Daria on the Trail
Chapter 53: The Green And Across
DISCLAIMER: This crossover story is a western based on an idea by Ultimate Paladin. A Song of Ice and Fire was written by George RR Martin. Daria was created by Glen Eichler. I own neither property: A Song of Ice and Fire is the property of George RR Martin and Daria is owned by MTV Viacom.
This story is not based on the Oregon Trail video game but on my personal research concerning the real Oregon Trail.
Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail
Daria:
Captain Trout ordered a pause when we reached the banks of the Green River. No way were we going to casually cross it: the Green River had a sinister reputation stretching all the way back to Missouri. He was going to stop and study it first, then figure out the best way to get us and our wagons across. Not that he had much choice but to pause: there were at least three companies already camped by the Green and they'd most likely cross first.
I thoroughly approved of his decision. In my opinion, Captain Trout had shown time and time again that he knew what he was doing. Despite our now being on the far side of the Continental Divide, I found such a trait was not only a very good thing but could mean the difference between our survival and disaster. During my weeks traveling in his wagon, I'd heard and overheard a lot about Westerosi rivers and the difficulties he'd had in fording them: there had been some that had been slow and deep, others shallower but with swift, tricky currents, and a couple with the worst of both worlds: deep with swift currents. The Green could be both: it was so deep and so fast that Emigrants downstream had to use ferrymen to get themselves and their wagons across. We'd have to be careful here.
This time I was excluded from the early planning sessions. I don't know if it was sexism or whether what with Captain Johnson and his lieutenants present, Captain Trout didn't think my presence was needed. Since my presence wasn't so necessary, I joined Mrs. Mudd and the other women down by the riverside to do some laundry.
By now the Company had gotten used to having Westerosi women as well as contemporary Yankees and one temporally-displaced Morgendorffer. If most of the Yankees in our company were believers, we lacked the religious bigotry that drove the other four Westerosi families from their previous wagon train. If we didn't cook together, we gathered fuel for our campfires together, washed together, and carried water from creeks and streams back to our campsites. If the Riverlander women didn't speak English very well, they pointed and gestured, making friends with some of the other women as they began to pick up bits of English as we slowly trudged west. If it was something that they couldn't handle, I was called in to translate.
Another sign of our growing solidarity was that my idea of calling ourselves the Fish Company was catching on. The American women liked the idea of us calling ourselves the Fish company because of the references in the New Testament while the Westerosi liked it because of the fact that their former overlords had used fish in their heraldry.
If we weren't planning our river crossing, hunting, or just fishing, we did laundry. It wasn't just us Fishes doing laundry. So were some of the women from Captain Johnson's California company. Despite the fact that we'd been traveling together practically since we'd left Fort Laramie, we hadn't had much to do with each other. They knew of me, I knew that they were there, but we hadn't talked very much. We said our "Good mornings" and got to work.
I joined Kara and the other Westerosi settled down by the riverside to do wash. Put it in the water and get it wet, soap it up, scrub as best as possible, rinse, and if necessary repeat. Then go on and do the next item. None of us had washboards and despite the fact that I'd thought that washboards were a barbarism back in the early 2000's, I was coming to believe that having one would be a big improvement over the way we were doing it in what I thought of as western Wyoming.
One of the California Emigrants knelt down next to me. I'd seen her around. I thought her name was Betsy.
"Can I sit here?" she said.
"Sure," I said.
"I don't think we've introduced ourselves," she said. "I'm Betsy Gibbons."
"Hello, I'm Daria Morgendorffer," I said.
"You're with that Oregon-bound company, aren't you?" said Betsy.
"Yes I am," I said. "They took me in near Chimney Rock and I'm doing what I can to get them to Oregon."
"Your Captain's a foreigner, isn't he?" said Betsy.
"He is," I replied. "He's from Westeros. The Riverlands, if you want to get more specific."
"Has he ever been to Oregon?" said Betsy.
"No," I said, "but then again a lot of companies on the trail have captains who haven't been there either."
"Does he have any experience with wagon trains?" Betsy asked.
"If he isn't one of those Mountain Men-turned-trail-guide, he's somebody who's run caravans back in Westeros, so I think we've got somebody who knows what he's doing," I said. "I'd take that over being led around by some loudmouth who's only led a file of militiamen in some Indian skirmish."
"You aren't saying Captain Johnson is a loud-mouth, are you?" said Betsy. She sounded offended.
"I didn't say that," I replied. "As a matter of fact, I think Captain Johnson's doing a good job with you all," I said. "But Captain Ridge didn't do a good job with our company."
"Who?" said Betsy.
"Thomas Ridge," I said. "He was the captain of our Company when it left Westport. He was voted out at Ash Hollow, then he took his faction and struck out on his own back at Fort Laramie."
"And you say that he was a bad captain because?" said Betsy.
"He didn't stop for repairs and he either didn't get or ignored reports of the terrain we'd be crossing," I said. "We've been passing broken wagons from his bunch from Deep Rut Hill past Devil's Gate. People who were in our company. People who'd probably still be rolling west with us if they'd stayed at Fort Laramie and got their wagons fixed and their outfits reorganized instead of following that blamed fool to ruin."
Talking to Betsy I was reminded that I hadn't noticed any of Ridge's people's wagons since the Ninth Crossing of the Sweetwater. Even counting the wrecked wagons along the way, there should still have been enough wagons left that Ridge wouldn't have called it quits. Where were they? What had happened to them? I don't think he would have blitzed past us on the Lander Road. Maybe he took another route? The Seminoe Cutoff was another route across the Continental Divide. He could have gone that way.
And then what? Could he have backtracked to the Lander Road or might he have led his people down the Sublette or the Slate Creek cutoffs? I hoped the strutting fool had just enough sense to take the latter route: the Sublette was supposed to be strewn with horses, oxen and mules that had died of thirst.
"You're rather worked up about this," said Betsy.
"I am," I said.
"You're worried about them," she said.
"I think his people could use our prayers," I said.
"And what about us?" said Betsy.
"We can all use prayers too but I think we've got much better chances for making it over the western mountains than he does getting this far," I said.
"I don't put my trust in princes but I think we and you all are going to get across the mountains and to the Raft River," I said.
"And then?" said Betsy.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm going to Oregon, not California."
"Daria, what are you and that Yankee woman talking about?" said Raina, one of the other Riverlander women.
"Wagon Trains and Thomas Ridge," I replied. "I fear that those people who are with Captain Ridge are in trouble."
"What made you think that?" said Raina.
"The only signs we've seen of them have been their wrecked wagons and some of their dead animals," I replied. "I'd feel happier if we'd seen them making their way down the Trail."
"I don't think that Raina's heard any news about Ridge's people either," I said in English to Betsy.
"So what are you planning to do once you get to Oregon?" said Betsy.
"I'm not sure," I replied. "I might go into business. I might become a school teacher." I wish I could go home, I thought, but that doesn't seem to be in the cards.
"I think you ought to go to California instead of Oregon," said Betsy.
She had a point, I thought. I didn't know that much about Oregon's and Washington's history, but I knew that California was likely to be the happening place in the Far West for the next couple of decades. On the other hand the California Trail went across the Humboldt Sink. That part of their trail included a forty mile stretch without water. That stretch not only killed mules and oxen, but also would-be pioneers. Lots of them. I wanted nothing to do with it.
"I'll think about it when I get to the Willamette," I said. "I definitely plan to winter there. If I decide that I don't like it, I'm sure that I could catch a ship or tag along with somebody's pack train down to California."
We finally finished what would have been the last bit of the "Rinse" cycle on a washing machine and I picked up the soggy laundry and headed back to our wagons. I thought wistfully about washers and dryers, dismissing them as irretrievably lost, then thought about clothes pins. Did those exist yet? If not I was going to invent them.
Orrick Trout:
I spent part of the morning watched another wagon train ford the Green River. I wasn't sure if this one was bound for Oregon or for California and I didn't much care. What concerned m was how well their company would survive their crossing the Green River.
These people didn't use ferries, choosing to ford it instead. The water was shallower here than were the fords near Fort Laramie: the water at the ford was deep but I didn't think we needed to use the ferries. I saw that they didn't use either a mule or a yoke of oxen and men or draft animals to stabilize their wagons. For the first few minutes it looked like they wouldn't need them: perhaps we wouldn't need the same level of preparation we'd used when crossing the New Branch? I'd watch and see what would happen. I then saw one of their ox teams drop into a deep hole. Their wagon began to float away and Orrick Trout pursed his lips. That wouldn't have happened if those people had a yoke at the rear as well as upstream: the wagon might have lifted off of the river bottom, but it would have remained under control. I saw the teamsters tried to stabilize the wagon and keep it from either drifting away of turning over. I was relieved when I saw that they managed to keep their wagon upright and their wagon's wheels found the river-bottom.
"Learn anything?" said a voice behind me. It was Captain Johnson, the leader of the California-bound wagon train that was traveling with them until the California Trail split away at the Raft River. Johnson had not been a caravanner like I was, but he'd shown an ability to watch and a willingness to learn what he could from him and through watching other companies along the trail.
"I think so," I said. "Unless the river rises tomorrow, I think I've learned that we can ford the river tomorrow and how we can do it."
"So what's your plan?" said Johnson.
"We'll do it the same way we crossed the New Fork."
Johnson nodded. We'd forded the New Fork with care, first caulking their wagons and lowering their tarps, then sending their wagons across a couple at a time with leads teams of oxen, a yoke of oxen upstream to stabilize it, and another yoke behind it to reduce the chance of the wagon turning over or drifting away.
"It'll be slow," said Johnson.
"True," I replied. "But it will be faster than having to deal with what happens if one or more of our wagons tip over in the water."
Johnson nodded again. That was true.
Daria:
The Captain started spreading the word around as we were preparing dinner. Not everybody was by the wagons. It was still light. Little Martin Mudd was running around with some other kids his age while Kennard and Willem were trying their luck at fishing. I wished them luck: I was sick and tired of salty bacon and doughy bread and even a bite or two of trout would be a welcome relief.
Captain Trout stopped by our camp spot which we were baking flatbread.
"Daria, Lady Mudd, we will cross the Green River tomorrow," he said.
"How are we going to do it?" I asked.
"The same way we crossed the New Fork," he said.
"How deep is the river?" I asked.
"Over four foots," he said.
"We'd better caulk the wagons before we set out tomorrow," I said to Susana.
"Anything else we should know, Boss?" I said.
"The river is deeper than the New Fork," he said. "I think you and Lady Susana and the boy should stay in the wagon bed when we cross."
I nodded my head. It was risky, but all the major crossings had been risky. This one was less risky than others. And it's a rehearsal for Three Island Crossing, a dangerous crossing of the Snake we'd be facing in a couple of hundred miles. That was one crossing I was not looking forward to.
-XXX—XXX—XXX—
Susana and I woke up early the following morning and finished unloading the wagon. Just as we'd done at the New River, we emptied the wagon: everything came out. We then set to caulking it. That took a while, even with young Martin's help. Perhaps I'm being too charitable—despite Martin's help. It seemed like forever, but eventually we got it done.
We then went off in search of Susana's oxen. We were relatively lucky: they hadn't strayed very far. Susana and I had to yoke the oxen together: despite our few days' acquaintance, the oxen still didn't trust me very much and it took both me and Susana to persuade them into accepting the yoke. We then led them over to the wagon: we'd lowered our covers, caulked our wagon, and attached our yokes to the wagon tongue. We were about as ready as we were likely to be. Still, we were ready to go by 9:00 AM, admittedly late, but we were making a major river crossing and I doubted that we'd get that far.
Captain Trout walked down the line a few minutes later, inspecting our wagons and teams before we left. He gave Susana's wagon a little more attention than he did some of the others, then nodded in approval. He looked at me and said "Daria, you're shaping up to be a real emigrant woman."
"Thank you," I replied in English.
He looked at young Martin and smiled.
"Lad, are you ready to cross the Green?"
"Yes!" Martin replied enthusiastically.
Captain Trout turned his attention back to Susana and me and said "You'll be the third wagon across."
Oh, boy, I gulped.
Captain Trout left us to inspect the other wagons, then walked past us, leading a yoke of his oxen. I recognized them: I'd led them and occasionally helped yoke them a few times. I wondered if they'd be the pair upstream or if they'd help steady the wagon when we went into the river. He reached his wagon and team a few minutes later. Kennard then blew his horn and our party began to shift into a traveling formation.
Susana and I stopped well short of the edge of the river as Captain Trout and some of the other male Emigrants began to prepare our wagons to make the crossing. Several of the other men attached ropes to a yoke of still-dripping oxen standing to our right: they'd bear the brunt of the current brushing against the sides of our wagon. I noted that one of them was Joss, our company's token Northman. A couple of other guys attached ropes to the rear of our wagon: they'd help steady it and prevent if from drifting away if it proved too buoyant. Susana and I walked around the wagon to see how well the guys had done: it was acceptable.
"I guess this is it," I said. Susana got into the wagon, then I did. Martin scowled, then put his hands on his hips.
"I want to ford like a man!" he said.
"When you're older and bigger, sweetheart," said Susana.
"And when you know how to swim!" I added.
I think Martin would have remained on the eastern bank if he didn't get his way. He didn't have enough situational awareness: Joss picked him up and handed him over to Susana.
"Here you go!" he said in his Andal-accented English.
Susana thanked Joss, then told Martin to sit down. One of the guys leading our oxen gave a shout and our wagon began to move. Marin gave a yelp as he fell down onto a sack of flour.
We were into the Green a short time later, our oxen wading in, then the water rising against our wheel rims as our wagon followed the cattle. It soon rose to flow against the sides of our wagon-box and water began to seep through some of the spaces we'd caulked. I began to start worrying.
I don't like river crossings. I particularly don't like fording wide rivers with fast-moving currents. The Green was one of the latter. The water flowed against and around the sides of Susana's wagon, waves occasionally lapping over the top and into the wagon bed as we plodded slowly, slowly across. The sounds were particularly unnerving, especially considering that I didn't have a helmet or a life-vest like a river rafter. Our wagon momentarily lifted and I felt my heart pounding in fright. I was sufficiently frightened that I prayed a short prayer: something like "God, let me live through this!", but the river kept flowing and flowing until I began to feel that the lead yoke of oxen was beginning to wade out of the Green and onto the western riverbank and I could begin to catch my breath again.
We were across.
Author's Notes:
One of the reasons for the long delay in writing this chapter was my concern as to how Daria and her wagon train were going to get across the Green River in southwestern Wyoming. The Green River crossings were some of the most dangerous crossings on the combined Oregon and California trail. A lot of pioneers and Forty-Niners either lost their animals, their wagons, or their lives trying to get across the Green. Many pioneers and would-be gold-seekers chose to hire ferrymen rather than drown or lose their wagons and animals trying to get across. The crossings continued to kill people long after the coming of the first Transcontinental Railroad in 1869.
Daria and her company did choose to ford the Green rather than take a ferry, but then again, Daria and her company chose to ford the Green well upstream from where most of the earlier Emigrants had crossed it and upstream from where the "New Fork" river added its water and power to the Green's currents.
Captain Trout's technique for crossing the Green River is based on the methods used by Marcus and Narcissa Whitman's wagon train to cross the Snake River at Three Island Crossing (present-day Glenns Ferry, Idaho) in 1843.
Some readers might wonder why Captain Trout and his company doesn't choose to seek refuge in some nearby town. The answer is simple: there are no nearby towns. This story is set in the year 1860 and the Trout wagon train is currently out in the wilderness, hundreds of miles from any Euro-American settlement.
