hat. “Well, goodbye to you, ma’am. Nice talking with you. Luke Hollister’s my name.”
“I’m Libby Grenville, Luke,” Libby said. “I’ll see you in California, maybe.”
“You’re heading for Californy? A little bitty woman like you?” Luke stammered. “My mam didn’t even want me to go, telling me I was too young. Her eyes would pop clean from her head if she saw these young’uns going.”
“How old are you, Luke?” Libby asked.
“I’m nineteen, almost,” Luke said proudly. He touched his hat again. “Well, goodbye to you, Mrs. Grenville. Nice talking with you. God willing we will meet again out West.”
The moment they reached the shore, Libby directed her children into town, away from that tent city. Her first priority was to have the children safely housed in a respectable hotel before she went out looking for a suitable company to join. It was a mile or so walk into the city of Independence, along a delightful sandy road, shaded by oak trees and looking very like any country road in New England. To begin with, she enjoyed the cool shade and soft sand under her feet, but as the heavy bags began to weigh her down and the straps cut into her hands, she found herself wishing these really were New England woods and that she was not alone here. All her confidence and bravado of a few moments earlier evaporated under a great rush of homesickness at finding herself in such familiar countryside so very far from home. She found herself remembering outings along such leafy lanes, picnics under such spreading oaks—civilized picnics with checkered cloths and wicker hampers of cold meats and lobster and chilled champagne. . . .
The little girls spotted squirrels and bright birds and danced along as if they were on an afternoon’s outing. From beyond the woods came the rough shouts and laughter of men, the constant braying and snorting of mules. Libby looked at the two little figures dancing ahead of her and seriously considered not going any farther. She could find employment easily enough in Independence, she reasoned. The children could live in a real house in a real town and she’d write to Hugh to tell him to join her as soon as possible. Then she reminded herself why she had come on this journey. Hugh would not leave California until he had made his fortune. For the first time she found herself wondering whether he had reached California safely by now. Who would know if he had been carried from a river steamer, wrapped in his blanket to be buried in a sandbar or had died unnoticed in that tent city? Doubts crept into her mind that her journey might be for nothing and she might never see Hugh again.
“There’s nothing for it but to go on,” she said, emerging from the cool woodlands with a sigh and gathering the children as she approached the bustling city.
Main Street looked as busy as Boston the week before Christmas. Heavily laden wagons groaned through the dusty streets. The air resounded with the crack of whips and the harsh curses of wagon drivers. Horsemen galloped up, weaving skillfully past the wagons and pedestrians. People were hurrying to and fro with packages and sacks, going in and out of stores and banks. But the shoppers were all men and they each carried a gun at their sides. Libby was turned away from the two respectable-looking hotels.
“I don’t think you’ll find a vacant bed in town,” she was told. But at Ma Zettel’s Boarding House, in a small back street at the edge of town, they had better luck. Ma Zettel was a big woman with hair severely scraped back into a bun and skin like tanned leather. She looked formidable as she stood in her doorway with big arms folded across her chest, but as she looked down at the two timid little figures holding onto Libby’s skirt, her stony face softened and creased into a thousand smile lines. “Well, ain’t you the prettiest things I seen in a month of Sundays,” she said, bending down toward Bliss. Bliss held out her
“I’m Libby Grenville, Luke,” Libby said. “I’ll see you in California, maybe.”
“You’re heading for Californy? A little bitty woman like you?” Luke stammered. “My mam didn’t even want me to go, telling me I was too young. Her eyes would pop clean from her head if she saw these young’uns going.”
“How old are you, Luke?” Libby asked.
“I’m nineteen, almost,” Luke said proudly. He touched his hat again. “Well, goodbye to you, Mrs. Grenville. Nice talking with you. God willing we will meet again out West.”
The moment they reached the shore, Libby directed her children into town, away from that tent city. Her first priority was to have the children safely housed in a respectable hotel before she went out looking for a suitable company to join. It was a mile or so walk into the city of Independence, along a delightful sandy road, shaded by oak trees and looking very like any country road in New England. To begin with, she enjoyed the cool shade and soft sand under her feet, but as the heavy bags began to weigh her down and the straps cut into her hands, she found herself wishing these really were New England woods and that she was not alone here. All her confidence and bravado of a few moments earlier evaporated under a great rush of homesickness at finding herself in such familiar countryside so very far from home. She found herself remembering outings along such leafy lanes, picnics under such spreading oaks—civilized picnics with checkered cloths and wicker hampers of cold meats and lobster and chilled champagne. . . .
The little girls spotted squirrels and bright birds and danced along as if they were on an afternoon’s outing. From beyond the woods came the rough shouts and laughter of men, the constant braying and snorting of mules. Libby looked at the two little figures dancing ahead of her and seriously considered not going any farther. She could find employment easily enough in Independence, she reasoned. The children could live in a real house in a real town and she’d write to Hugh to tell him to join her as soon as possible. Then she reminded herself why she had come on this journey. Hugh would not leave California until he had made his fortune. For the first time she found herself wondering whether he had reached California safely by now. Who would know if he had been carried from a river steamer, wrapped in his blanket to be buried in a sandbar or had died unnoticed in that tent city? Doubts crept into her mind that her journey might be for nothing and she might never see Hugh again.
“There’s nothing for it but to go on,” she said, emerging from the cool woodlands with a sigh and gathering the children as she approached the bustling city.
Main Street looked as busy as Boston the week before Christmas. Heavily laden wagons groaned through the dusty streets. The air resounded with the crack of whips and the harsh curses of wagon drivers. Horsemen galloped up, weaving skillfully past the wagons and pedestrians. People were hurrying to and fro with packages and sacks, going in and out of stores and banks. But the shoppers were all men and they each carried a gun at their sides. Libby was turned away from the two respectable-looking hotels.
“I don’t think you’ll find a vacant bed in town,” she was told. But at Ma Zettel’s Boarding House, in a small back street at the edge of town, they had better luck. Ma Zettel was a big woman with hair severely scraped back into a bun and skin like tanned leather. She looked formidable as she stood in her doorway with big arms folded across her chest, but as she looked down at the two timid little figures holding onto Libby’s skirt, her stony face softened and creased into a thousand smile lines. “Well, ain’t you the prettiest things I seen in a month of Sundays,” she said, bending down toward Bliss. Bliss held out her
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