Walks the Fire Read online

  Jesse knew that Lavinia was inventing the need for help, but she was grateful for the opportunity to be with others. Ten-year-old Emily swooped down upon Jacob and took him to scout for worms in the mud left by the night’s storm.

  Jesse helped Lavinia unpack, listened to her rattle on about the wonders of Oregon and the excitement of the journey, and tried to relax. But the tightness in her stomach would not go away. Her hands shook, and finally she became physically ill and bent over double, sobbing.

  Lavinia’s arms engulfed her in a great, motherly hug. She led Jesse to the opposite side of her own wagon, so their view of the river was blocked. Homer leaped onto Beau’s bare back, rope in hand, urging him into the churning waters. Then, Lavinia did the only thing she could do to assuage Jesse’s fears. Lavinia prayed.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered, just so that Jesse could hear, “help us both. You know that I’m afraid too. I just show it in a different way. But Jesse, here… Jesse needs special grace. Her husband’s in the water, and we know you promised to be with us. So please, Lord, keep Homer safe. You know that Jesse needs her husband. Keep him safe, Lord.”

  Jesse did not hear the specific words, so caught up was she in her own thoughts. But she felt Lavinia’s concern in the arms about her. As her attention was turned heavenward, to the One who ruled the raging flood, she was comforted. Her hands shook less and the knot in her stomach relaxed.

  Jacob came toddling back, squealing with delight. He held up a very long, very fat worm for Jesse’s inspection. She knelt and hugged him, admired the worm, and praised the Lord as she heard voices cry out, “He’s across! He’s made it!”

  Indeed, Homer had made it. As Jesse peeked out from behind the wagon, she saw both Homer and Beau shaking off the waters of the Big Blue.

  The wagon train spent three weeks along the banks of the flooded Big Blue. Hours of working with terrified animals, digging wagons out of the mud, trying to keep clothes dry, and putting food into the mouths of all wore everyone’s patience thin. Enemies were made, but friendships were also kindled. By the end of the three weeks, Jesse King and Vinnie Wood were fast friends.

  Lavinia was brash and courageous. Jesse’s shyness softened her and made her more gentle. Jesse was timid and lonely. Lavinia’s outgoing personality overcame that, and Jesse began to laugh again. She was even convinced to join in the Woods’ Sunday hymn sing. Homer refused to hum a note, but he was secretly proud of his wife’s lovely voice, so he went along and held Jacob on his knee while everyone else sang.

  Jesse and Lavinia discovered two things in common. They both loved the Lord and they both loved quilting. Every woman on the trip had made quilts for the journey, but Lavinia and Jesse had particularly loved the task. They talked of patterns and their plans for new quilts by the hour.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking when I packed pieces for this one,” Lavinia said one day, showing Jesse a pile of brown calicoes and muslin. “Guess I thought I could piece a bit… but, land, the wagon rocks so, and at night we’re all so beat…”

  “I know what you mean,” Jesse agreed. “I’ve got pieces, too—for the Tree of Life, but they’re so tiny…”

  “Jesse King!” Lavinia exclaimed. “You told me Homer inspected every inch of that wagon and took out most of what you wanted to bring. Just how did you manage to get your Tree of Life pieces along? He’d never approve, my dear!”

  Jesse’s eyes twinkled and she smiled demurely, “Homer didn’t check the flour sack. He just assumed it was completely full… of flour.”

  George Wood and Homer King maintained a respectful distance. Homer was not inclined to grow close to anyone. His reasons for going to Oregon included total independence, and he saw no need to create ties that might at some point incur obligations on his part. If Jesse wanted to have a friend, that was all right with him, as long as it didn’t make any demands on him.

  When the Kings’ and the Woods’ turn to ferry across the Big Blue came, God had mercifully quieted the waters. The wagons slid across uneventfully, and Jesse heartily praised God when her feet touched the opposite shore.

  After the Big Blue crossing, the land changed quickly. The hills became little more than huge piles of sand. There was rich grass for the livestock, but there was also an abundance of prickly pear cactus. Homer drove carefully, fearing those thorns in the feet of his team.

  April and May had been uncomfortably cold. Now the weather moderated and Jesse despaired of ways to keep mosquitoes away from Jacob. In spite of her efforts, he looked like he had measles most of the time. Dust was so thick at times that Jesse had trouble seeing the lead wagon. On windy days, dust was flung against her face and hands. When she could bear the stinging no longer, she took shelter inside the wagon until the bumping and jolting became unbearable. Then she would climb out and carry Jacob for a while, until the dust drove her back in again.

  It took only one day to cross the barren land between the Big Blue and the Platte, where they would be turning due west. It was evening, and the panoramic view of the Platte Valley held even the most seasoned travelers in awe. “I saw it for the first time back in ’35,” Dr. Whitman shared, “but it still amazes me.”

  The vast, shimmering flatness of the Platte Valley stretched away from them in a wide plain that appeared totally level. “I declare,” remarked Homer, “looks like that there water is just floating on top of the land… looks like a yeller ribbon stretched acrost the valley.”

  The river looked wider than the Mississippi, but there was no timber on the banks. It was unlike any river they had ever seen before. Deceptive in its appearance, it proved to be only three or four feet deep, and they crossed it easily. They had to begin collecting “chips” for campfires. Jesse was surprised to learn that dried buffalo dung made a good, hot fire. She prepared her peach pie that evening. Homer seemed to have forgotten his earlier complaints about her “foolishness” and ate three pieces.

  The next day, they saw great numbers of game, but Dr. Whitman explained that with the land being so flat, they would have great difficulty approaching anything close enough to shoot. Homer proclaimed those who tried fools and told George Wood, “I think too much of my horses to go chasing after game after they’ve pulled my wagon all day. They earn their night’s rest, and I’ll not ask ’em to run like idiots after game we can’t catch.”

  Gooseberries, chokecherries, and serviceberries abounded along the banks of the Platte, and Jesse enjoyed adding them to their otherwise monotonous fare. Lavinia picked greens and showed Jesse how to prepare them so that Jacob would be spared scurvy. The child made a face when the green substance was presented to him, but he willingly swallowed it when “Aunt” Vinnie encouraged him.

  The trip became monotonous. Walking miles each day, Jesse tumbled into bed exhausted and woke so sore that she whimpered in pain as she climbed down from the wagon each morning. Lavinia despaired of her hands, which she declared to be “rougher than a hemlock board.”

  “How will I ever quilt again, Jess?” she wondered aloud. “My hands are so stiff I can barely keep things mended… and to think,” she sighed, “I used to pride myself on twelve stitches to the inch!”

  “We’ll have a real quilting party again as soon as we get to Oregon!” Jesse said. “Won’t it be a joy?”

  It was at the end of a particularly hot and dusty day that Lavinia overheard Homer complaining about the sameness of their meals. “Bacon, coffee, and biscuits—that’s all we ever eat!” he said, “When I been fightin’ broke wagon wheels and tired horses all day, it sure would be nice to have somethin’ special to eat once in a while. Now, I gotta oil the harness, and I can’t be watchin’ little Jacob every minute, either. You call me soon as you got somethin’ edible ready.”

  Lavinia bustled over. “I declare, Jesse, why don’t you stand up to that man! If George ever tried that nonsense on me, he’d get cold biscuits and jerky for supper until he came to his senses!”

  Jesse smiled at the prospect of Lavinia ever l
eaving “her George” to such a meal. “It’s not so bad, Vinnie. Homer means well. He’s just tired. And worried, too, about Gabe and Beau.” The team had begun to show the strain of their trek, just as Applegate had predicted. Homer had refused to buy grain in spite of Applegate’s advice. Foraging had, indeed, proven difficult. The horses’ ribs were beginning to show a bit, and their coats had lost the sheen Homer had taken such pride in. Groom as he would, he could not help noticing that his team was wearing down. He even mentioned the possibility of leaving the cook stove beside the trail.

  Lavinia refused to be sympathetic. “Tired?! Man alive! Aren’t you tired too?” she sputtered. “Goodness, aren’t we all tired! I swan, I’m so sore all over I can scarcely move.” Then, brightening, she added, “Well, dearie, the girls picked gooseberries today, so we’ll have gooseberry slump tonight. And you’re invited.”

  She hurried away to begin supper, adding over her shoulder, “and I suppose you can bring that varmint you call your husband along too. Maybe gooseberries with plenty of sugar will sweeten him up a little!”

  Four

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.—Psalm 23:1

  The next day, Jesse and Lavinia walked together after breakfast. They didn’t talk much, sharing comfortable silence all morning. As noon approached, they began collecting buffalo chips for the campfire. After nearly an hour of collecting, the women noticed that two of the wagons had lumbered to a halt. The dust cleared, and the women noted with a catch in their throats that it was their own wagons that had pulled out of line. Then they saw that the entire train had begun to pull up. A cluster of people gathered around one wagon. Jesse dropped the pile of chips she held in her apron and began to run. As she ran, cockle-burrs shredded the hem of her dress. The wind and dust burned in her throat, but she ran on until, coming to the cluster of people, she saw him.

  On the ground lay Jacob, one arm thrown up over his head. By his side knelt Dr. Whitman. Seeing Jesse approach, he rose immediately and moved to her side.

  “Mrs. King, I am so sorry. There was nothing any of us could do. He is with God now.” The grave face of the missionary was lost in a mist of tears. Jesse looked about wildly, and her gaze settled upon Homer. Hunched over, his hat off, his shirt tail flapping, he approached her. His words were a groan. “My God, Jesse, my God. He woke up and came to sit by me… an’ before I knew what happened he fell. I tried to catch him… I tore his little dress trying to hold on… and I had a grip and then…” His voice trailed off. “… an’ then the wagon lurched, an’ I lost my hold… the wheels…” He could not go on, but just stood before her, turning the hat in his hands round and round by its worn brim.

  Jesse wanted to cry out, but the sounds caught in her throat. All these people, all these strangers watching… Her grief was too deep, too great to share with them. She took a breath and lifted her chin. Taking Homer’s hand she squeezed it. He dropped his hat and clasped both her hands in his. He held them so hard it hurt.

  “The wagon train must move on, Dr. Whitman,” Jesse heard herself saying. “How often have I heard you say, ‘onward… we must move ever onward.’ And we started late. Please, instruct these good people to leave us to our grief. We can follow later.”

  Dr. Whitman placed a hand upon her shoulder. “But, my dear Mrs. King, do you not want us to stay and offer our prayers over the final resting place?”

  Jesse croaked an earnest response, “No prayers will bring him back… you can all pray for us from the wagons as you move on.” Then, lowering her voice a little she pleaded, “Please, Homer… make them all go. We can say goodbye to Jacob alone. Homer, all these strangers...” Her voice failed her, but the pleading tones settled matters. The wagon train would move on.

  People began dispersing in small groups, whispering as they walked away. Only Lavinia remained.

  “Jesse, dear,” she whispered, “come look at Jacob. He looks just like he’s sleeping.”

  In the eternity it had taken for the crowd to disperse, Jesse and Homer had stood, heads down, waiting. From somewhere Lavinia had produced a clean gown for the baby. Jesse allowed herself to look, and a small cry escaped her throat. Kneeling beside the toddler’s lifeless form, she scooped him up in her arms and began to croon softly, rocking the baby. Tears left tracks on her dust-streaked face. Lavinia knelt beside Jesse in the dust with her arms about her friend’s bowed shoulders.

  Homer left Jesse to her tears, standing by the wagon, waiting for her to finish. Nervously he twirled his hat in his hands. At last, Jesse’s grasp on the child loosened.

  Lavinia slipped away as Jesse numbly rose, went to Homer’s side, and waited for him to speak.

  Finally he placed an arm across Jesse’s shoulders and repeated, “I had a grip… and then…”

  Jesse interrupted him. “It wasn’t your fault, Homer. It could have happened to anyone.”

  The words seemed to release something within the man. As his body shook with a wave of relief, a sigh escaped. He stepped away from Jesse, straightened his shoulders, and reached into the wagon for a shovel. He almost growled the words, “I may not have kept him safe… but I’ll make sure the dang coyotes leave him in peace now.”

  Furiously he began to dig the small grave. Deeper and deeper the spade went into the hard prairie until, exhausted, he sat on the edge of the hole. He looked at Jesse again and found her standing next to the wagon where he had left her. When her eyes met his gaze he looked quickly away and spoke to the distant horizon, “Guess we’d better be done with it.”

  “Wait a moment—please.” Jesse struggled with Jacob’s body, but managed to get inside the wagon with the still form in her arms. Homer heard things being moved about inside. It seemed to take a long time, but he could not bear to join her in the wagon. It would be too intimate, somehow, to be cooped up with her now, just when she had lost her child.

  Jesse emerged from the wagon, carrying Jacob wrapped in the blue and white baby quilt Homer had not seen since Jacob had begun to toddle about. He did not even realize that she had brought it on the trip.

  Jesse tried to wipe the dust from Jacob’s face as she handed him over to Homer. He laid the body in the grave, and then hesitated, not knowing quite what to do. “Seems like there ought to be a word said…”

  Jesse retreated once more into the wagon and returned with her Bible. For once, Homer did not frown at the appearance of the book. In the past he had accused Jesse of shirking her chores in favor of reading the worn book. “Homer, dear,” she would say gently, “I can do my work so much better, and be of much more use to you, after I have spent time with the Lord.” It was the one area of her life where she seemed bent on having her own way. Homer grudgingly gave in to her “woman’s weakness” and let her read the Bible. But today, it seemed right that she should read from the book. He was grateful that she had it and that she would know where to read.

  Jesse did know what she wanted to read. Not that it would be of any help to her precious Jacob, but her own aching heart sorely needed the comfort of familiar words. And so she turned to the beloved passage and began to read. “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.” She read quietly, with dignity, her voice faltering a little when she read the passage, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil” but otherwise she read steadily. At the close of the psalm she bowed her head. Homer followed suit and listened as Jesse talked to her God.

  “Lord,” she said softly, “we do not know why you would take our only child, but we know that you love us, and that you will cause it to work for our good… Lord, help us to trust you even now, when our hearts are broken.” She wanted to say more, but found that she could not. She did not even whisper, “Amen,” but turned and fled to the wagon. She flung herself inside and onto the mattress, where, away from every eye, she could spend her grief.

  When Jesse looked out later, she saw that Homer had filled in the little hole and covered it over with many layers of huge rocks. He was sitting by
the grave, mopping his forehead. Slowly he straightened up and walked toward the wagon. His once strong gait was slowed to the crabbed shuffling of an old man. It was then that Jesse realized that, in his own way, Homer was suffering too. Perhaps more, she thought, he does not have the comfort of the Lord.

  The sun was setting, and Homer moved about, building a fire. Jesse joined him and cooked supper. They ate in silence and slept fitfully, Jesse in the wagon and Homer stretched out below it, his rifle at his side.

  Five

  He causeth it to come, whether for correction… or for mercy.—Job 37:13

  At the first light of dawn, Homer hastened to harness Gabe and Beau. Gripping the side of the wagon, he climbed up, grabbed the reins, and clucked to the horses to “git-up.”

  The lurch of the wagon tore Jesse from an unnaturally deep sleep. She sat up and stared blankly at the tiny pile of rocks just beginning to recede from the shadow of the wagon. As the team lumbered along, the rocks blended in with the landscape until finally they were gone, and she could only stare at the spot on the horizon where they had been. The creaking of the wheels that only yesterday had seemed a rhythmic song of promise took on ominous tones.

  As her body demanded to feed the child who was gone, Jesse prayed. Lord, I don’t understand… but with your help I will believe that this is somehow for our good. Her voice broke as she whispered aloud, “Oh, but Lord, he was such a…” she sobbed, “little boy.”

  When they halted for the noon rest, Homer appeared at the back of the wagon. He didn’t speak right away, but reached out to clasp her clenched fists. The calluses on his hands were rough, but he stroked her hands gently, tracing the thin blue veins that coursed just under her skin.

  Jesse focused on those hands, then gazed up the powerful forearms to the plaid shirt, and finally to the bowed head. Could that be tears moistening the thin eyelashes? The possibility of Homer feeling such emotion wrenched Jesse’s mind away from the little grave.