I Wish I Could Sleep

It was summer of 1859 when I decided my family and I needed to leave Independence, Missouri for the Willamette Valley in Oregon.

I was buying supplies at the mercantile, the man at the counter occasionally lowering his newspaper to glare at me.

“Hey, Dean. How’s business?” I asked.

“Hi Jim. Business is good. Are you stocking up for your journey?” Dean asked.

“Sure am. Life around here is getting a bit mundane for me and the family. And since the new mayor decided not to renovate the old hotel, tourism’s dropped off, which has made it damn near impossible to sell pelts. And it’s not like the locals have a lot of money,” I said.

“Where you headed off too, good sir?” Dean asked.

“Willamette Valley,” I replied.

“Gosh, gee golly. I’ve heard of that place. All the way in Oregon. Well I do sure hate to lose a good customer such as yourself, good sir. And watch out for them natives, I hear a great many rumors of scalping’s,” Dean warned.

“Oh, hogwash and conjecture. The natives only attack to defend their land. I’m planning on steering clear of anything they claim, if possible. That’s the plan of the whole caravan,” I said.

“That’s smart thinking… wait, did I hear right? Caravan, you say? How many of the townsfolk are going?” Dean asked.

“Half the town, I reckon,” I said and spat my chewing tar into Deans public spittoon.

“Well, spank my ass and serve me sarsaparilla. Good riddance. This ‘il drive down the price of real estate. I could buy some properties for half a penny each. Hell’s bunions, I could probably buy this whole town for less then a nickel after ya’ll leave. I’d have enough left over to rebuild that stinky old rat infested hotel and revive the tourist industry. Then I could rent the houses to my employees to get their salaries back. It’s basically free labor,” Dean said.

I smiled and said, “Great, sounds rapacious.”

I walked around the general store and bought flour for making bread, cornmeal for making porridge, dried beans, rice, coffee beans, tea, sugar, salt, dried fruits, because Dean always carried my favorites, apples and raisins, Dead Man Brand buffalo jerky, delicious pemmican, which was a mix of dried meat, fat, and berries, cured bacon and ham, and hardtack, a type of dry, hard cracker nobody liked except for me. And it sure as hell beat starvation. The last item I bought was a detailed map of the American frontier, in case the caravan leader lost his.

The caravan had planned too meet at high noon. My wife Susanna and our six daughters were barely a minute late. Most of the others arrived after us.

We were in the center of the caravan, because studies indicated the center was the safest from looters.

“I don’t trust the studies,” Susanna complained.

“That’s why I don’t show them to you,” I said.

When the caravans were all in order, the caravan leader shouted, “rootin’ tootin, laughs and lootin’, let’s get this journey rollin’ and shootin’,” and straddled the reins to make the horses go.

“We’re off,” I said and looked back at my family inside the wagon. I heard my wife and daughters giggling with excitement after I gave our reins a good tug and our wagon started moving.

We were three hours out of independence when someone decided they needed a bathroom break.

We pulled over the entire caravan.

“Might as well take a leak now. Anyone else got to go?” I asked.

“I do,” Susanna said.

“I might as well go if you’re going,” I said.

She went to go hide in some shrubs and I grabbed my rifle. Then I headed out and unzipped my jeans behind a tree.

Soon after, I heard Susanna shouting.

“Oh no. It must be looters,” I shrieked and ran in her direction.

“Help,” Susanna screamed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“I have been envenomed by a serpentine fiend!” Susanna exclaimed.

I looked down, and sure enough there was a rattlesnake biting her leg.

I pointed my rifle and shot its head off.

It was to little, to late. She had passed out, and shortly after, died.

We buried her less than an hour later, my daughters all traumatized.

If only Susanna wasn’t such a greenhorn, she would have known to look out for snakes.

After saying a final prayer, we got back on our wagons and headed out.

*****

By night, we had traveled quit a distance. We were still a days journey from Indian territory and needed rest.

The caravan formed a wagon circle. We lit a fire in the center of our circle and settled in. I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about Susanna. I also knew I had to protect my daughters.

One of the men in the group, Olaf, was getting especially drunk.

He was also sitting next to my daughter Mary.

“Olaf, you might want to slow down on the whisky, my friend. You don’t want to run out before we get to Oregon,” I said.

He laughed.

“I’m just having some fun, yah. Don’t be angry,” Olaf slurred, then grabbed a huge piece of chicken he’d been roasting over the fire we built and bit into its leg audaciously, sending bits of chicken meat flying everywhere.

“Oh, I’m not angry. Just giving a friendly tip,” I said and smiled as Olaf tore another bite out of the chicken, then used his already dirty shirt sleeve to wipe his face.

“Ok, good,” Olaf grunted, small pieces of roasted chicken flying out of his mouth.

He wiped his hands again, but this time on his pants instead of his sleeve.

“Speaking of fun,” Olaf said and turned to Mary and smiled salaciously. Letting this drunken brute so close to Mary was a mistake.

“Olaf, I know what you’re thinking. And no. That’s my daughter, back off,” I said.

“Oh, come on. You got five other daughters. Let me have my way with this one, Jim, old friend,” he slurred.

“You’re drunk, so I’m being patient with you. But this is your final warning,” I said and grabbed my rifle. Then I leaned in close to make sure he could hear the audible click when I cocked it. I then pressed the rifle against his temple. He didn’t move.

“You have to the count of three before I paint the trees red,” I said.

“Oh, screw off, Jim. You’re not going to shoot me over some… some dame,” Olaf slurred and laughed. He then grabbed Mary by the neck with one hand and started to lift up her skirt with the other.

I pulled the trigger.

“Three,” I said.

Some of his brains splattered into the campfire, causing it to flicker.

The caravan went silent.

“Anyone else want to try for Mary?” I shouted.

Nobody spoke a word.

“Good,” I said.

Mary swatted a mosquito off her neck. At the time, I thought nothing of it.

I didn’t sleep that night. In the morning, Mary was pale.

The caravans doctor checked her heart.

“She must have died from malaria,” the doctor said.

“What’s malaria?” I asked.

“Malaria is a mosquito-borne infectious disease causing fever, chills, and flu-like symptoms. She must have been bit last night,” the doctor said.

“My poor Mary. She didn’t deserve this,” I cried.

We buried Mary and a couple others who died in the night from mosquito bites, then kept traveling.

We were now in the middle of Indian Territory. I wanted to avoid this land, but there were no short cuts.

As we passed, we saw what looked like a large group of Choctaw atop a hill on horseback.

“We come in peace,” the caravan leader shouted at them.

They rode off and we thought we were safe. But just as my heart slowed, I saw that they were rounding up a heard of buffalo and sent them stampeding in our direction. I knew crossing Indian Territory was a mistake, and I should have pushed the caravan leader not to.

We tried to outrun the buffalo, but they were faster than our horses who were dragging heavy wagons behind them.

By the time the buffalo were gone, the Choctaw were too, along with half the caravan.

My remaining daughters, however, were all accounted for.

We quickly made our way to Nebraska.

Later, after the sun went down, we set up camp.

I gathered wood, started a fire, sat in the back of the wagon and watched the woods, rifle in hand. Nobody was getting past me.

No human anyway. I wish I could sleep, but I had people to protect.

Wolves had quietly wandered into our caravan encampment shortly after I nodded off. I heard the rustling of the leaves and quickly jerked up, and when I turned and looked they bolted towards some of the campers.

“Run, wolves,” I shouted while blasting my rifle at them.

Anne grabbed a bucket of water and tossed it at the wild dogs.

Most of the wolves ran off after I shot my rifle in the air.

One of the people in the caravan party who was bitten would later die of rabies.

Anne was out of water.

“I need more water. I’m going to the lake,” she said.

“Bring a rifle in case the wolves come back,” I said. She grabbed a rifle from the wagon and brought a bucket down to the lake.

She sipped on the water through the night.

Early the next morning, she got up and quickly headed to the trees.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To natures potty, now your privy, don’t tell anyone,” Anne responded.

She ran off quickly. When she didn’t return for half an hour, I went to go check on her.

When I found her, she was on the ground, lying in a brown puddle of her own design.

“Lord, Jesus,” I said and got the doctor.

The doc examined her and said, “Dysentery. Probably from the stream water.”

“Oh, god. What’s dysentery?” I asked.

“Dysentery is a gastrointestinal infection causing severe diarrhea, often fatal due to dehydration,” the doctor explained.

I started crying. My poor Anne. We cleaned her off, buried her and continued our journey.

A month had gone by. Several more of our caravan had died before we got to Wyoming Territory.

The first place we set up camp had been raided by a hungry bear. We grabbed what we could, trying not to let the bear see us, and went to a new location.

We set up camp there. It was now late. I wish I could sleep, I was tired. But we just passed another caravan that said they had just been robbed blind while they were sleeping and one of their women attacked in a way they could not speak of. Nobody was touching my girls, not in that way. I’d stay up all night if I had to and make damn sure of it!

I stayed up by the camp fire as late as I could, rifle ready.

I had just closed my eyes for near but a minute and immediately woke up to Elizabeth screaming.

I ran over to her and saw an unfamiliar man not a part of our caravan trying to get on top of her. She grabbed a water bucket and knocked him off.

I shot him in the chest. He exhaled a final breath as his lungs exploded blood into the cold night air, then died. Others in the caravan, including Elizabeth, helped roll his corpse into the nearby stream, where Elizabeth refilled her water bucket.

In the morning, Elizabeth was dead. I got the doctor.

“Cholera,” the doctor said.

“What’s cholera?” I asked.

“Cholera is a bacterial infection transmitted through contaminated water, leading to severe diarrhea and dehydration,” the doctor explained.

“Do all diseases cause death by diarrhea and dehydration?” I asked.

“No. But there are many that do,” the doctor said and frowned.

We buried her, I cried, and we continued on our way.

A few nights passed. We made camp again.

Margaret was the next to die.

“It seems to be Typhoid fever. It’s been traveling around the caravan like wildfire,” the doctor said.

“What’s Typhoid fever?” I asked.

“Typhoid fever is a bacterial infection causing fever, abdominal pain, fatigue, and diarrhea,” the doctor said.

I had two daughters left and was starting to think this journey wasn’t worth it.

A day later, Margaret died.

“Measles, it’s been going around the caravan,” the doctor said.

“What’s Measles?” I asked.

“Measles is a contagious viral infection causing rash, fever, and respiratory symptoms. Oh, and sometimes diarrhea. She died in her sleep,” the doctor said.

We buried her, I cried, we kept traveling.

Jane hadn’t been eating well as of late. A few weeks later, after we crossed into Idaho, I found her dead.

“I even bought potatoes for her,” I said and cried.

“It looks like scurvy,” the doctor said.

“What’s Scurvy?” I asked.

“Scurvy is a deficiency of Vitamin C, leading to fatigue, anemia, bleeding gums, and in some instances, diarrhea,” the doctor said. I checked her gums and they were definitely bleeding.

“Damn you, scurvy menace,” I shouted to no one in particular.

I started crying.

Sarah was my last daughter. I followed her everywhere to make sure her water was clean, there were no wolves, buffalos or mosquitos, or any other threats to her life.

Another month went by. It was only me, Sarah and the good doctor that made it to Willamette Valley.

The three of us had took the money we had left from the sale of our houses in Missouri and used them to purchase land and build three new houses.

“Finally living in Oregon,” the doctor said and smiled. He was sitting on the porch with Sarah and I, the long journey making us good friends.

He visited us a lot, since we were his only neighbors from the old caravan. Everyone else had died.

“Yup. And we’re the first one’s to build houses on this side of town, I reckon,” I said and spat some black tar into my new spittoon.

The coyotes started howling at the full moon in the sky.

“I’m going to close my eyes for a bit, daddy,” Sarah said and eventually fell asleep on the porch, sitting in her rocking chair.

“Me to,” the doctor said and closed his eyes. It was hard to tell if he was sleeping with all his moaning.

I wish I could sleep. I decided to stay up, rifle in hand, and watch Sarah, though.

I didn’t trust our new neighbors who arrived in a small caravan today. They planned to start building houses near ours.

Rumor has it they’d survived the harsh winter by eating their own family.

My rifle was ready in case they came for us next.

The Donners, they called themselves.

Lord, I wish I could sleep!

*******

A couple fun facts:

The Oregon Trail was in use from the early 1840s until the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad in 1869, with peak travel occurring from 1843 to 1860

The journey on the Oregon Trail typically took between four and six months, depending on the speed of the wagon train, the weather, and other factors. The trail stretched for more than 2,000 miles, from Independence, Missouri, to the Willamette Valley in Oregon.

The route started in Independence, Missouri, and covered approximately 2,000 miles, passing through present-day Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon. The trail crossed several state lines, which were different from todays state lines.

If you don’t know The Donners, look them up! 😃