Passing Strange (eBook)

The Overland Trail, 1852

Kathrin Rudland (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
336 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-0663-9 (ISBN)

Infos

'Passing Strange' is the story of a widowed woman's two journeys in 1852. It is a tale not only of her arduous and dangerous journey on the Overland Trail, but also her personal growth in the crucible years of woman's emancipation. It is a story of how she moves from a predictable, male-dominated life to an independent, unchartered one. Well-researched from diaries, memoirs and journals, the events and characters are based on many adventurous moments in the prairies and plains of the time.

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"e;Passing Strange"e; is the fictionalized story seen through the lens of an educated, older woman who experiences the devastating loss of her husband at the beginning of the Overland Trail in 1852. Determined to fulfill his plan to build a school in Oregon, she travels in an ox-driven covered wagon with a large coffin filled with books, unaware thousands of gold coins lay hidden in the flour bin. Knowing she cannot travel alone, she hires a weary, older scout to safely escort her on the two thousand mile trail. Along the trek she meets and travels with an erratic cast of characters: a pregnant, steamboat survivor; a mysterious preacher; an abused runaway girl; a malaria-ridden writer; an unhinged man; a photographer of the dead; and Native Americans. Enduring a trail of fast-paced adventures in a quicksand-filled river, blinding storms, arduous mountains, and brutal deserts, she secretly records her innermost thoughts in a Commonplace Book. As a granny healer, she treats many snake bites, camp fevers, childbirth, and deadly cholera. Unlike the heroic and noble pioneer stories with events written by men, this is a tale not of a woman's limitations, but of her strength of mind and resilience to succeed.

Textauszug

CHAPTER ONE

Jared Hamilton stopped, shook his foot in irritation and stomped it up and down on the ground. The stinging sensation slowly turned into numbness, and he stared at his boot for a while as though it held some secret for the annoyance. He reasoned the air wasn’t cold enough to suffer frostbite, yet his foot remained without any feeling. Twisting his ankle around and around, he became startled when the strange feeling began to creep up his leg and into his thigh. It felt odd, almost as though something inside his body was determined to have its way, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

No need for a fuss, he told himself; it would go away in time. Hadn’t he suffered ague, a broken leg, fevers, and cuts and bruises during his fifty-six years of life? His wife could make a good, hot poultice on his leg that would put things to right as soon as he got back to the wagon at the campground. Martha had packed her medicine chest to treat everything from colds to snakebites.

It felt almost as if he had stepped on nettles. Reaching down with his left arm to rub his leg, he frowned as he watched his arm move in slow motion. It felt heavy and tired, not connected to his body. Irritated, he spat a wad of saliva beside his boot and stared at the ground. Clenching his teeth, he leaned forward. “Move. Move, dammit,” he demanded. His voice sounded garbled, almost like low barks of a dog.

A pounding pain began behind his left eye, and he shook his head. “Damn,” his voice rasped as his throat became tight. It was getting harder to breathe and he jerked at the collar of his shirt with his right hand to get more air. In the effort, he lost his balance and toppled over sideways.

For some time, he lay in the prairie grass, his mouth opened wide as he struggled for air. The numbness had spread all the way up the left side of his body.

If only the pain in his head would go away.

*

Martha covered her mouth, her eyes wide. Her husband, Jared, had been found dead.

“I was out huntin’ and saw him lying on the ground near a tangle of brush and vines and such.” The man took off his hat, holding it in both hands as a sign of the gravity of the news.

Arm outstretched, he pointed in the direction where he discovered the body. “There, out there I found ’im. Sure enough. He were cold and not breathin’. Sorry, Miz Hamilton, to bring you such news.”

Martha softly scoffed at his words. “No, it can’t be Jared. You’ve made a mistake. It’s someone else, maybe someone who looks like Jared.”

The man wore a thin frown on his lips. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. T’were your husband for sure. I knowed what your husband looked like. Musta sickened out there fast and couldn’t git movin’ again. I’m here to git some men to help carry ’im back to the campground. Thought it right to tell you first.”

Martha sighed. “Jared was fine this morning.” Suddenly the words rushed out of her mouth. “Why, he fed the oxen, ate breakfast, and checked the wagon rims just as he’s done every morning. Then he went out hunting for quail.” Shaking her head, she stared out into the prairie. “The day’s getting on. He’ll be here shortly for dinner. You can see him for yourself.” She strained her eyes and stood on tiptoes to search for his familiar, loping figure returning to their wagon. “What an outlandish idea,” she whispered.

She looked like an outgrowth of the Iowa prairie grass itself where she stood: tall, thin, swaying back and forth in gusts of the cold wind. There was nothing remarkable about her. She left no lasting impression on anyone meeting her, other than her quiet composure and unchanging face, making it difficult to guess she was fifty-two years old. Squinting her brown eyes, she shoved her hands inside her apron, tightened the shawl about her shoulders, and stared into the horizon where Jared had wandered.

No part of her hinted at the fear she held inside.

The man turned to leave, and stopped as though he needed to share something he didn’t want to say out loud. “Jest so you know,” he said softly, “prepare yourself. Looked like he’d been out there for a long while, maybe dead for couple hours ’fore I saw ’im. He’s not the same.”

“He’s not the same?” Martha repeated, shaking her head. “The same? Jared’s the same dependable person I’ve known for the last thirteen years.” She wished the man would go away with his outrageous story. In a controlled voice she said, “He’ll be here as he promised, and he’ll be plenty hungry. There’s broth simmering over the fire for a good stew. His favorite.”

*

Four men walked toward the campground in the waning light of the evening sun, their bodies hunched over the heavy burden they carried. Martha watched as they lowered Jared’s large, cumbersome bulk on the ground as if placing a baby into a cradle with great tenderness.

“Easy now, easy now,” one man murmured. “Give his body some comfort at the last.”

For several minutes, the men stood encircled over the dead body, solemn and waiting for her to speak. Martha’s mouth twitched, but the words refused to come out; once the words were said, they would become real.

Dead. Jared. Dead.

Finally, the captain of the wagon train spoke. “Mrs. Hamilton, sorry for your loss, right enough, but you need to make some decisions soon. These wagons have to move on early tomorrow mornin’. Sunrise early. Can’t wait. Folks need to git to St. Joe. Most have reservations for the ferry to cross the Missouri.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved closer to Martha and said in a sympathetic tone, “Now, I’m gonna ask the men here to dig his grave over yonder by that tree while you spend some time with your husband, preparin’ him for his final restin’ place.”

A pause and then she whispered, “Bury him out here in this prairie wilderness?” She began to weep, gulping words as she breathed in and out. “Leave him here . . . all alone?” She stared at Jared’s motionless body. He looked as though he was asleep. She wanted to lean over and poke him to wake up.

“If you want, we can have a short service in a few hours over the grave site. There’s a preacher hereabouts who can say a few words, read some verses from the Good Book, sing whatever you think is suitable.” He glanced at her confused expression. “Mrs. Hamilton, are you listenin’?”

“Yes, yes. Short service. Can’t you give him more time before he’s buried? He was here this morning and felt fine.”

His eyes widened, and he sighed. “Mrs. Hamilton, I’m putting out the hard truth for you. Your husband’s been dead for some hours and won’t mind what anybody says or sings, and that’s a fact.” Glancing around the campground, he pointed to a slight rise in the ground next to a tree. “There, right there, is a good enough place. We need to bury him as soon as we can. We’ll put plenty of stones on the grave so’s the wolves won’t dig him up. Ground is hard-diggin’ with those grass roots. Frost is settlin’ in as well. Do the best we can for ’im.”

Head bowed, she whispered, “Stones for the wolves. Yes. Stones.”

“You’ll want some women to help you prepare him for burial.”

“No, no help. I can manage by myself.” Martha looked at Jared’s still body and couldn’t imagine him being so exposed, so vulnerable, in front of strange women. She half expected him to sit up and politely refuse their help, embarrassed at the intimacy of their work.

The man’s stout hands gestured back toward the east. “You need to decide whether or not you want to return to your family back in Illinois. But for now, you need to move on with us to St. Joe ’til we can find someone to take you back. I can’t leave you here all alone.” He removed his hat and scratched the side of his head. “I’ll find someone to help you, especially with your ox team.”

He cupped his hands against his mouth and shouted to the others in the camping site, “We’re leavin’ before daybreak tomorrow, shove on as planned. Need to get going, keep ahead of them other folks on this trail. Time’s a-wastin’. We have to get Jared Hamilton buried decent. Give the missus time with him while you dig the hole, then we can say a few prayers for ’im. Understand?” He bit his cheek on the inside, nodded his head to Martha and to the others, and walked away.

Shovels resting across their shoulders like rifles, several men walked toward the area of the tree, talking in low voices.

“A goodly blanket of earth for a man in his last bed until Kingdom Come. And stones to make sure he stays put.”

“After we found ’im his mouth were opened as if he were prayin’ with his ear on the ground listenin’ to what it were gonna to be like buried under that dirt blanket.”

“God’s truth! And his eyes all wide open and no light in ’em, jest starin’ at the streets of glory.”

*

Later, when...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 16.8.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-0663-9 / 9798350906639