Back again, semi-on-time!
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On to the final part of the Oregon Trail!
Fort Hall was not dissimilar to Fort William, with its hastily erected stone walls and odd collection of people, the likes of who made Lucretia cringe. Soldiers bored of life at an outpost, fur traders, mountain men, and even the occasional native milled about, their own business each far more important than whatever it was anyone else was doing.
The only person Lucretia deemed polite enough for her company was the portly storekeeper, who ran the trading post and unorthodox post office that had been set up in one of the fort's buildings. His girth was an enigma in and of itself, because keeping oneself well-fed at a minor territory outpost was something assumed to be quite difficult. Alfred suspected that he ate half of the things he was supposed to be selling, but he seemed content enough, so who was he to question the man?
The shopkeeper was also unusually jovial, but the genuine sort, not the half-crazy variety exhibited by most of the mountain men. He laughed loudly and easily, something Alfred could definitely agree with.
"That's the secret to happy living, my boy," he had said once, clapping Alfred on the back. "Run a shop in a place with no shops. You've got no competition, plenty of company, and all the free stuff you could want!" Sam had looked appalled at that, and immediately questioned the integrity and general common sense of the portly man, but he'd just laughed and asked if Sam had ever had such success.
"Why do you stay here, though?" Alfred had asked. "You could keep going, and set up a store in Oregon. Even less competition, you know."
"Ah, but there's no company out there!" the man said, wagging his finger. "And besides, can you see me hoofing it over those mountains? No siree, I'm just fine right here, just fine. You, on the other, have no idea what you're getting yourself into with those Cascades, no idea. There's a reason they say they're impassable by wagoners like yourselves."
That was certainly true. On their first day at Fort Hall, they'd been informed by another group of emigrants that they needed to abandon their wagons, because the mountains were simply too steep.
Lucretia, of course, had thrown a fit. "But my things!" she exclaimed. "How am I going to carry my hatboxes and heirlooms across the mountains without a wagon? I refuse to submit to such conditions!"
But they'd been firm, and the portly shopkeeper had seconded their opinion. Lucretia had gone from incredulous to outright furious, shrieking at George and Sam for their crazy desire to come west in the first place, when they had a lovely home back in Missouri, and why couldn't they just leave well enough alone and not force her through a land full of dust and awful food and Injuns and dust—
"Ah, but you've got your family with you!" the shopkeeper had said cheerfully. "And may I say, such a wonderful son. You must be so proud, so proud." He winked at Alfred, who could barely contain his laughter as Lucretia went from beet red to sheet white in no time flat, her eyes widening comically from beneath the brim of her hat. George fell off his chair, practically sobbing in hysterics.
"Well," she huffed, "I never!" She stormed out of the shop, with Sam trailing after her.
After she'd left, the shopkeeper continued talking to Alfred. "You lot are a bit unusual," he said, frowning slightly and leaning across the counter as he spoke. "Most come through earlier, if they want to beat the snows in the Cascades. Did you just start late?"
Alfred flushed lightly, glancing at a buffalo hide that was suddenly particularly interesting. "Nah… we started fine, but got a bit… lost, along the way. Nothing too bad."
"It's a miracle you made it back on course," the man said solemnly. "Once you leave the trail in unmapped territory, it's a beastly difficult thing to return." Alfred just nodded in agreement, choosing to stay silent.
"Did you at least get to Independence Rock on time?"
Alfred shook his head. One of the main landmarks on the trail, Independence Rock was meant to be reached by the 4th of July. Instead, he'd celebrated his birthday quietly, while lost somewhere in Oklahoma territory.
"We made it eventually," he said. "Didn't stay long."
But while they were there, George, grinning broadly, had grabbed a knife from the wagon and carved GEORGE CATRON in big, bold letters on the rock face.
"C'mon, Al! You too! Don't make me the only one!"
"I believe that's called defacement of a landmark," Sam had said, his voice tinged with concern. George's wheedling, though, persisted, until Alfred snatched the knife and wrote ALFRED F JONES in even larger letters.
"There," he'd said smugly, and George had snatched the knife back, glaring, but with no real malice behind it.
Lucretia had looked up from fanning her face in the shade of the wagon long enough to say, "That's not your name, John."
The Atkins wagon party left Fort Hall after a week, bringing with them the oxen and leaving the wagon at the gates, with over half of their things still inside. Alfred's trunk had been partially emptied to make room for some of George's things before it was strapped to Sunnyside's back. Sam did the same with his trunk, and Lucretia had packed and repacked it countless times in order to fit the most dresses as was humanly possible inside.
Lucretia looked ludicrous, with three progressively larger hats stacked on her head and one dress worn over another, but nobody could fault her for trying. She had broken down sobbing when she realized that the French bureau would have to be left behind, and had been in such a despondent mood since that nobody bothered her.
They were nearing the home stretch of the trail, as the altitude progressively increased. They cut through the lower part of the Rocky Mountains with no real problems, other than the fact that it rained nearly every afternoon, but a few light thunderstorms were almost welcome after the dust of the prairie.
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred was trailing the group up yet another mountain when Sam, leading the oxen at the front, suddenly stopped. Lucretia and George joined him, and suddenly all Alfred could think about was Lewis, standing over yet another valley, expecting to see the Pacific Ocean stretched before him.
In fact, their expressions were almost identical.
Alfred came up beside George, and to his surprise, saw a small settlement of sorts, a cluster of buildings on the banks of a river.
"It's the Dalles!" he exclaimed, "We're almost there!"
"Yes," said Sam, "but just look."
So Alfred did, following the gazes of his companions to stare at the river ahead. The Colombia, it was called, known for being wide and as impassible for emigrants as they came.
"It's not so bad," Alfred said, trying to lift the general mood. "We've forded rivers before. Remember the Snake? You were unsure about that, too, but we're just fine."
"Yeah, Al," George muttered, "but the Snake didn' have busted up rafts and big ole jagged evil rocks everywhere."
"Mm… this time we'll need to raft for real. There's no other route."
"Not even across the mountains? Land seems so much safer," Lucretia said, looking fearfully from the waters below to the steep peaks ahead.
Alfred remembered Mt Hood, the towering, white-capped monstrosity of a mountain, with its steep sides and nigh-impassable terrain. They'd done it, sure, but it had been difficult, and that was with a bunch of soldiers and seasoned explorers who had gone out of their way to avoid directly crossing the peak.
"Nope," he said firmly. "We'd kill ourselves for sure."
The group was silent for several moments. Finally, George exclaimed, "Well, that was cheerful, but I'm hungry and tired and going down there," he gestured at the settlement, "now."
_V~-~-~V_
"So... what're you goin' to do, once we get to Oregon?"
Alfred looked up from his boots to meet George's gaze from across the evening campfire, then bent his head again to resume his scrubbing.
"I don't really know," he said contemplatively. "I guess I never really thought that far ahead. I left on a spur-of-the-moment thing, you know." His boots were falling apart, the soles punched almost clean through, the sides and laces in tatters from thousands of miles of walking. But they'd served him well, and his blisters always healed so much quicker.
"How d'you not know?" George asked, incredulous. "It's all I've been thinkin' of this whole way! All Sam and Luce've been thinkin' of! You can't tell me you don' know anythin'!"
His hand moved in a circular motion, rubbing the leather thought it was already as clean as it was going to get. The dust was just too ingrained in the fabric, filling even the stitching with gritty brown. But he kept scrubbing, a mindless action, something he remembered from years and years ago, a small tent in a frozen valley.
"Maybe I'll help you with your farm," Alfred said finally. "I've done farm work before, and I don't think Sam knows what he's getting into, with all that land to clear and just the two of you." When George didn't say anything, Alfred looked up again, suddenly worried. "Of course, I'd leave right away if you don't want me there—"
But George was grinning, not frowning. "Would ya really, Al? Stay an' help us get settled?"
Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but was suddenly interrupted by a shriek that pierced the peaceful early evening. Immediately, he leapt up, hastily jerking his boots back on his feet, leaving the laces loose as he sprinted toward the source of the sound, George close behind, because they had both recognized the pitch of that cry.
Turning into the main cluster of buildings that made up the settlement at the Dalles, Alfred's eyes immediately went to the wagon moving forward through the streets, and the brightly colored hat that stood out so from the dull tones of the rest of the crowd.
"Luce!" George cried, beside his sister in seconds. "What's wrong?!"
But Lucretia was completely focused on something entirely different. "Marietta!" she exclaimed, throwing herself forward toward the moving cart.
"Lucretia!" the other woman cried. In her exuberance, she leapt forward from the wagon seat, jostling a familiar red-haired figure who sat beside her. He cried out and fell sideways, tumbling downwards towards the ground as the oxen, suddenly without anyone holding the reins and startled by the women's shrieks, began moving faster.
Alfred reacted without thinking, in his certainty that that red hair was falling, falling under the wagon, and the oxen were spooked and those wheels were turning faster and nobody was noticing-
"AL!"
He was suddenly in the place of the red hair, and the other boy was rolling away from the wagon. He barely had time to feel relieved before a sickening CRUNCH echoed through the settlement, drowning out the sounds of voices and sending him reeling into a world where there was only pain, pain, and deep red dust on the road.
_V~-~-~V_
When Alfred again opened his eyes, it was only a crack. The world was too bright around him for much more.
But he saw something intriguing, and pulled his eyelids apart again, peering closer. It was a square of white cloth, neatly folded on a wooden table very close to his head, with a flower garland and two letters, a looping MW, neatly embroidered in the corner.
A handkerchief, he thought, wondering why it was there. Then he wondered where exactly there was, and abruptly, the world got even brighter as a door opened nearby, spilling light inside.
"Al!"
He turned toward the familiar voice, and realized that he was lying down, on a bed. He hadn't had a bed in months, not since leaving Independence. So why...?
"You're awake!" George exclaimed, and Alfred made the effort to look up into his widely grinning face. "Ya really had me worried there!" He looked like he was joking, but his voice sounded strained, and there were inky smudges beneath his eyes.
"George?"
"Didn't hit yer head hard enough to forget me, then! But seriously, Al," he suddenly looked angry, "don't you ever do that again!"
Alfred was about to ask what, exactly, he shouldn't do again, but he suddenly remembered that falling red hair and wooden wheels and the red dust beneath his face.
"How's..." he tried to ask, but his throat constricted, his voice hoarse. "Is Donald... all right?" he tried again.
George looked faintly annoyed, but replied, "Sure, the kid's fine, thanks t'you." He took a deep breath, a strangely familiar expression coming over his face. "But you, Al... you should've died."
That didn't make sense to Alfred, not at all. He felt… almost fine, if one ignored the numb pain in his left leg and the pounding headache.
But that wasn't it, not completely. He simply did not understand how it was possible to almost die, not for him. The concept of death was a familiar thing, after all; people died all the time, fading from his life until only stones in the ground remained, but he was still there, forever and always.
"What?" he asked, for lack of anything else to say, but the single syllable felt inadequate on his lips.
George continued to fix Alfred with that strange look, hesitant and wary. "You should be dead, Alfred," he said quietly, the first time Alfred had ever heard him speak so seriously. "You dove after that kid, slid under the wagon, an' were..." he looked slightly ill, "...squished."
"Squished?" Alfred echoed faintly. "I don't remember that..."
George cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah. Threw the womenfolk into a right state, ya did. I mean, a death by wagon wouldn't-a been that unusual, but for you to be the one dying... nobody expected that at all."
"Why?" Alfred asked, curious now, but almost dreading an answer.
"Well... you've always been better at everythin', ya know? Don't get hot, don't get cold, walk forever without bein' too tired, and yer brother's an Injun..." He had the decency to flush slightly. "I'm not the superstitious type, but Luce's a differen' story, an' this whole... thing..." George trailed off, and glanced away from Alfred, who by now had pushed himself into a sitting position.
You should have expected this someday, Alfred chided himself. It's a miracle you've made it this long, really.
"It's a miracle!"
Alfred wondered if he'd spoken aloud as his gaze jerked to the door, which was thrown violently open by one very loud Marietta Westcott. It took him a moment to realize that she had actually spoken, and was currently twittering at his bedside, which he had determined to be in one of the settlement's small buildings. Lucretia stood quietly behind her, watching Alfred from beneath the brim of her hat.
"Your recovery, Alfred, is truly miraculous! Not only were your heroics so brave and noble and self-sacrificing," George snorted off to the side, and Marietta shot him a glare before continuing, "…they saved Donald's life, and were rewarded by a speedy and impossible recovery! Simply wonderful!"
She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, identical to the one folded on Alfred's bedside table, and lightly dabbed at her eyes. Alfred turned to look at Lucretia instead as Marietta continued praising his virtues and proclaiming miracles.
"I am glad to see you well again, Mr. Jones," Lucretia said stiffly. "How soon can we expect to leave this horrid place?"
_V~-~-~V_
The Willamette Valley was a peaceful place, full of tall, broad fir trees that had lived there for generations, lending a feeling of oldness to the place, as if it had been waiting, untouched for millennia, so it could breath with the full vibrancy of life just for the new arrivals.
It was breathtakingly beautiful, even with the slight bite of oncoming winter chill, and Alfred had honestly wondered if they were really there at all.
The river had lived up to its name, frightening the daylights out of everyone as the men spent all hours of the day attempting to steer the makeshift raft safely through the rapids. Nothing could be cooked, so they'd lived off cold jerky, attempting to hide in shelters made of piled trunks as the freezing snowmelt-water sprayed over the sides.
But they'd made it, and after crossing one final hill, the whole party (plus the Donald and the Westcotts) was miraculously silent and complaint-free, for once in two thousand miles.
"It's perfect," Sam breathed.
Suddenly, Lucretia was all words. "Oh, my stars, we have so much to do! I want a cabin, right there beside that big fir tree, with a kitchen and two bedrooms and a big space with a puncheon floor for living and having company and a rose garden outside. And Marietta, you and your husband simply have to stay close by so we can visit all the time, and just look over there! I see smoke! There must be more people nearby! Oh, we really must go say hello, introduce ourselves…"
She went on, pulling Marietta with her as they planned the logistics of visiting. Alfred began the process of untying all of their belongings from the Daisy and Sunnyside's backs after tying the oxen, together with the pair of mules the Westcotts had bought at the Dalles, to a nearby tree.
The wagon that had shattered his leg had been abandoned at the Dalles, unable to be transported further. The only reason it had been there in the first place was at the insistence of Marietta Westcott, who had deviated from the trail and extended the time of their journey just to bring her things with her.
Alfred couldn't help but feel vindicated as it was chopped up for wood to make their raft.
He wondered absently, fingers still working with the knots holding their belongings in place, if the river he'd seen running through the valley was part of the Multnomah, the river named by Clark just a bit away from their current location. Whatever its source, it was probably responsible for the sheer greenness of the valley.
And he couldn't help but feel sorry that he would spoil it, just as his people had spoiled the eastern coast, and the land of Mohe's people, and the Algonquin, and all the other unnamed tribes that had once lived there peacefully, coexisting with the land itself.
But as he watched George laugh and Sam grin as they looked over what was to be their new home, he felt an overwhelming sense of pride that it was his people who had done the unthinkable and crossed a continent in search of a new life, new opportunities, and place to call their own.
"So much free land, all to be farmed by Westcott and Sons products!" boomed Terrence Westcott. "Marvelous, isn't it, Donald?" The redhead just smiled, setting Marietta's parasol on top of her trunk before lying back on the ground, looking perfectly content.
Alfred turned just in time to see Sam appear beside him, eyes sparkling.
"Alfred," he said, a calm joy filling his words, "I just wanted to thank you, for staying with us the whole way through." He sighed happily. "It's everything I dreamt it would be."
Alfred, unable to help himself, felt his old boisterous grin return again to his face.
"Anything for a fellow American."
V/~-~-~\V
Phew... finally done with the Oregon Trail. Now we can move forth with the plot, yes?
History, as always, comes first:
Fort Hall was established in 1834 on the Snake River as a fur trading post, hence the buffalo hide Alfred sees (on an unrelated note, I tried bison jerky for the first time today... it was interesting). Early emigrants disposed of their wagons here, and 1843 was the first time someone managed to follow the Trail west from there in a wagon, hence the deviation taken by the Westcotts (because hey, we're still in 1840 here!).
Independence Rock is named thus because emigrants knew that if they reached it by July 4th, their journey proceeding on schedule. Since Alfred got lost, they were no longer on time, despite leaving when they were supposed to (the Westcotts are just clueless people). Independence Rock (128 feet high, 1900 feet long, and 700 feet wide) is also called the "Great Register of the Desert" because more than 5000 early emigrants carved their names into its surface.
The Dalles was named by French fur trappers, meaning "gutter." Here, emigrants rafted down the Colombia to Oregon City, an extremely dangerous venture in the rocky river gorge. In 1845, the Barlow Toll Road opened, offering a safer alternate route the long way around Mt Hood.
One in ten emigrants on the trail died, but mainly because of disease or commonplace accidents that generally involved wagons, livestock, or guns. It was frightfully easy to get run over by a wagon or shot accidentally, but the emigrants were generally more afraid of the natives, despite the fact that there were very few recorded incidents of natives bothering wagon trains. And Alfred got run over because I didn't want to kill anyone off so close to the finish line, and the whole "He's a Nation!" thing needs to be brought back into focus a bit.
I hope you enjoyed the Oregon Trail (because it did take four chapters to cover completely), and please look forward to the California Gold Rush of 1849, coming soon!
As always, any questions or comments are always appreciated, so please don't hesitate to write a review! I do so enjoy feedback!
Until next time!