Sorrows’ Children Sorrows’ Children
Yes . . . the ocean. The ocean was the only thing she could compare the prairie to. The only difference was the waves were created by grass swaying and bobbing in a fickle prairie breeze rather than the tug of the tide. It was just as big, though. Just as splendid, too. Patches of sunflowers stood like brightly lit islands amidst the waves, their gold fringed faces turned adoringly in the direction of the mid-day sun. Their wagon was a boat. No . . . not a boat. Their wagon was a ship and its canvas covering was their sail. She could almost hear the sound of the breeze as it collected behind the sail, propelling her magical ship through the sea of thin-bladed grass. It was a grand ship carrying them to a new land – a land far removed from the threat of a war they wanted no part of.
She tried to imagine what it would feel like to run through the grass as she had in the ocean. For a moment she considered taking off her shoes and jumping into the green waves, but she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a married woman and a married woman didn’t do such things. At least not while her husband was watching.
He had become adept at handling the horses. Their journey had begun a little more than three months before with a rough start. He was not experienced in driving a team but he had learned quickly. He had to. If you didn’t keep up with the wagon train, you were left behind. “We got schedules to keep! Got passes to cross and rivers to ford ’fore the snow flies!” the wagon master had bellowed with such animation and repetition the travelers had taken to mocking him behind his back. East-coast born and bred, the young man never dreamed he would be starting a new life in the West. “The edge of the earth!” his neighbors had scoffed. The notion of a city boy and his young wife embarking on such a trip – not to mention giving up civilized society for the barbarism of the West – was nothing short of lunacy in their estimation. But now that their families had passed on and the threat of war was sounding more like a promise than a rumor, the decision to leave Maryland and head west was not difficult to make.
Their grisly guide had entertained the travelers around more than one campfire with his tales of the perils awaiting them in the ‘wild west’. It was obvious from early on the wagon master had a penchant for the overly dramatic. To be fair, they had encountered a few obstacles on the journey. There was the wild dog, its mouth lathered with white foam, that had threatened some of the children. The wagon master had pronounced the dog rabid and promptly put a bullet through its skull. Then there were the folks from Ohio who had refused to lighten their wagon’s load and had nearly killed their horses because of it. There had been an occasional broken axle or damaged wheel. It was a long journey. Such problems were to be expected. But overall, the trip had been remarkably uneventful.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, rousing his wife from her daydream.
He thought for a moment, his inexperienced eyes scanning the miles of open country ahead of them. “That river we saw on the map is right ahead of us,” he answered with feigned certainty. “We’ll follow it ‘til it forks. Then we’ll follow the fork that runs due south and make it to Fort St. Vrain within a week.”
She grinned and threw him a skeptical, narrow eyed look. “You’re guessing, aren’t you?”
The mid-day sun was warm and she pushed up the sleeves of her faded lavender gingham dress to cool her arms. It was a bit tight on her still, especially through the bodice. A bit uncomfortable. Maybe once they were settled she could buy a new dress but lavender gingham would do for now. Keeping their load light, they had brought few belongings with them. There would be time for new dresses later. Plenty of time.
She closed her eyes again and wrapped her arm tighter around his, feeling his newly-hardened muscles flex as he urged the team through the rippling waves of grass. He had changed on this trip. He was no longer a city boy – he had grown strong. Her hero. Her swashbuckling sailor, steering her magical ship through the ocean of green waves. She leaned into his side – contented – losing herself in her daydream.
A sudden jolt forward of the wagon roused her and she sat upright. Her husband slapped the reins across the horses’ rumps, urgently pleading the matched pair into a run.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled, grabbing hold of the wooden seat as the wagon picked up speed and bounced across the uneven terrain.
“Get in the wagon!” he answered and slapped the reins harder against the team’s glossy backsides. When she hesitated, he demanded again, louder. “Get in the wagon!”
Obediently turning to climb over the seat and under the canvas covering she saw them and her mouth dropped open nearly as wide as her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat and a gasp of fearful disbelief was the only sound she could muster. They weren’t the make-believe attackers of her imagination. They were painted, wild looking and real. She could hear them. Yelling. Screaming foreign words. She felt the wagon tilt to the left as a wheel glanced the edge of a rock. Losing her balance she tumbled over the seat and skidded on the floor, driving a splinter from the dry wooden planks into the palm of her hand. Gathering her wits she pushed herself to her knees only to sprawl on the floor once more as the air-borne wheel bounced against solid ground.
She pulled herself along the wagon floor to the large wicker basket as the wagon careened dangerously to the left and then the right, back to the left again. Screaming. More screaming. “Shhhh…..” she pleaded, gently rocking the basket as the wagon continued to lurch about. She reached into the basket, her hands trembling to the frantic beating of her heart, but stopped, her attention divided between instinct and the panic in her husband’s voice.
