Chapter 36; Emma - Outnumbered
Emelia brushed her lips against his, the spot of softness in the coarse brambles and Arthur held her close. He had not yet given up. His promise was everything to her in that dark moment. Emelia stared up into that weary, handsome face. She unfastened his trousers and when Emelia pressed her hand against the taut skin of his belly Arthur drew a shuddering breath.
"Emma."
She answered him with another kiss, opened to him and tasted whiskey on his tongue. Emelia palmed the hardening heat of him and he staggered forward, groaning low and needy. They did not waste time undressing. Rough, calloused hands pushed through the high seams of her riding dress and the silk bloomers and Emelia sighed, still startled by the shock of his touch. Arthur guided her down to the hard earth, cool and moist beneath her knees. She settled astride him. The height difference negated now, she stared into his eyes. Oh, Arthur. Emelia ran her fingers through his thick, bedraggled hair, pushing the hat from his head and she breathed deep the musky, now dear, scent. She nestled then, taking him as she continued to hold his gaze and Arthur shuddered and she had him and held him tight and oh...
Arms draped upon unyielding shoulders, anchored, she made love to him. Kissed his weary eyes, and the windburned skin of his cheeks, above the line of dark thickening scruff. Tasted the salt off his skin. Giving. Taking. Rocking, so tight and full and slipping, slipping, slipping over the edge. The prickling of his beard and feverish huffs of breath buffeting the hollow of her throat. His arms tightened like a corset, holding her hard and fast and Emelia found his lips again and kissed him as he came, moaning low and warm. Emelia relished his wordless praise and for a brief, glorious, foolish moment, she forgot where they were.
They went quiet and in the furred stillness that settled upon them Arthur laid back in the tall grasses. He drew her down with him. They set their clothing straight and he held her close against his side as they rested among the sweet scent of crushed wildflowers.
"I love you," he said plainly.
Emelia laid her hand upon his chest. Shifted so that she could press her lips to his rough cheek. They fell quiet again, her head cradled upon his shoulder. Emelia stared up at stars, feeling loved and safe and cautiously hopeful.
The warm optimism gave way as she heard again the murmuring of conversation from beyond the shelter of the trees. She wished that they were alone. That this had been no more than an innocent excursion like when they fetched the poppies and he had first kissed her. Emelia felt dirty. She thought of soap and clean water and longed for a bath and a change of clothes.
"Oh, I wish I could bathe," she lamented.
"Heh," Arthur chuffed at that. "There should be some soap in my shaving kit. Pretty sure it made it into the wagon durin' that whole mess."
She had taken it all for granted, having foolishly assumed her lover's reformation would be an easy matter. A sponge bath in cold river water among a pack of outlaws left much to be desired.
"Thank you," she said. "Though, it isn't quite the same."
"I know. We'll… we'll make it all back."
Then she thought of Heidi. The girl who seemed so shallow during their first few encounters but became a true friend. Dead before her time. Emelia's cheeks burned with shame for her ridiculous selfishness and she blinked away her tears. Be careful what you wish for… She had determined once, before she had ever put pen to paper and damned herself with her family, that he would be worth any punishment, had she not?
The arm around her tightened and Arthur pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. He cleared his throat. "I ever tell you how I got Boadicea?"
"No," she managed.
Arthur shifted beneath her to curl an arm beneath his head.
"It started with a bet," he began. "Some years back, when we were up in Kentucky. Some muddy little cattle town. Hosea, John an' I stopped fer a drink. Heard some feller goin' on about a filly that cost a fortune but turned crazy and stupid. He swore up an' down she'd be good for nothin' but her hooves."
"And you told him the horse was not the problem."
"Sure did. He called me a fool and a drunk. I called him a dandy and a coward. Whippin'. Ain't no way to treat nothin'. He told me I ain't seen this filly. That it'd kill me as soon as look at me. We were actually gonna come to blows over it… until Hosea stepped in with a bet. If I managed to break that horse in three days, feller should cough up her purchase price. They laughed at that, of course."
"Of course," Emelia sighed. How had he lived as long as he had? A small miracle of fate, perhaps. "And if you had lost?"
"They reckoned I'd be dead or crippled… but Mr. Tough Guy said he'd shoot the poor thing and Hosea'd owe him a new one."
"I think I know where this is going," she said.
"The horse is never the problem," Arthur said. "I mean, sure, they can do silly things sometimes… an' sure some are smarter than others. But just look to who owns 'em if yer really itchin' to lay blame somewhere."
"So you were really helping Bella, then?" Emelia teased. She adjusted to better see his face. "Back when you offered to teach me to ride?"
"Heh." The corner of his mouth curled. "That was, uh, a little more complicated."
Emelia grinned. "Was it?"
She could feel the heat rising in his chest, saw the darkening of his cheeks in the week moonlight. "Heh, anyway... it weren't the horse. Just knew she didn't like the whip an' was unafraid to show it. And the more they whipped her, the crazier she got."
"Ah. So that's why you named her Boadicea."
"Yeah." After a moment he added, "She's a brave girl."
"You must miss her."
Arthur remained silent for a long, solemn moment. "I wanna say she's just a horse," he said gruffly. "But... well... be like sayin' yer just a girl."
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Sure ain't yer fault," Arthur replied, the resignation plain in his voice. "I just..." He sighed. Softly he said, "I hope McCourt don't blame her none."
Her heart swelled and she swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Oh, Arthur."
Would that they could go back and fetch his beloved horse. Maybe, once things had settled, Emelia could gather her courage and write the McCourts and try to explain. The thought died immediately under reason. Arthur was not to blame for the ferry or Heidi, and yet… they were very much guilty, were they not? Of aiding thieves and murderers in their escape from justice…
"This is an Almighty mess," Arthur declared.
"So… how much longer?"
"Same as we planned," he said, too ambiguous for her liking. "When Davey and Jenny no longer need ya and things are clear."
Emelia hesitated. She no longer had it in her to quarrel with him and yet she needed this answer, the ration to sustain her through to the end. "So only a few more days?"
"That's all. But… I gotta warn ya, it'll be slow goin' with just Bella. We'll be doin' quite a bit of walkin'."
Emelia frowned. "What about Bailey?"
"I cut 'im loose back before we left the Blackwater camp. Smart horse like that… he'll have found his way home."
"Oh."
"Reckon they'd lost enough."
Beneath all the ruthless certainty, Arthur still managed moments of clarity and righteousness. His actions born of compassion. Emelia hugged him a little tighter.
"Then… when we're near a town maybe?" Emelia ventured. "Where we can buy another horse?"
"With what, darlin'? I just got a couple of bucks."
"I have some money."
"You do?" he asked. "How much?"
Emelia bit her lip. "Almost fifty dollars. I'm sorry, Arthur. It was in my pocket book."
He sat up. "Fifty?"
"I packed the rest in my luggage. I… I thought it was safer there than on me. I'm sorry."
His hand clasped the back of her neck, firm and warm and affectionate. He shook her gently.
"What are you so sorry about?" he demanded, with a chuckle. "Here was me thinkin' we'd lost it all. Where's it?"
"In the bottom of the satchel." She glanced toward the camp. "Beneath all the instruments. It... it seemed more secure hidden there."
He nodded. "It's something. Ain't no thrice damned ferry score, sure, but it's somethin'. Salt and bullets and some rent... Hell, even that bath you wanted. I reckon you an' I could manage a start with that."
The hope that warmed Arthur's voice brought a smile to her face. She could manage a start with the clothes on their backs if need be, so long as she had him. "I wish I had split it more evenly now."
"No use frettin'," Arthur said. He pulled her toward him and she crawled up his body for the kiss. When she pulled back for a breath he said, "It's a chance. Better than I thought we had even five minutes ago."
"So only a few more days," she pressed, fisting the collar of his blue shirt.
"A week at most," he said. "Promise."
He pulled her in for another kiss and then said, "We should be gettin' back."
Emelia did not want to go back. She did not feel safe with the gang and her own hunger remained blunted by a dogged queasiness. Arthur got to his feet. He bent to collect his hat and then extended his hand to her. Emelia leaned heavily on his strength. She clasped his arm as they walked.
"This was nice," she confided. "Being alone with you."
"Then we'll keep makin' the evenin's count," he offered. "When we can."
"But… do you not miss the… privacy?"
"Sure. But when they sleep, most might as well be dead. Lord knows you could toss a stick of dynamite an' Uncle'd sleep through the explosion."
Emelia allowed Arthur to lead her back to camp. Her hand secure in his own, clutching him as a drowning man might clasp a line. The conversation died to furtive whispers when they entered the circle of wagons. They had not dared make a fire, so open on the edge of a wood. They sat instead around an oil lamp and ate from tin cans. The one called Micah gave her a seedy smile beneath the frame of his blond mustache and a wink and she felt shamed for it. Bill Williamson looked up. His eyes glassy with drink and he spat. She looked away from their unfriendly faces.
"We got a problem?" Arthur asked bluntly.
"Course not," Dutch cut in. "Old Bill here's just had a little too much rum."
"Yer drunk?" Arthur demanded, staring at the stout, barrel chested outlaw. "Now?"
"Get off me, Morgan," Bill grumbled. "You got yer comforts an' I got mine."
"Keeps you sane it does!" Pearson pipped in, awkwardly. He handed Emelia a can of beans.
"Thank you," she said softly. Just a few more days, she thought. A week at most he had said and then they would be free. Emelia stayed close to Arthur. She ate the cold food, finding herself hungrier than she imagined and when they laid down to sleep, sleep came black and dreamless.
Morning came too soon. Emelia woke when Arthur stirred beneath her, waking her gently. She felt as exhausted as if she had never slept and swallowed the lump in her throat. He went to the horses, and she rolled up the bedding and reminded herself that this was only temporary.
"Good morning, Doc!" Pearson said warmly and he worked over a little cooking fire. Dutch ovens and a pot coffee sat in the embers.
"Good morning, Mr. Pearson," she replied.
He wiped his hands on his black navy sweater. "Hope you're feeling better."
"I am well enough, thank you."
Pearson smiled. "Found your appetite, yet? I got a portion of grits here, just for you. Same as yesterday."
"That's too kind of you," Emelia said, accepting the cup of plain, heartening corn mush. "I… hope it isn't too much trouble."
"No trouble at all! You know, back during my time with the Navy… did Arthur ever tell you I was in the Navy?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Oh… well, I had to cook for an entire ship then. Hundreds of men! Had to make every little bit count. Can you imagine, Miss?"
"You must be very efficient, Mr. Pearson."
"You know it," he beamed. "But this here, cooking for these fine fellas and you ladies? It's a privilege, it is. Nothing finer!"
"You sound like an idiota."
Emelia, startled by the sudden voice behind her, turned to find Mr. Javier Escuella glowering darkly at the cook. The gunman was still loosely wrapped in his red and orange poncho, warding off the cool morning air. His dark brown eyes were small with exhaustion.
"What? I—" Pearson stammered.
"We're all waitin', Pearson," the Mexican pressed. "Doc ain't the only one who needs to eat. Comprende?"
"Sorry," the cook mumbled.
Though they spoke of her, Javier did not look at Emelia. Arthur had not yet left the wagon train and already she felt terribly alone. Emelia looked back to Mr. Pearson. "Perhaps you can tell me another time," she asked the chastised cook. But Pearson would not look at her. He dished out a portion for Mr. Escuella.
"I got work to do, Doc," he said sullenly.
Arthur returned then, signaling his presence with a touch to her waist. He took a bowl of food from Pearson.
"Is it edible?" he asked her with a chuckle. He said it loud enough for Pearson to hear but the cook said nothing. Emelia nodded numbly.
Arthur frowned. "Everythin' alright?"
Again, she nodded, not quite sure what had just happened. She ate quietly and stayed with Arthur until he had to leave. She bid him farewell and realized she was jealous of her horse. Belladonna escaped these people every day, safe in Arthur's care and company, while she enjoyed the anxiety and discomfort of muddling along with people who hated her.
Emelia hoped that work would take her mind off it. Between the worry and stench of living hard, Emelia could not be certain what made her sicker. The stink of the patients' night soil tipped her over the edge. She gagged the whole while and finally retched over the back of the wagon. Davey snickered.
"It's a damn strange turn of events, havin' a rich girl wipe my ass," he said with a nasty grin.
It had never shamed her before, doing this work. She had considered it a calling, to help those in need. But now she felt anger and shame and her cheeks burned with it and Emelia bit down on her tongue and took a deep steady breath to tame the stinging in her eyes. Davey wanted to see her cry, she knew, and she did not want to give him the satisfaction. She wiped her mouth, trying to assemble some dignity. "Mr. Callender—,"
"You know what, Doc?" Abigail said, cutting in. "You've done more than yer fair share 'round here."
"Ms. Roberts, I…" Emelia faltered. The sudden, unexpected support was almost enough to make her cry. "Thank you."
"I'll be sure to tend to Davey's pots from here on out," Abigail continued with a firm nod of her head. She smirked. "If I feel like getting' to it that is."
"Aww hell, Abby," Davey groused. "Why you takin' her part in this?"
"Come on," Jenny said, looking at the blond thug. She lay slightly propped against a sack of oats. "Ain't the Doc's fault we got ourselves shot."
"I ain't talkin' about the damn job!"
"Then say what you mean, sir," Emelia said.
"Yer the worst thing to happen to us," Davey said levelly. "Worse even then that Gillis woman from the sounds of it. You've got old Morgan's head so far up yer skirts he don't know which way is up no more."
"Arthur is more than capable of making his own choices."
Callendar's laugh sounded like a nasty weeze. "Sure. At the risk of a cold bed. If Arthur had been where he was supposed to be things woulda gone different."
John, Jenny and Abigail said nothing, each keeping their own thoughts.
Emelia frowned. "You blame Arthur?"
He gave a single, firm nod of his head. "Damn right I do!"
"You can't be serious," Emelia huffed. They did not care what it might cost him, or guilt he felt. The things he would confess in the comfort of her arms… "He is no more to blame for this predicament than Heidi was!"
"Who?" Callendar demanded flippantly. "Listen here, you little tart. My brother is missing! Might even be dead! And fer what? So Morgan finally does some ploughing?"
"Quit it," Abigail snapped.
Emelia could not find her voice, still uncertain how to react to their crass fixation or their blunt way of speaking. New York Society, while far from innocent, had always been hidden behind a veneer that allowed some saving of face and an illusion of politeness.
"This is a free country," Davey said.
"No," John said, finally saying something. "Arthur an' Hosea had their own thing goin'. A smarter play, from where I'm not sitting. So… he would never have been there. Either way. Hell, Arthur probably would have tried talking us out of it."
Davey glared at John. But then, he rolled his eyes. "Arthur's always bitchin' about something."
"Arthur never liked half-baked plans," John pointed out. "Way I see it, we'd be here all the same and less a Doc too."
Davey exchanged a look with Jenny. Only the two of them could really know how close they had been. "Guess we'll never know," Davey said.
John huffed. "Lucky fer you, Buckshot."
The days were long, beginning at the crack of dawn and they would travel until they reached the chosen campsite, scouted and picked by Arthur or Charles, sometimes well after the sun went down. Her sickness did not let up, despite a disquieting lack of fever and her breasts now felt tender beneath the confines of her corset. And she knew by the moon that she was late. A naïve and superstitious facet of her soul kept her from saying it out loud, as if denial could hold something so profound at bay. Everything could change. The gang would be displeased. And Arthur… She did not wish to create needless worry. Some women missed their courses due to starvation, she reminded herself. Or stress. And good Lord, she was terrified and stressed.
Mr. Matthews was kind, if only for Arthur's sake, but he stayed near Dutch and acted in the capacity of a quiet touchstone. When he said he feared for folk, Emelia trusted him as she would have trusted her own father.
Abigail, one of them and yet apart with her little son, was civil. Even once John got back into the saddle, she offered her help with Davey and it made the service more tolerable. Jenny Kirk… Arthur had said she was a sweet girl, despite everything, and she proved to be pleasant and curious. There were times when Emelia thought, perhaps, that Mary-Beth sat next to her to have a word. But then Grimshaw would bark and the young woman would flee. Tilly spoke not at all if anyone were around, and even then, there was a guarded quality to her questions. Karen Jones spoke to her with an edge that bordered on hostility.
And Dutch… Dutch was the worst. Every night was a speech. A grand oration about how they would pull through this together. If they would just stick together. If they stayed with him. He spoke as if he were Moses, drawing on faith and loyalty with a Biblical fervor. As if he would lead these lost lambs through the desert. But Emelia doubted he sought a land of milk and honey. If he spoke of the disaster in Blackwater it was to admit only that it was not as planned. That they had survived worse. Worse? What could be worse?
She missed Arthur all the days, and when he would return to her, weary, she greeted him. Held him and warmed him and with the heel of his palm over her mouth they would slowly, furtively root for comfort in the cocoon of their bedroll. And then he would hold her and whisper to her about the flowers along the route and which bird was singing and how he got his scars. And in those sleepy little confessions was the long and winding tale some twenty years in the making of why these people mattered so.
On the seventh day it began to rain, and it continued for two days. A steady pattering that cooled the air and lifted the scent of earth and flowers and brought the grasslands to life. They slept under the wagons and in small canvas tents barely large enough for two. Waterlogged and bogged down in mud, and still they pressed on. Just a few more days. Just a few more days. That refrain, coupled with Arthur's steady, quiet affection soothed like hot tea.
The wagon train turned north and crossed the state line and the gang's morale improved some. They still maintained their pace, but maybe, just maybe, they would shake this mess off. Find somewhere and get back on their feet.
Toward late morning of the ninth day, they reached the red banks of what Hosea swore was the Cimarron River. Where the red waters ran wide and shallow. The gang paused there on the low banks to rest and water the horses. The rain had stopped sometime in the night. They sat in the sun, eating a quick lunch of salted meat, hard cheese and a few cans of peaches. John, Micah and Javier had returned to join them. Uncle rolled some cigarettes and passed them around to the men and to Karen.
Dutch looked out over the water, jeweled hands on his hips. An emperor assessing an assault. He took a long drag of his cigarette.
"We'll cross here," he decided. There was no road or bridge in sight.
Hosea followed his gaze to the river bend.
"You want to ford it," he guessed.
Emelia did not know much about rivers. Though it was smaller than the Mississippi or the Hudson, she did not much care for the opaque terracotta look of it.
Dutch shrugged elegantly. His white shirt rolled to his elbows. "If not here then where else?"
"You don't wanna wait for Arthur to get back? He an' Charles were talkin' this morning about finding a crossing and some game."
"We don't have time, Hosea," Dutch said, his voice growing tight with exasperation. "The sooner we cross this river the better. It'll wash away our tracks and confuse their hounds. And get us one step closer to the Rockies."
"The Rockies now?"
"Those city boys ain't gonna chase us into the mountains."
Emelia's heart soared. Oh, just what Arthur had hoped for!
"But…" Hosea looked over his shoulder to the resting gang. "It feels like we just got out of the mountains."
"Do you really think the Pinkertons are going to show us any mercy?" Dutch demanded and Emelia did not miss how icy his manner became under scrutiny.
Hosea sighed. "That Agency is little better than bounty hunters."
"Exactly! All the more reason to not take any chances," Dutch replied, becoming friendly once more. Once Hosea came back in line. "Micah swears he saw some riders to the south. They ain't givin' up yet."
Hosea looked back to the river. "Looks pretty swollen," he observed. "All that rain the last few days…"
"We can't afford to wait," Dutch pressed again.
Dutch, Uncle, Pearson, Strauss and Bill got back into their seats. Dutch's wagon, carrying the ladies of camp and little Jack went through first. One after another, they followed. The wagons, laden as they were, bogged down in the silt. The doctor watched the level of the muddy water nervously. Toward the center, the belly of the river grew deceptively deep and suddenly the wagon dropped, and the ladies squealed as water came to the belly and swamped the floor.
"Oh no," Emelia gasped. She peered out the back and watched as the water braided deceptively over silty shoals.
"Keep moving!" Dutch bellowed. "Don't let the horses stop even a moment!"
Bill pressed their wagon forward. To the same results. The horse grunted and Bill swore the poor thing stupid and he angrily snapped the reins. The beast squatted in the water and heaved to no avail. Water began seeping in through the cracks.
"Godammit!" Davey shouted, lifting his butt out of the water with a pained grimace.
"No, no, no!" Emelia cried. She scrambled to help him up. Abigail, quick as a cat, reached for Jenny. "Mr. Williamson!"
Bill turned in his seat and screwed his eyes in confusion. "Can't you see we got problems?"
"Their wounds!" Emelia tried, her mind fumbling for the words to convey clearly the importance. Jenny cried out in pain and still Abigail forced her to stand. "They must stay dry!"
Bill looked at big brutish Davey, sitting up to his thighs in the murky water, and then to Emelia straining to lift his bulk. Bill dropped the reins. "Aw hell!"
"Aw, Doc, you do care," Davey said trying to cover the pain in his voice with sarcasm.
Behind them, the chuckwagon dumped the apples, the fruit bobbing away in the current. The munitions wagon went sideways and dumped Uncle into the water with a shout and the horse skittered and squealed and tried to stay right. They were mired and Emelia wanted to cry. The water seeped in through the walls of the wagon and the horses' eyes rolled about in their heads, distressed and agitated and she looked to the horizon. She could not help but think that Arthur would know what to do. Or how to calm it all down. But she did not see him.
They arrayed the wounded on the edges of the wagon. Far from comfortable. Emelia checked to ensure the wounds had not been overly aggravated. There were specks of fresh blood dotting Davey's shirt, but the wound seemed well, with only a hint of redness at the edges. She looked past Bill saw that Dutch's wagon had limped out of the river, managing to get clear. He stood on the buckboard and looked back over the wide river.
"You boys get stuck?" he asked, incredulous.
"What's it look like?" Uncle demanded from the water.
"I told you to keep moving!"
Micah let out a hearty laugh from the back of his horse, but no one else was laughing. Hosea was pulling off his boots, preparing to come help. The water was not so deep that they could not wade through it.
"We'll need to unload now," Dutch ordered. "Get yourselves outta those wagons and get to work!"
"And the wounded?" Emelia called. "Their wounds must stay clean, Mr. Van der Linde."
"Guess they'll have to follow your orders, Doc," Dutch allowed with a grand and gracious wave of his hand.
"What the hell is going on here?"
She knew before even seeing him that Arthur was caustic and angry and still Emelia had never heard a sweeter sound. She looked to find him riding up on Bella, her coat gleaming white in the afternoon light, stark against the ruddy-brown banks. The halfblood, Charles, rode next to him and looked at the mess impassively.
"Arthur! Charles!" Dutch said, in greeting. "'Bout time you boys showed up!"
Arthur blinked, clearly stunned. "Excuse me?"
"As you can see, we have had a hell of a time while you were off gallivantin' in the sunshine."
Arthur rolled his eyes, tossing his head with the action. "I see that!" He waved to the tipped munitions wagon. "You mean to tell me not a one of you thought to double up the horses?"
"We didn't think it was that deep," Dutch replied indignantly. "Look how shallow it is."
"It ain't the depth that's the problem," Arthur grumbled. "This here river's known to be a pain in the ass."
"It's quicksand in some spots," Charles added. "We're going to lose a day here."
"Well, what's done is done," Dutch decided.
"But my lumbago," Uncle lamented.
Arthur rounded on him. "I'll drown yer lumbago if you don't get back in that water!"
"You see now?" Dutch asked. He rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "How we need you around here? I need your strength, son."
Arthur dropped his gaze, looking down. He nodded.
Dutch smiled. "Now!" he hollered, turning his attention to the gang. "The rest of you strip down and get to work!"
"Strip?" Emelia demanded. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Van der Linde?"
He blinked. "Only to your undergarments, Ms. Griswold. I'd hate fer you to drown in that fine dress of yours."
Emelia bit her lip. She did not want to strip down to her undergarments.
"Is that really necessary?" Arthur demanded.
Dutch looked at him a moment before chuckling. "Calm down, Arthur. I just want folk to be safe."
"I'll bet," Arthur grumbled, dismounting.
Dutch ignored him. He turned instead to John.
"John! Why don't you go find us some game?" he suggested. "You can't be working on that leg and folk'll need some good fresh meat after all this."
John looked at Arthur, who was undressing with an irritated sort of efficiency. "I should be helpin' 'em," John decided.
"Much as I'd love to see the ladies in the unmentionables," Micah offered. He still sat atop his fox trotter. "I'll do the huntin'."
Arthur snorted at the offer, setting his guns in the back of the dry wagon.
Dutch kept his gaze on John. "You'll do us little good if you set gangrene into your leg, son."
John looked embarrassed but could not argue with that bit of logic. He took a rifle and the horse he had stolen in his escape from Blackwater and set off upriver.
Emelia still had not moved to undress. She hesitated. Abigail gave her a reassuring smile.
"Dutch has a point," she offered, before working her own dress off, down to her cotton bloomers and corset. "It'll be nice to keep our clothes dry. Besides, you'll have an easier time helpin' if you're not weighed down by all that fabric."
Slowly, feeling as though the whole camp would be watching, Emelia followed suit. She unbuttoned her blouse and unfastened her skirt. Someone whistled and Emelia froze a moment, her cheeks so warm she felt they might burn.
"Cut it out!" Arthur shouted.
Ms. O'Shea did not suffer the same discomforts. She remained on the bank with Jack. Someone had to keep an eye on the boy, she reasoned, and Abigail was already in the river. The women striped down to corsets and bloomers and the men down to their pants or undergarments. Uncle ambled about in a stained red union shirt. It may have been comical if Emelia had not wanted to cry.
Just a few more days. Just a few more days…
Arthur stopped at the agitated horses first, to soothe them and set them to rights. And though his physical presence was all tuned to their soothing, his eyes were for Emelia.
"How you holdin' up?" he asked.
"We can't unload them," Emelia explained. "If this water gets into their wounds…"
Arthur gave a quick nod, understanding. "Alright," he said.
"I'm thinkin' if we unload these trunks, that maybe the horses'll manage?" Abigail ventured.
"Maybe," Arthur said, looking at her. He turned to Charles. He was already down to his neck in the water, feeling through the muddy waters for the wheels.
"Whaddaya think?" Arthur asked him. "We got a chance?"
"They don't seem too badly sunk," Charles decided. "Maybe with another team… and a boost, we can get it across. Ready to do some lifting, Mr. Morgan?"
Arthur shrugged in resignation. "Sounds like we ain't got much choice. Let's unload what we can."
Emelia prepared to climb over the back of the wagon but Arthur met here there and put a warm hand on her thigh to stop her.
"Sweetheart, you shouldn't be doin' this."
"I… but the rest are," she reasoned. "Abigail and Tilly and Mary-Beth. I… I want to help."
"An' I appreciate it, believe me," he said with a soft smile. "But… you been awful sick lately an' yer lookin' mighty drawn out now."
She laid her hand upon his. "I'm alright, Arthur."
Worry furrowed his brow. "You sure you ain't caught nothin' from one of yer patients?"
"It is nothing that will not pass in due time," she said. That much she could be certain of. "Truly. Let's cross this river. Mr. Van der Linde seems convinced this will get them clear. Clear, Arthur."
Arthur looked at the wagons and the gang and their waterlogged supplies, and his mouth hardened into a thin, grim line. He looked back to her, his keen blue eyes watching her carefully.
"Yer not…" he paused. He looked away a moment and swallowed. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you?" he implored. He looked into her eyes and the hand on her thigh flexed. "If somethin' were worryin' ya?"
"Of course," she managed, forcing a smile. Arthur looked no less anxious.
"Alright, Emma," he said, finally relenting. "Just… promise me you ain't gonna strain yerself."
"I…I promise, Arthur."
Mollified, he helped her down. The water was cold and the river bottom slimy and Emelia wished she had listened to him. The water sometimes came to their arms but they found their footing and formed a chain to pass the lighter items along. Sack by sack, box by box. The large trunks the men ported together in pairs. Back and forth, back and forth. It was slow, back breaking work. Dutch watched the progress, encouraging the gang from the shore. Someone had to organize, and he directed where the crates were to go. He made certain that the men, especially, pulled their weight, calling out the slackers. Finally, when the wagons were empty, he called for the women, tired and cold, to join him on the banks to wait. Molly handed them their dry garments and what few blankets had not wound up soaked.
"Get yourselves clothed and dry, ladies," Van der Linde said magnanimously. "You've all earned a little rest now."
Hosea, the Reverend, Strauss. They too, were out of the water. Emelia watched as Arthur maneuvered horses into the river with no small amount of coaxing and hitched the teams. Charles continued to work at the wheels, using brush from the shore to give them some traction. Uncle, sour and soaked, clambered back up on the driver's seat once Bill and Arthur hitched up the second team of horses. Arthur, Charles and Bill then waded behind the wagon.
"Let's go," Uncle said irritably. "I'm freezin' an' my lumbago is gettin'—"
"Enough with yer lumbago!" Bill snapped.
"Quit yer bitchin' and get low!" Arthur commanded. The three men found their grip and their footing and lowered themselves into the water. "On the count of three! One, two… three!"
Uncle snapped the reins and the three behind growled under the weight. The wagon stuck for a moment but then it sprang loose. Uncle pushed the horses forward as Arthur, Charles and Bill all but stumbled, then fell forward, sputtering in the water as the wagon was driven out of the river.
Twice more they repeated the process, and by sundown they managed to free the three wagons and save some cargo. It had been no easy feat. They were exhausted and hungry and though Emelia felt ill and lightheaded she greeted her man on the shore and wrapped him in threadbare flannel and kissed him. They would need to dry everything out and scrape the mud off the wheels.
But they were across the river. They were finally clear.
