Daria on the Trail.
Three Crossings and a Nobleman
DISCLAIMER: A Song of Ice and Fire was written by George RR Martin. Daria was created by Glen Eichler and belongs to MTV Viacom. I own neither franchise.
This story is based on my research on the real Oregon Trail, not on the video game of the same name. One of the reasons more real pioneers made it to Oregon was because they traveled in multi-wagon wagon trains. Strength in numbers and all that.
This story was written for my own amusement and ego gratification. Stroke my ego: please write and post a review.
Thanks again to Ultimate Paladin for giving me the idea that inspired this story!
Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail
Daria: Our next few days were a continuing slog as we continued along the Sweetwater River towards the turnoff for the Lander Road. By now most of our company had been sold on the idea of taking the Lander Road instead of one of the older cut-offs: a returning gold-seeker's description of the awful descent down Big Hill had filtered from a neighboring company to our company and nobody wanted anything to do with it. Added to the thought of having to deal with dead animals and more wrecked wagons, the idea of the Lander Road looked pretty good. For several days we continued to see Split Rock. From a distance, it looks like someone or something had formed a giant V-shaped split in the rock formation. For some of us, it looked like God (or someone very much like Him) had thrown down a great thunderbolt from Heaven and shattered a mountain peak, either to smite some enemy, show off His power, or just for the hell of it. For more secular-minded people like me, Split Rock looked like the V in a rifle sight.
Our company remained in good spirits despite the arid landscape and some of the grimmer portents we saw along the way. We passed a number of graves along the way: most of them seemed to be Americans or Europeans who had died on the trek. I got to read some of them. I noted that more of them seemed to be during the height of the California Gold Rush and the Cholera years, although there were some more recent graves. I wondered what would happen to the grave sites in the coming decades: I knew that the Union Pacific's Overland Route to the south would siphon off a lot of the Emigrant Trails' traffic, but there would still be some people taking the old trails.
What I found more distressing were several wrecked wagons we spotted along the way: their sides and canvas still proclaimed them to be part of Thomas Ridge's Company. They'd been part of our company back when our company had been crossing the plains. Our company had split up back at Fort Laramie when Thomas Ridge had broken away and took his faction with him. Even though I hadn't become part of our company until Chimney Rock, I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to them. Did they and some of the others consolidate their stuff on the remaining wagons? Had they lucked out and gotten replacement wagons from some turn-around or other, or would we either pass the survivors or mourn the dead as we passed their graves?
I wasn't the only one affected. Jilla and Minti had spotted the abandoned wagons lying on the side of the trail, pointing to them and talking to each other in hushed tones. They'd gathered around Kara, who looked as distressed as her daughters when she saw whose wagons they'd been. They paused for what I supposed were short prayers to the Seven before they resumed their trudge westwards.
We camped that evening near the Split Rock Pony Express station. We were still able to light campfires: if buffalo chips were scarce, there was enough dried cattle dung to make do for a campfire. After making camp, Captain Trout, Kara and the other Westerosi in the train faced the direction of the wrecked wagons and said prayers for the people who'd split off and gone with that fool Ridge. When we finished, I saw that our Company's Christians had gotten the same idea: if they didn't feel comfortable praying with Seven-worshippers and the not-so-practicing Jewess, they took their turn at praying for the dead, and the missing who had broken away and for those who were still alive.
That night I had a memorable dream. That was unusual because I usually didn't remember my dreams out here: I'm usually too exhausted. I dreamt about a car roaring down some dark and lonely highway. The driver loses control and the car slides across the median, then off the pavement, hurtling through a dimensional porthole and onto the trail, rocking up and down and losing speed, but not enough. It collides with someone's covered wagon before it comes to a complete stop, its headlights shining brightly despite the damage it took. With alarm, I looked at the wreck site and thought Oh my God, there could be people sleeping under that wagon! Were they hurt? I was so worked up that I woke up. I rose up out of my blanket and looked around our camp site. It was still pitch dark and quiet. I looked at my watch: it was 2:30AM and all was well, or at least well enough. Even so, it was some time before I was able to go back to sleep.
I was able to sleep for a few hours, a few dreamless hours. Then Kara nudged me awake so I help make breakfast for the new day. It was dark: not quite a new moon, but getting there. No dimensional porthole, no hurtling automobile. Just another day on the trail west of Independence Rock.
The next day was memorable for its river crossings. We had to cross the Sweetwater not once, not twice, but three times all told. It was now mid-summer and the water level had lowered from where it must have been after the winter snow melted away. We made camp about five miles beyond the last crossing. There was a cliff nearby, a place where people had carved their names into the rock. Despite the demands of camp life, several of our women took turns wandering over to look at the rock face, hoping that some of the people from Ridge's company had survived to carve their names there. I confess I was curious myself, but I didn't go look. The next morning I learned through the grapevine that the Buckhorns and the Peases had carved their names there. At least somebody was surviving Thomas Ridge's Wild West Demolition Derby.
We got a surprise before we set out: an actual enclosed carriage was heading east, an enclosed carriage followed by a covered wagon with guards and a mixed train of horses and pack mules behind it. I wondered who they were. Obviously somebody rich. My guess was that they were probably well-off European nobles: there were still more than a few of those in Britain and on the Continent in the here-and-now. I quickly learned just how wrong I was.
The fancy-pants' train slowed to a stop beside our wagon. Someone lifted one of the canvas curtains. and yelled "Jarrow, go and ask one of these people where we are." My eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't said it in English; he'd said it in Andal.
Some instinct told me there could be trouble. I once again remembered that I was a Highland girl and that my instincts could well be dead-on. I reached into the wagon and reached for my revolver, reproaching myself for leaving only three bullets in the cylinder. Once I had it in hand I draped a worn shawl over it to conceal it.
Jarrow rode over to where Captain Trout was standing, along with me and Kara. "Excuse mes," he said. "Are we where here?"
"You're about five miles west of Three Crossings," Captain Trout replied in Andal. "That would be about a league and a half or so."
Jarrow turned his horse around and went back to his boss.
"Excuse me my good man," said the guy in the carriage. "Could you guide me there and from thence to the Platte River Holdfast?" I didn't like the way he said it. Arrogant, condescending, upper-class berk.
"I thank you, M'lord, but I don't think you have need of my assistance," Captain Trout replied. "The route to the Crossings is clear enough. Once past the crossings, making your way to Devil's Gate and then to the Holdfast is easy."
"I could pay you in gold," said the man in the carriage. I could feel the tension rising.
"I thank you for the offer, M'Lord, but I have already made oaths and commitments," Captain Trout replied. "We're bound for Oregon."
My Highland childhood started sending bad vibes.
"Kennard," I said, "Do you have your piece?"
"No," he replied.
"Let's speak English," I said, changing. "Kennard, I think it would be a good idea to tell some of the others that we have trouble and that they should bring their guns."
By good fortune, Mr. Johnson and his lieutenants walked up to our wagon.
"What's the hold-up?" said Mr. Johnson.
"A Westerosi bigshot is heading east and wants to borrow Captain Trout to guide him," I said. "I hope you stick around. I don't think he's the sort of guy who takes No for an answer and things might get ugly."
"Do you think there'll be trouble?" he said.
"Maybe," I said. "But if the guy in the carriage sees that enough of us are carrying weapons, he might remember that he's not in the Seven Kingdoms and that bullets do more damage than pointy sticks."
Mr. Johnson looked at the other party and frowned. He then turned to one of his men and said "Jesse, go back and bring up some men."
I turned my attention back to Captain Trout. He was still being polite and deferential in a way I'd never seen him, but insistent. "I appreciate your fine offer, M'Lord, but I wish to cross the Blue Mountains before the first snows," he said. "Though this world's sun shines brightly now, Winter is coming."
Winter is coming? I wondered how the guy in the carriage was taking the Stark family motto.
I threw my shawl over my shoulder, bringing my revolver out of concealment. A couple of the guards started to look uneasy. One of them dismounted from his horse, walked over to the carriage, and had a short, frantic conversation with the guy in the carriage.
"I implore you in the name of hospitality," said the man in the carriage.
I saw that more of our people were moving forward. It was heartening to see that so many of our people were carrying, but I was beginning to worry that things might get out of control. Captain Trout waited for a moment, then spoke.
"M'Lord, we have not shared bread and salt. Furthermore, Ser Goldwin released me from my oaths before I went through the Arch. What is more, while I do have some experience with freighting back in the Seven Kingdoms, I am also a stranger in this country. I would counsel you to hire a Yankee trail guide, someone who knows this country better than I do. Perhaps someone at the next station might know of one." There were stage coach and Pony Express stations near the crossings.
By now there were more and more people drifting up to the front of our wagon train, both from our Company and from Johnson's. Looking back, I like to think that the guy in the carriage had recalculated the odds.
"Very well. Be that way. I hope you die in the snows, peasant!" said the Big Shot. He then said something to his driver that I didn't catch, and his carriage lurched into motion, the rest of his cortege following behind him.
I muttered an Andal epithet that I'd learned back in Maryland as the nobleman's train continued past.
Mr. Johnson overheard me. "What did you just say?" he said.
"Something very naughty that would cause Mrs. Johnson to wash your kids' mouths out with soap," I replied. "At least if they could pronounce it properly."
Captain Trout looked around at all the people who'd turned out for support.
"Thank you," he said.
"Let's get going," he said. He glanced at his son. "Kennard, give the signal."
Kennard blew his horn and our train resumed its journey westwards.
Author's notes:
I am cooking the history books by including a stage line running through the central Rockies and the Sierras at this time. The Civil War and the Texas and Arkansas lines falling into Confederate hands would cause the transcontinental California stages to be re-routed along much of the California Trail, but not until 1861. My rationale is that the interdimensional portal in Kansas would inspire a second, more northerly stagecoach operation.
The car dream is a marker I made in case I ever do choose to write a story (what the folks over at SpaceBattles call an Apocrypha) about a car hurtling through a time-space wormhole and crashing next to Daria's camp. The story would not be what really happened in this story.
