Daria on the Trail
Daria and the Bad Patient
DISCLAIMER: A Song of Ice and Fire was written by George RR Martin and is his property. Daria and Morgendorffer is the property of MTV Viacom. I own neither franchise and neither expect nor deserve any sort of financial compensation for this work of fiction.
This story is based on my research of the REAL Oregon Trail and not on the computer game of the same name.
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Warning: Foul language included in this chapter.
Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail
Daria POV:
The buffalo moved on and we did, too. We didn't travel alone: our party not only gained Bob, but we also gained another member, one of the young guys who'd gotten injured by the buffalo. His name was Buckley Jordan and we'd be carrying him to the fort at the Platte River Bridge. Captain Trout put him in the other wagon with Willem. He then informed me that I would be nursing him. Looking back, I suppose that I shouldn't have demonstrated my first-aid skills by putting his fractured leg in a splint. But I had, and despite the fact that my medical knowledge was limited, I thought he'd have a fair chance at recovery, even if it was likely that he'd walk with a limp for the rest of his life.
Buckley was a young Kentuckian, a second son who'd decided to try his luck at the California diggings, make his pile, then return home and buy a plantation. He'd come West with a company from Independence and had been traveling with friends in a mule-driven wagon when they saw the buffalo. Feeling cocky, he and his friends crept too close with their rifles. Sure-shot he was not: he either wounded or missed his target. The enraged buffalo charged and tossed him high into the air like a rag doll, causing him to break his leg when he hit the ground. He had been relatively lucky: he'd come out of his adventure with a simple fracture and a broken ankle while one of his buddies had been gored to death and the other had been badly trampled. We buried the gored man while the trampled man was riding in one of the Independence company's wagons. Captain Trout doubted that he'd live very long.
If I had been writing a frontier romance novel with Buckley or me as the main character, it would either have been love at first sight or that he would somehow melt my cold heart with his charm, after which we'd get married and live happily ever after. That wasn't what happened: Buckley and I were instantly at odds and our relationship got worse the more we dealt with each other. He was an arrogant, opinionated, abusive jerk who lacked good manners or anything coming close to respect for other people. I was all too familiar with his type: the upper classes back at Highland High had had plenty of his sort. He was the sort of strutting, self-important bigot who managed to push to push half of my red buttons within the first couple of hours of our meeting and the rest of them by day's end.
I'd thought Captain Ridge was bad. This guy was worse. Buck was a cock-sure asshole who thought he knew everything and threw out anything that he didn't like or agree with. As was usual with his sort, he hated Afro-Americans, he hated Mexicans, he hated Indians, he hated Europeans, he hated Asians, and he hated Mormons. He also hated Westerosi. Buck's solution to the Indian problem was to exterminate them and he wanted each and every Westerosi killed or driven out of the country. The irony that he was rolling along in a wagon owned by one Westerosi and driven by another was lost on him.
Every so often I had to help him with water or body waste. Despite the fact that I wanted to talk to him as little as possible, we exchanged words. After asking me where I came from, I learned more of his opinions. Buck also hated abolitionists, women's colleges, or the idea of equality for women and immigrants. As far as he was concerned, women didn't need any more education than basic reading, writing, and math skills. Women who sought higher education were either on the road to hell and harlotry or had arrived there already. In his opinion, any woman aspiring to be something more than a pioneer farm wife and mother was defying God's plan. Like the old saying went: barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.
If Buck was a bad patient, I was a bad nurse. When he complained about the pain, I told him that we didn't really have the means to keep him comfortable. I told him point-blank that I could care less about his opinions. I told him that it seemed like he had a simple fracture and a sprained or broken ankle, and that when we'd arrive at the Platte River, he'd probably have to remain there for some weeks before he was healed enough to travel. I also told him that the snows would be in the Sierras by the time he was able to travel and that he might want to winter in Denver or Salt Lake City. That set off some more complaints and foul language. He really wanted to go to California and hated the idea of being left behind. Fortunately I only had to put up with the full blast of his opinions for the first day: I learned that one of the other women in our Company had picked up some laudanum from somewhere and we were able to keep him dosed and out of it.
Once he was under, I hoped that Buck would chill out and be biddable enough to manage. Unfortunately, he wasn't a complete zombie even with Laudanum. He was awake enough to yell and swear when Willem and Kennard pulled him out of the second wagon when we made camp. I got to help him drink water and eat dinner, then wipe him down again before I turned in. Lucky me.
"So how is your patient doing?" Kara asked me at dinner that evening.
"He seems to be well enough to travel, although he's not happy," I replied. "I hope he gets well enough to be on his way."
Kara studied my expression, then made a half-smile. After the better part of three weeks, Kara had learned to read my face and body language. "You don't like him, do you?" said Kara.
"I don't like him at all," I said. "I already pity the poor woman who marries him."
"I know you don't like him, but remember that what you're doing is pleasing to the Father and the Mother," said Kara.
"And to Yahweh," I sighed. Kara nodded; she already knew that Yahweh was another name for God.
Buck awoke the next morning but his friend had died sometime in the night. We buried him near the trail the next morning. We joined the survivors of his company for the burial.
I'd never seen a frontier burial before or even read a description in any of my reading. I soon learned that women had a major role in prepping the body for internment. We were the ones who washed the corpses and did the best we could to prepare the body for burial. One of the women from the Independence company took off the man's bandages and stitched up his wounds. We then dressed him in some spare clothes that someone had thought to salvage from his wrecked wagon, then wrapped his body in a sheet.
Some of the men from the other company had busied themselves by digging a grave. The topsoil here wasn't all that thick: only a couple of feet. I suspected that it wouldn't be enough: either the wolves or the local Native Americans would dig him up, the locals for the clothing, the wolves for a free feed.
Neither we nor the Independence company nor the Johnson company had a preacher with them. Luckily, one of the Independence company was a guy named Roger Wharton who, like many Episcopalians, had a copy of The Book of Common Prayer. When it comes to performing funerals, marriages, and communion, the Book is the next best thing to a how-to manual. In the process, I learned that the dead man had been named Jonathan Swayne. Despite his lack of ordination, Wharton did the reading while the rest of us did the praying and the singing. After the service was concluded, the men set about burying the body, heaping stones on top to discourage scavengers. We then went back to our respective wagons in a somber mood.
Buck had been dosed with Laudanum and was out of it when we buried his friend. He was angry at me later on for not letting him say good-bye. Somehow, I held my tongue, although I did have thoughts of braining him with a cast-iron frying pan. I still loathed him but it looked like we'd arrive at the bridge two days hence and we'd be shut of him.
Not that I was idle the closer we drew to the bridge. I still helped load and unload the wagon, helped search for fuel, and helped Kara with meals. Even with all that, though, I'd begun working on my next scheme: seeing if the walls between this world and the one I'd come from were thin enough to let me use my cell phone. I was hoping and praying that if the walls between the worlds were thin enough, I might be able to call someone in my family and tell them what had happened to me. Wisely or not, I'd try phoning after we arrived at Fort Caspar.
Author's Notes: Laudanum was an opiate commonly used by households up to around 1900 or so. It is related to morphine and was used as a cure-all as well as a pain-killer. Highly addictive and having many of the same effects as morphine and heroin, its use has since been restricted and even banned. This story being set in 1860, it was still in use.
The Book of Common Prayer is a religious text used by the Church of England and many Anglican churches.
