Some people wander the ends of the earth aimlessly. Others are running away from something catastrophic but in the process, forget the reasons why they are on the run. Like the governess Jane Eyre. She ran away from Mr. Rochester when she learned her employer had a wife tucked away in the attic. Roaming the English moors, Jane's anguish made her disoriented. That will not happen to me as I am heading south by southwest on foot. Losing Mother was catastrophic but I am determined not to get lost. Presently, I carry that novel in my carpet bag, rereading it when I find time. There is a lot of time on this vast prairie with few trees. Whenever I see a cluster of trees, it gives me hope that I am near a creek or a river. When I find those trees, I make sure to rest, pray, wash, eat, read, and think. My thoughts often compress into daydreams.
The stillness of this raw, untamed wilderness is breathtaking. It moves me, shaking my being to the core. The land here is much more flat than the land of my birth– the rolling hills of the Marais des Cygnes in Kansas. Yet, it captivates me, heart and soul. I cannot imagine the ugly atrocities poor Mrs. Bell must have unjustly endured in this beautiful place. If the earth had eyes, oh the stories it could tell would not fill enough pages in a book.
But that is a silly thought. A wicked thought, to think the earth has eyes. Only God has eyes as he watches down on mankind committing abominable acts. If God could intervene, he could have saved Mrs. Bell's fate from those cruel savages. He could have saved Mother's life. He could have made Papa a good, loving husband and father who stays with his family. But that is not the will of God. Our Lord Jesus does not intervene but leaves it up to his flock to find him and follow his teachings. I believe the Lord works in mysterious ways but gives man a choice to save his own soul. To choose not to burn for eternity in the Lake of Fire.
There are many who don't know Jesus like the Indians. Because they do not know him, their fate is sealed with the Devil starting the moment they are born. Unless great men like Father intervene by preaching the good word, saving their souls. I wonder if there are any good Indians out there or do they innately do bad things like attack the surveyor's camp because they don't know Jesus? Mother believed they are all wicked but Father saw good in many of them. I don't know a single Indian but what I don't know frightens me. Reverend Masterson preached that we are blinded by our prejudices, failing to see that the Indian is as much human as we are. Perhaps but I am scared and all alone in this endless sea of wheat.
The slant of the afternoon sun warms my face as I lie in an open field, lost in thought. There is not a soul to be seen for miles. All I can do is entertain myself with my thoughts. My morbid, unhappy thoughts.
And my thoughts go back to that blustery afternoon in Omaha before I embarked on this journey. The gentleman who let me glance at his newspaper, went against social norms, for current affairs are not a proper concern to womenfolk. I begged and begged him for a look. When he finally obliged, I read the latest news on the Union Pacific. The news of Mrs. Lily Bell's abduction and sullying by the savages. She was not alone in the wilderness but was with her husband and men from the surveying camp. A lady who must have met a terrible fate, to lie with a savage against her will. I pray to God her spirit isn't broken. I am all alone out here, taking my chances on crossing paths with dog soldiers. What would I do if I were in Mrs. Bell's situation? To lose one's innocence to an inferior would ruin a woman's reputation. That scares me. Since I'm all alone, I must use precaution at all times. There are no trees to hide behind nor climb. There is only a vast field that offers no protection. Ruth Cole is afraid of what she does not know. Everything printed in the papers about Indians scares me witless.
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I sit up. I need to be on my guard but I cannot function if I continuously imagine scary images of being attacked and sullied by savages. A tingling sensation in my nose causes me to sneeze. Sniffing, hot tears prick my eyes. Refusing to cry, I stand up, deciding not to waste any more time in finding the nomadic railroad town. Tying the ribbons to my bonnet under my chin then tying the strings to my black wool cape, I leave my refuge, wandering the sea of wheat with a purpose.
As I walk, my mind goes over terrifying sequences of getting abducted by savages. My pace increases while my worry augments. What does a woman do in a situation like that? It's not fair that she has to suffer the consequences of being defiled by a dog soldier. For society to rebuke and scorn her for unjust actions committed against her will. But what of survival? Should a good Christian woman like me just surrender herself to her abductor? To have him touch me like that? What would it be like to lie underneath a savage?
I gasp. How wicked … how wanton it is to have such impure, scandalous thoughts! Mother would be appalled. I am appalled at my behavior. I am not curious about what it would be like to lie with a Native.
"Ugh! Wash your brain out with soap!" I sharply rebuke myself out loud. "This is why boredom is a sin. Because the mind wanders onto the most vile images. Please forgive my sins, Lord Jesus!"
I must act like a Reverend's daughter: good and pure.
Three hours later, the hot summer sun fatigues me. My sore feet are aching from the longest trek I have ever made. I must stop as I feel myself becoming disoriented and my stomach will not quit rumbling from hunger. Closing my eyes, I imagine what I would love to gobble up. A sweet apple pie with a scoop of creamy homemade ice cream. Instinctively, I lick my lips. That sounds so delicious. If I ever make it to Hell on Wheels, will someone have the ingredients to make an apple pie? The railroad must run supplies out to them? Flour, apples, lard, sugar, cinnamon. Supplies coming from Omaha and Council Bluffs. Not only do I want pie but a perfect Sunday dinner replete with fried chicken, whipped potatoes, green beans, and baked bread. And for dessert: apple pie. My mouth waters. I am famished. Stopping in my tracks, I plop down on the ground. All I have to eat are oats and pemmican.
An eagle soars in the sky, screeching. Its majestic wing span captures my imagination. Bird, like God, must witness many of the horrors committed by man. There goes my vivid mind once more! It ceases to block out imagery, though food is much happier than what I thought about earlier. All I can do is castigate myself and think happy thoughts.
"It's only a bird. Not a portent of misfortune that I could succumb to," I murmur.
Fiddling with sharp grass blades, I scold myself, "Think optimistically, Ruth! Apple pie. Apple pie."
A noxious stench causes my nose to wrinkle. How I wish smell worked like imagination so that I could only smell apple pie right now. I sniff around the vicinity only to discover to my horror that the smell is coming from me. How can this be? I just washed my dress! Yet, I have sweated underneath this heavy wool garment, walking beneath the summer sun. My dress isn't tattered but a little dirty. It is stiff and sturdy. And ugly. I hate my dress. The embellished bow on the collar gives it some needed femininity but it is difficult to move around in it. How I would love to have a new dress, made of cotton or linen that has an understated yet elegant lace collar. A pretty floral print dress that breathes a little better in the warmer months.
Once more, I castigate myself. I must be grateful for the clothes I wear on my back and for the food I carry in my bag. But is it so wrong to be tired of eating only pemmican and oats and to be wearing a heavy, ugly dress? No, it is no sin to want more substantial food nor is it a sin for the desire to feel pretty. I am unfairly hard on myself. I know that but I cannot cease to stop reprimanding myself for wanting better things. It feels sinful. I don't deserve such things and I feel I must have developed this keen sense of modesty at a young age, growing up in poverty because my father refused to support his family, abandoning us for John Brown and now the Indians.
Why on earth do I walk south by southwest toward the railroad to see Reverend Cole? He has done nothing but bring heartache upon our family. But I hope against hope that he will look into his heart and want to be the loving father he has yet to be. All I want is love and acceptance.
Tears fill my eyes. I openly grieve Mother's death. She gave me all the love and acceptance I thirsted after but I still feel empty because I got none from Father. Wiping my eyes, I shake myself out of my disconsolation. It's easy to break down in the wilderness when you have no one but I must be strong and resilient if I want to survive. I need to be brave when I confront Father. This arduous journey has left me feeling lonely and weary. Now is not a good time to lose heart nor hope.
So, I shake myself out of this looming depression, putting a smile on my face, thinking of happier times. I remember the last Christmas I spent with Papa before he abandoned us for John Brown. Papa shot a goose and Mother prepared the bird and roasted it over the hearth for Christmas dinner. The leftover goose feathers were used for pillow stuffing. Mother sat in the chair beside the hearth hemming up a pillow that would be mine. After she finished it, Papa examined it, smiled, picked me up, and kissed me on the head. That was the only memory of kindness my father ever bestowed upon me that I can fairly say I recall. Other fond memories are drowned out by all the egregious memories. Soon, he went back to the bottle, drinking the Devil's whiskey, cursing his existence, and beating my mother.
It's madness that I wish to see him again. That I wish to forgive him. It's a good Christian thing to forgive and that is what I will do when I lie eyes on Father. Determined to think happy thoughts, I close my eyes, putting a new smile on my face, remembering making snow angels outside the Marais des Cygnes cabin after a snowfall. I remember sitting on Mother's lap, listening to her tell me a fairy tale about the little Cinder girl. Or happy memories of her brushing my strawberry blonde locks while humming "Gentle Annie." My most favorite memory was playing church, pretending to be the minister by having my little dollie and the rocks serve as my congregation down by the river. Sometimes, I played school but I preferred playing church. I despise what my father did to my mother but in a peculiar way, I emulated him.
Smiling at those welcome memories, I stride back into the blowing wheat, humming "Gentle Annie."
I walk until my feet hurt, wishing I had a horse, no longer caring if it's not ladylike. My smile dissipates when my eyes look up at the sky, watching turkey vultures soar around in circles. Something is not right. Up ahead, I spot a new cluster of trees. My heart lifts at this sight but falls back down as I close in on whatever is dead. The stench!
Halting in my tracks, my glance catches the sight of Indian warriors right in the thicket by a creek. I swallow a scream in my throat, afraid of giving myself away, sealing my doom. Lightly dropping my carpet bag to the ground, I sink down into the wheat, shielding myself from the warriors. My mind races as I fret about these men being the same dog soldiers that attacked the surveyor's camp.
Facing the ground, I crouch there until my limbs are stiff. Now, I chastise myself for running away from the Mission in the first place. I can just envision the headline: Lost Reverend's Daughter Murdered by Another Indian Raid. All I am doing is frightening myself to death. Yes, there is a strong possibility that these warriors will find me but if I stay as quiet as a church mouse, perhaps they will pass by me unnoticed?
Raucous male voices shout nearby. Perspiration drips from my armpits and back, saturating my dress. The odor from the nearby dead animal makes me want to gag but I force back the urge while hugging my knees, squeezing my eyes shut, and trembling with fear.
"I am not petrified. I am not petrified. I am not petrified," I whisper.
A horse whinnies from the thicket. Another horse whinnies well behind me. More shouting. Keeping my head down, all I can focus on is remaining absolutely still.
A growl forces my eyes to pry open. Not the growl of a wolf but the growl of my stomach. I am hungry again. My hunger has yet to cease since I began my trek toward the railroad camp. My growling stomach terrifies me because it could give away my position to the enemy. Quickly, I pluck wheat and force it into my mouth, chewing the coarse and bitter straw before swallowing. The chewed up grain sticks in my dry throat but I cannot cough. It itches.
Footsteps crunch through the wheat field, walking straight toward me. Closer. Closer. Closer.
"God, I am so scared! Please look over me, dear sweet Jesus!" I mouth.
It serves me right for wickedly thinking about lying with an Indian. Not that I would but I deserve a worse fate for such vile thoughts. Footsteps draw nearer and nearer. Panic sets in my brain.
By now, I swear the footsteps are a foot away. Suddenly, they stop when a man hollers from the thicket. The loud pounds of my heart ring clamorously into my ears. Can the enemy hear it? There is no way to tell if these Indians are friendly but I am not about to find out. I am staying put.
The language of the shouting man is not English but something strangely beautiful, I must say. I no longer hear the footsteps behind me. A split second goes by and the walking footsteps behind me turn into sprinting. This man dashes by me, not noticing me, as he runs for the thicket, shouting. All at once, the warriors all gallop off in the other direction, heading west.
The wheat in my throat is about to choke me. More horses gallop around me. Now, I am terrified that I will be run over by one of the warriors' horses. Several more horses pass by me. Then, the ground shakes as a loud thunder reverberates from it.
Slowly lifting my head and standing up, I see what is causing this rumbling. It is not the rumble of horses nor is it the rumble of a train– I have yet to come across railroad tracks. It's a herd of running beasts. Dark brown hairy beasts with horns. Buffalo! Papa once spoke of buffalo herds up north. The warriors ahead are hunting these furry beasts that are speeding at a furious pace across the prairie. The thunder from their hooves is almost deafening. Gazing at the warriors in the far distance, I see them ride horseback, throwing long spears at the buffalo. What a dangerous way to hunt!
My worry for them makes me realize these Indians are not the heinous dog soldiers I read in the paper. They are just men, hunting for their families. That sudden revelation awakens me. I don't think they mean me any harm. I suppose they could find me threatening if they see me standing here. Certainly if I scare off their game but that is impossible because their game is running and they are in pursuit of it.
All at once, the last of the warriors leaves. All that is left is a hazy cloud of dust from the stampede. There is not a soul in sight but me and … I look down and watch in horror at the end of a snake's tail slithering off my shoe, heading into the dense wheat field. The ghastly spectacle causes me to freeze. The urge to shriek is bad.
"I am petrified. I am petrified. I am petrified," I whisper, wanting to sob in terror.
How ridiculous it is to waste time, worrying about Indian attacks, attacks from humans when the real danger are the animals: running buffalo herds and probable menacing snakes. I hate snakes. Repulsive creatures. Yes, snakes keep the mice population at a minimum but I rather not be around any.
My stench is now overwhelming. I am in need of another soak. Picking up my carpet bag, holding my head up high, I stride over toward the cluster of trees that shield a creek, walking by a decaying deer the turkey vultures found earlier. I am glad to say, this decaying deer's stench is far more overpowering than me. Seeing the creek water sparkle under the sun, it is perfect for bathing.
Glancing at the former buffalo hunting grounds around the creek, I check to see if all the men have left. This is the closest contact I have had with humans since I left Omaha. It should have been a welcoming feeling to see people but instead, it instilled profound fear in me. I will only go no where if I dwell in fear. So, I must act bravely no matter what I face, thus I will be able to move on with great fortitude, culminating with my reunification with my estranged father. Taking one last glance, I unbutton my immense black dress. I'm not afraid. I will be moving on. South by southwest.
The sound of hooves clopping fiercely on the ground stirs me from my late afternoon nap. I'm lying there, practically exposed, wearing only my chemise and pantaloons. Presently, I smell much better but that is the last thing on my mind. Someone is fast approaching. No longer staring at a vivid blue sky with diaphanous clouds moving slowly west, I sit up, instinctively covering my breasts.
Squinting, I see from a distance a shirtless young Indian man riding his horse. The feathers in his hair flutter as he rides. The hunters must be returning from the buffalo hunt. How stupid can I be to bathe in this obvious meeting spot? No time for answers, I quickly grab my still damp black dress and my carpet bag, high-tailing it back to the field, praying there are no snakes slithering around. Ducking into the tall wheat that reaches a foot well over me (and I am a tall woman), I make a frenetic dash until I feel like I am out of peril, no longer on the edge of the field. The wheat stalks cut my barefeet, for my shoes are in my bag since there was no time to lace up my boots. Crouching down, I collapse on the ground, listening to my little heart pound in my chest.
Horse hooves thunder. Listening closely, I can tell it's the entire hunting party returning. Oh, how I wish I had my father's protection! How close to being caught in only my undergarments by not just men but wild Indians. Not what a proper Christian girl would ever wish for. The Lord is surely watching over me as I cower in the wheat. The sound of thundering hooves eventually tapers until it almost sounds like an echo in my mind. They are gone.
When I think all is well, I emerge out of the field, half naked, carrying my dress and bag. The stiff wind forces my long curly locks to fly into my face. Composing myself, I return to the cluster of trees, and eat a small supper of pemmican and oats. I'm starting to run low on food. Exhausted, I toss my dress up on a tree limb to dry over night. Not wanting to take my chances with the creatures on the ground, I climb the same tree and find a sturdy limb where I lean against the hard trunk. The sun starts to set over the flat plains.
Yawning, my heavy eyes flutter until they close. Mother once prayed for a miracle to bring Father back to us. I pray like her but instead, it is the reversal: I pray that the good Lord sees me through a safe journey to Father. Not wanting to dwell on fear, I ask God to keep me safe, watching over me as he has perpetually done. I am starting to drift off into slumber.
Wandering the expansive plains on a cloudy, humid morning, I have now lost track of days. Have I already noted that to myself? I can no longer remember because I am so weary from travel. Despite that, I now see tracks. Tracks of wagons that run south by southwest. And another set of tracks, most promising. Railroad tracks. At last, I have found them! Reunited with civilization, to wait for a train, and finally be reunited with Papa.
The ground trembles suddenly. I feel the shaking, forcing me to look behind me. It is no earthquake but an iron beast, whistling and chugging its way toward me. I wave my hand at it, trying to get its attention. The train slows to a complete stop, lurching as the brakes screech.
It's hard to hear anything over the blowing of the train. Hot steam shoots out beneath the wheels toward me which is unwelcome on this warm day. Grey smoke steadily towers out the black iron chimney, grabbing my attention. I am spellbound by its presence.
A dingy bearded, tall and lanky engineer who has a face furrowed by deep-set wrinkles, pokes his head out of his compartment, scowling.
"What's a young lady like you doing all the way out here?" The engineer shouts at me.
"I-I-I got lost from my family," I stammer a fib. "They are headed for Hell on Wheels."
"Climb aboard, missy. This is hostile Indian territory. Cheyenne and Sioux hunt around here. I'll take you to town and see you safe and sound."
"Thank you, sir!" I exclaimed most graciously.
And I obey the engineer most willingly, climbing aboard which is a difficult feat to accomplish in a stiff, voluminous dress. Thanks to two whiskered men, I make it safely onto the train. Quickly, I check to see if there is anyone I recognize from the Mission on board who might be looking for me. After seeing all is well, I move forward on the wooden plank aisle.
The car is crowded with workers, women, and children. I spot a vacant seat on a split wooden bench, next to an elderly woman wearing a black dress, black bonnet, and black crochet gloves. She is plump, has snow white hair, and bright blue eyes. Her face is slightly wrinkled. I assume she is a widow by her austere garb.
"'Tis strange a young lady walking alone in the wilderness. Have you na' family?" The elderly woman intrusively asks me in an Irish brogue as I sit down beside her.
Her silver cross pendant necklace that rests on her bosom catches my eye. Perhaps she is a papist? She certainly looks pious.
"No." I shake my head. "I am going to live with my father, Reverend Cole. He is a minister in Hell on Wheels. What brings you to the railroad town?"
"I am looking for me two sons." She reverently kisses her cross. "They wrote me that they are seeking their fortunes out west but they are young lads. A mother cannot be separated from the only family she has left. Me husband, God rest his soul, died of mysterious circumstances after me sons left home in Cork. I cannot survive on me own without me boys and I want them to look into their father's death. That daft, cruel English landlord poisoned me husband, so he could steal our land. We would not sell and he found a way. The devil take him!"
"I am truly sorry, ma'am. May you find peace with our precious Lord and Savior when you see your sons again."
"Thank you, miss. I scrimped and saved to have come this far to see me boys," the widow natters away. "They found work with the railroad, writing their mam, writing about all this available land beholden to no one. So, I left me home in Cork, first finding work as a cook with blue bloods in Boston. And I have scrimped and saved, bringing me here."
I am becoming bored with her banter.
She takes a breath. "I have na' written to me sons but want to surprise them. They begged me to stay home. Say this is a dangerous land. But I can na' be without me boys. I scrimped and saved. Dangerous land, 'tis no place for a young lady, miss."
Her words irk me while I feign a smile. I suspect the widow is lonely thus her prattle.
"That daft English woman, the Fair-Haired Maiden of the West, is a young lady who met a worse fate with those savages. See, it's dangerous for young girls like you, gallivanting around without an escort."
"I got lost from my wagon train," I equivocate. "Besides, I will no longer be in danger when I reunite with my father. Mrs. Bell was on the frontier. She must have known the dangers she was in. I think she is brave."
"A lady living far from civilization. 'Tis madness! Na' at all proper. And this town we are heading into, is na' civilization. No priest. No mass. No real sort of church, no offense, miss."
Her papist opinions offend me but I am in no mood to argue over the semantics of religion. The widow prattles on, repeating about scrimping and saving while I stare out the window, watching the enchanting prairie I have become accustomed to, buzz by. A moment ago, it seemed I missed being surrounded by people and presently, I wish for peace and quiet. The jostling of the train stirs me into reflection. All sorts of people heading out west seek different things, but all have the burning desire to hack out a new existence in this beguiling land. Me, I only search for my father wholeheartedly, not heading west, but south by southwest.
*Note* Thanks for being patient for this chapter. A lot occurred here, enriching Ruth's story before she makes her appearance in town, elucidating on why she thinks the way she thinks. Thank you for reading and please be sure to leave a review, even an anonymous one. :-) Stay tuned for the next chapter!