have been a thousand times worse to endure Frank mistreating a child and she knew he would have if only to get at Abby.
She shifted the baby so she would look westward. In Oregon she hoped and planned and prayed she would find the freedom she longed for which, to date, had always seemed far out of reach.
Little Johnny fussed and Abby sang softly until he relaxed again. All the while, she watched Sally stir a pot of stew that had been simmering over the coals then slice a loaf of batter bread she’d baked in the tin oven. If Mother wasn’t watching like a hawk, Abby would have asked Sally to explain how she did all that. Mother had forbidden her to ask for help from the women around them.
We’re Binghams. We don’t need help.
Abigail knew otherwise. If they were to make it across the great plains and over the mountains, Bingham or not, they’d need help because Abby had no idea how to manage under these circumstances. She’d have to learn by observation. They had a tin oven, as well. She’d try baking biscuits in it.
Mr. Littleton returned. “How’s Johnny?”
Sally answered. “He’s sleeping.” But at the sound of his father’s voice, Johnny stirred and held out his arms. Mr. Littleton took him gently, careful of the bandaging around the baby’s middle.
Abby pushed to her feet. Her fingers trailed down Johnny’s back then she stepped away. “I best go prepare dinner for my folks.” She returned to their wagon.
Mother huffed as Abby set to work. “I hope you don’t plan to spend a lot of time with the likes of those people.”
Abby pushed aside annoyance. “Mother, it’s a long trip. Those kinds of people will be our constant companions.”
Mother pulled herself into her self-righteous posture. “You don’t need to associate with them. Keep yourself apart until we reach Oregon and then we’ll find you a proper suitor.”
Ben’s image as he faced those rowdy boys and then the questioning men filled Abby’s thoughts. He was a noble and kind man. At least he had been at the time they courted. But that didn’t alter the fact that marriage changed a man. Gave him rights to his wife that no law, no friend, nor even family could defy. She would never again subject herself to such ownership of her body and her rights.
She fried bacon and boiled potatoes. Even potatoes were difficult to cook over a fire. They burned on the bottom and were hard as rocks inside. Father ate them without a word. Mother nibbled at the food. Plain fare had never been her first choice. They both accepted a cup of tea. Abby sighed and turned her attention to washing up the few dishes, but her thoughts went round and round. She must become adept at all sorts of things if they were to survive this trip.
At Mother’s request, Father took her wooden chair into the back of the wagon and parked it atop two chests. Mother followed and perched on the chair. She barely fit beneath the white canvas. Mother had brought as much as she could pack into the wagon which was far less than she insisted she needed.
Abigail had brought a minimum of belongings. A few changes of clothing, a warm coat, a waterproof duster, her Bible, a few of her favorite books and her mandolin. After Frank’s death she’d learned how little material things mattered.
Abigail opened her mouth to warn Mother she wouldn’t be able to ride all the way in that precarious position then she closed it without saying a word. Mother would soon learn or she’d find a way to remain there just to prove to one and all that she was a proper lady who shouldn’t be expected to endure the heat and dust.
Not for the first time, Abigail wondered if this trip would destroy them. She shivered as she recalled Mother’s words. The death of them all. Then she prayed, Father God in heaven, guard and keep us.
How many times had she prayed that on her own behalf when Frank scared her with his behavior? She wrapped her arms about herself and let the tears flow through her heart. Her eyes stayed dry. She wasn’t about to bemoan the consequences of a choice she’d made. Though she had no idea that a man could pretend such sweetness before marriage and reveal such cruelty afterwards.
A walk would calm her. She hurried through the maze of wagons and tents and people to a place where no one was parked. Perhaps she could find a minute of peace.
A glance about revealed there was no one who would recognize her and she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Anyone watching would assume she was peacefully enjoying the scenery.
They would have been wrong.
Slowly her emotions subsided. She rubbed at her breastbone, knowing the ache would ease but not disappear entirely.
Oh, God, be Thou my strength. To Thee I flee for help.
Chapter Two
The committeemen assembled to discuss the issue of the youths randomly firing their guns. Sam Weston the trail guide stood to one side. The tall, lean man stroked his bushy brown mustache as he observed the crowd with a steady gaze. He’d give his opinion if called for, but other than that he made it clear the emigrants would have to solve their own problems.
Ben wondered what he saw. An unruly bunch without any sense of working together? An eager assortment of men and women and children willing to do anything to get to Oregon? Likely there was a little of both in each of them.
Jed stood beside a gentle-looking man who seemed more fitted to tailoring suits than driving oxen across the country. No mistaking the father–son likeness.
The other youths also stood by men Ben assumed were their fathers or guardians. Most family groups consisted of an assortment of people. Besides the teams of oxen, most wagons had a milk cow, a horse or two and various other animals in tow. Many families had offered to allow a single young man to accompany them, providing meals in exchange for help with the animals. Like the Morrisons who had young Clarence Pressman traveling with them. Few traveled alone. Miles Cavanaugh, one of the committeemen, was an exception. The journey would be more difficult for him with no one to help with the animals or spell the driver off or even cook meals while the other camp chores were taken care of.
The Hewitt wagon consisted of himself and his two sisters.
Mr. Cavanaugh chaired the meeting. “We are here to deal with the disagreement between Ben Hewitt and these young men. He says they were using their firearms carelessly which resulted in the injury of a child and he therefore confiscated their guns. Is that correct, Ben?”
“Yes, sir.”
The father of the rowdiest boy stepped forward. “He ain’t got no right. Why, he can’t even say for sure it was these boys was responsible.”
“Did you see one of these boys actually shoot the child?” the chairman asked.
“I didn’t but they’d been shooting and yelling wildly and there wasn’t anyone else nearby shooting off guns.” Let the truth speak for itself.
“See,” shouted the belligerent man. “He’s just guessing it were my boy.”
“I didn’t accuse your son,” Ben argued. “Only said the boys were being careless and the baby had been shot. I suggest the boys get their guns back when we are on the trail.” After a day or two, their high spirits would have subsided and they’d be less likely to shoot so carelessly.
“No,” the angry youth yelled. “Ain’t no one taking my gun from me.”
Ben tilted his head toward the firearms stacked on the table in front of Mr. Cavanaugh. Obviously someone had taken his from him.
The boy tried to grab his gun. Someone pushed him aside and an uproar ensued.
Mr. Cavanaugh pounded his fist on the table. “Seems to me you’re inclined to be a little hotheaded.”
Ben would sure like to know that boy’s name for future reference.
Apparently Mr. Cavanaugh did, too. “Son, what’s your name?”
The boy hesitated. His father stepped forward. “This here is Arty Jones, my son. I’m his father, Ernie. I say without a reliable witness, it’s jest my word ’gainst his.” He jerked his thumb toward Ben.
“I consider myself a reliable witness.”
Ben jerked about to see who spoke. Mr. Bingham and beside him, Abigail.
“Step forward.” Mr. Cavanaugh signaled them. “What did you see?”
Mr. Bingham kept Abby at his side as he pushed through the crowd. “I saw these young youths shooting wildly, as did my daughter. A couple of times I noted how they didn’t always make sure the barrel pointed skyward before they fired. I was about to say something when the baby screamed. I saw him shot. As did my daughter.”
Abigail nodded.
Ben stared. In his wildest dreams he’d never expected a Bingham to stand up for him. Yes, this was for the safety of all concerned, but still.
Mr. Cavanaugh turned to consult the other members of the committee, then nodded. “It is our decision that for the safety and peace of mind of all of us these pistols will be held in safekeeping until we are on the trail.” He gathered the guns, pushed to his feet and headed toward his wagon.
“Thank you for speaking up.” Ben spoke to Mr. Bingham, but his gaze darted to Abigail. Had she meant to defend him or was she only doing her duty? As if he needed to ask.
“It was clearly my duty,” Mr. Bingham said, and Abigail nodded answering his question.
They left to return to their wagon and he did the same.
Rachel and Emma jumped to their feet at his approach.
“What did they decide?” Rachel asked.
“There was some concern that I hadn’t actually seen the young fellas shoot the baby.”
“They called you a liar?” Rachel rolled up her fists and looked ready to defend her brother’s honor.
As usual, Ben found her attitude amusing and a little worrisome. He’d told her over and over that she must let him deal with his own problems. And warned her she shouldn’t be so ready to interfere in a situation.
“Mr. Bingham stepped forward and said he’d seen the whole thing. They accepted his word.”
Rachel’s mouth fell open. Emma stared. She was the first to recover her voice. “Mr. Bingham spoke up in your defense? What a surprise.”
Ben shrugged. “He was only doing his duty out of concern for safety in the camp.”
Emma nodded, her expression smoothed.
Rachel studied him for a long, silent moment. “Then why do you look so flummoxed?”
“I don’t.” Except he still couldn’t believe Mr. Bingham had spoken up on his behalf. With Abigail at his side.
But Rachel had her mind stuck on the topic and wouldn’t let it go unless he could divert her.
“The committee decided we will pull out first thing tomorrow. Those with cattle will go in one party. The rest of us will travel in another.”
“We’ll be ready,” Emma assured him, and immediately started to gather up odds and ends of kitchenware.
Rachel did not back down. “I wish the Binghams weren’t traveling with us.”
Ben lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture hoping Rachel would see how little it mattered. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“I remember when she dropped you,” Rachel said. “I saw how upset you were. I wanted to help.”
“I survived and am stronger for it. Besides, you were only thirteen.”
“And now I’m nineteen and I’m still not old enough to watch my brother get hurt.”
He shrugged. “Your big brother is quite capable of taking care of himself.” If Rachel took it in her head to fuss about this on a regular basis she would make it impossible for him to pretend the Binghams weren’t traveling with them. His stomach ached at the possibility.
“I hope so.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I got over Abby years ago. I won’t give her the chance to hurt me again.” She was merely one of almost a thousand travelers, not anyone who would earn special attention from him. “All I care about is getting us safely to Oregon.” He jammed his fingers into his trousers pockets. He would not fail. Not in any of his responsibilities.
The next morning, he discovered how challenging his responsibilities could be. Trying to get these emigrants organized and on their way was like trying to hold water in a sieve.
A man couldn’t find one of his oxen and accused his neighbor of stealing it. Ben directed the angry man to search among the many loose cattle until he found his own.
A woman wrung her hands because her five-year-old son had disappeared. “I’ll never find him in this bedlam,” she wailed.
They were near the Bingham wagon and Abigail hurried over to see if she could help.
“What’s his name and what does he look like?” she asked.
The woman stammered out a reply.
“I’ll find him,” Abby said to Ben. “You get on with your work.” Without giving him a chance to say yay or nay, she started down the line of wagons, calling the child’s name and asking if anyone had seen him.
He couldn’t think if he appreciated her help or resented being ordered about by her. But he didn’t have time to decide.
Mr. Bingham struggled with his oxen and Ben assisted him and gave him a few instructions on handling the animals. Mrs. Bingham sat on an upright chair inside the wagon. She wouldn’t last long on that perch, but she would not look kindly at advice from him. He decided against suggesting she find a different place to sit.
He checked on the Littletons. “How is Johnny?”
Mrs. Littleton washed dishes with the baby on her hip. “He’s fussy. Won’t let me put him down.”
“I expect he’s frightened.”
“My poor baby.”
Ben was about to move on when Abby returned leading the missing child and turned him over to his mother who smothered him in kisses, then scolded him for running off.
Abby chuckled. Her gaze lifted to Ben’s, her hazel eyes piercing right through his defenses.
How often in the past had her gaze done this to him? There was a time he welcomed it. No more. He wasn’t good enough for her six years ago and nothing about his station in life had changed for the better.
He turned his attention back to his duties.
“The bank’s been robbed!” A young man rode through the crowd shouting, “Fifteen thousand dollars missing from the new safe.”
Men crowded around the rider. “Anyone hurt?”
“Did they find the thief?”
“Did he come this direction?” When the answers were no, the people were relieved to know the robbery would not involve them and returned to preparing for the journey.
The noise swelled with laughter, cries and shouts. Dust rose from the trampled ground. The smell of animals and woodsmoke tinged the air.
Mrs. Bingham had been riffling through a box of things at the back of the wagon. She straightened and signaled Ben, who rode over, his heart heavy. Whatever the woman wanted, he suspected it would be less than pleasant.
“My gilded mirror is missing.”
Ben nodded. “You’ve misplaced it?”
“I have not. It’s been stolen.”
Ben sighed heavily. Such accusations without evidence served only to instill anxiety and mistrust among the travelers.
Mrs. Bingham drew herself up and gave him a demanding look. “Aren’t you in charge of this group?”
“I am.”
“First the bank and now a bunch of innocent, defenseless travelers. I suggest you do your job and find the thief or thieves.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Though he wondered if any of their group were defenseless. Everyone had a pistol or a rifle or both. All had axes and shovels. And he wasn’t about to ride around demanding to know if someone stole a mirror. Likely the woman had misplaced it.
But he would do his job and keep a close eye on the Bingham wagon lest someone had targeted them as having valuable contents among their belongings.
Abigail returned to the wagon at that point. “Mother, what’s wrong?”
Mrs. Bingham grabbed Abby’s arm. “I’ve been robbed and this man is doing nothing about it. It appears to me he’ll help only those he chooses to.”
“Mother, we simply don’t have time to worry about it right now. Everyone is ready to leave.”
Ben rode away and didn’t look back. Abigail was every bit as much under her mother’s thumb as she’d ever been. Ben would not likely forget Mrs. Bingham did not approve of him. Therefore, Abigail didn’t, either.
* * *
Abigail didn’t have time to deal with her mother’s fussing. Their journey was about to begin and she couldn’t wait to get started. The future beckoned.
She joined her father beside the oxen.
“Well, daughter, we are about to see if your banker father can manage these huge beasts.”
“You sound excited.” Her own heart beat a rapid tattoo as she waited for their wagon to join the procession.
Ben sat on his horse, supervising the departure. He looked calm and in control.
She shifted her gaze away from him to the wagons rolling out ahead of them. He traveled with his sisters. They must be so proud of him. And to think she might have been the one whose heart swelled with pride—
No. A life shared with him might have been filled with unexpected sorrow. She’d learned her lesson well enough not to care to repeat it.
“Come, boys,” Father said, and the oxen moved out, following the others.
Abby laughed from sheer excitement.
Inside the wagon, Mother clung to her chair.
“Mother isn’t happy about this adventure,” Abigail commented.
“She’s afraid of change, but we need it. We need to get over Andrew’s death.”
Abby’s heart dipped. As always, guilt stung her at the mention of his name.
Father continued. “It’s time to put his death behind us and look to the future.”
“Is that possible?” If it still controlled them after ten years how was a trip going to change anything?
“I hope it is,” her father said. “I believe this trip will change us all.”
Abby hoped for the same, but change often came on the heels of adversity. She didn’t have to think very hard to find it so in her life. Her future had changed when Andy died. Again when the Panic struck and yet again when Frank died. And who could foretell which events would result in good and which ones in sorrow? Father God, let this trip result in good for all involved.
Sam Weston rode by. “Everyone ready?”
A roar of agreement answered him.
He rode on. “Wagons, ho.”
Slowly the long line of wagons began to move.
Hundreds of people lined the route, waving flags and cheering them on. One lady ran forward and pressed a package into Abigail’s hands.
“Some baking for the trip. God speed and safe travels.”
Abby held the woman’s hands for a heartbeat, and as the wagon lumbered away, she turned to wave goodbye.
Goodbye to the past.
Hello to the future.
She strained to see the way ahead, her heart pounding out the rhythm of the words as she waved and smiled at those sending them off.
Then they left behind the well-wishers and headed West.
Whatever the future held, it had to be better than the past. Her heart settled into place, feeling more hopeful than it had for so long she couldn’t remember the last time.
Nothing would distract her from her plans for a new beginning in Oregon.
Not even her mother.
Chapter Three
The weather was clear, the trail easy. The white-sheeted wagons sailed across the green prairie like ships upon an ocean of green. Purple-and-yellow flowers dotted the landscape.
Mr. Weston called a halt at noon, by which time Abby was more than grateful. She’d tried riding in the wagon, but the hard bench and rough trail combined to make it most uncomfortable. She’d jumped down, preferring to walk. As soon as she vacated the wooden seat Mother left her unsteady chair to sit by Father, using a folded quilt to pad the bench.