It took me until the end of the year to completely recover from the gunshot wound inflicted on me by the raider. My recovery was slower than I hoped because the wound became septic and Ma had to remove more of the flesh surrounding the bullet's entry point. The turning of 1866 found me hale and hardy, though, and the incident was reduced to a jagged scar on my buttocks that I could not see anyway.
We loaded the wagons and made our final preparations during the first week of March. We thought it safe to leave during the final weeks of winter because we would be traveling a route that would keep us well into the Deep South for the first month or so. On the tenth day of March at first light, our small wagon train pulled away from the farm. JC led us off riding one of the horses we captured from the raiders while Anne drove the first wagon in line, one of the covered drays. We had kept six of the captured horses; the other two we traded for a milk cow and her calf.
We crossed the muddy Chattahoochee River at Bartlett's Ferry on Mister Bartlett's flat bottomed barge. It took four trips to transport us, our wagons and our livestock across. The river crossing put us in Alabama. We took the road that led west-southwest from the ferry dock and started the first of what would be a seemingly endless string of plodding days on the road and crisp nights along side it. We had set a goal of 20 miles a day and for the most part we managed about that many. We traveled six days a week and, at Ma's insistence, we rested on the Sabbath. The trip was made less odious because we were all with people we liked and loved. Even as young as I was at the time I knew that, in the long run, liking someone was every bit as important as loving them.
We rolled into Opelika, Alabama around noon on our third day of travel. We were all excited about actually arriving somewhere, even if it was only a town fifty or so miles from the farm. From Opelika, it took us four days to reach Montgomery, the state capital. We stayed outside of Montgomery for two nights and spent all of one day reprovisioning and seeing the sights. Montgomery had survived the war in much better shape than Atlanta. Although Montgomery was under Union military rule, everyone we met was still unapologizingly Confederate. Thankfully, the new JC was still as good a forager as he had been during the war so we left Montgomery with enough supplies to last us a couple of weeks. In amongst the supplies was a leather bound folio of sheet music that JC had snapped up for a silver dollar. That book and my fiddle provided us with many a night of entertainment during our trip.
We made steady but unspectacular progress across western Alabama and crossed into Mississippi on the twelfth morning. We stopped in Meridian for our nooning on Saturday, our fourteenth day on the trail and our eleventh day of actual travel. We set up camp outside of town. JC took the family into town to shop and look around whilst Curtis and I greased the wagon wheels and performed the other small but vital tasks required to keep us moving. Saturday evening we all took a bath then stayed up late as I fiddled and we sang every song any of us could think of. Sunday morning we dressed up and went to church. The war had not been kind to the congregation of the Meridian Baptist Church as most of the women at the service were wrapped in widow's weeds, while what few men there were in the congregation were missing limbs or disfigured in some other manner. My mother, sisters-in-law and Rachael had plenty of sad company, all praying for the men they'd lost in the horrible war.
It took us twenty-two days total to reach Vicksburg and the Mississippi River. We had traveled approximately three hundred and sixty miles. Unfortunately, that distance was only about one quarter of our trip and we were all already road weary. We camped outside of the bustling river port town, held a family meeting and decided to rest our stock and ourselves for a couple of days before crossing into Louisiana. As soon as the meeting ended, JC frocked himself in his Sunday go to meeting clothes and without a word of explanation saddled his horse and rode into town. I was worried that JC had back-slid into his old wastrel ways, but Anne seemed unconcerned so I kept my mouth firmly closed.
We were all relaxing by our fire, me sawing on my fiddle, when JC rode back into camp. Anne shot me a look when her husband showed up as if to say she never doubted he'd be with her at bedtime. JC unsaddled his mount, put away his tack and sauntered over to the fire. He grinned at my inquisitive and slightly censorious look, then pulled Anne to her feet and kissed her soundly. When he finally let the poor woman catch her breath he turned to me.
"No whiskey on my breath Jeb, and no smell of gambling on me. Instead, I walked the water front and secured us transport up the river clear to Saint Louis. Going up river will shorten our trip by at least three weeks."
Three weeks less in the saddle or wagon seat was great news. Yet, before I jumped on JC's bandwagon I had to remind him of something. "If we go up river to Saint Louis, we will not be going through Texas and you will miss seeing your family."
JC shrugged and pulled Anne tighter against his side. "I reckon Texas ain't going no place, and I am with my family right now," he averred.
When JC said that, I swear Anne's eyelids fluttered as if she were about to swoon. She turned her head sharply to look at him, flashed him one of her rare and beautiful smiles and practically dragged him off to their wagon.
The morning after JC told me about going north on the Mississippi to Saint Louis we held another family meeting. JC explained his idea in detail and gave us his rationale for taking the river instead of striking out over land. The only real bone of contention with the whole idea was the cost. The river men wanted eighty dollars to transport us the four hundred miles up to Saint Louis. JC told us that he thought he could negotiate us a better deal by bartering off some of our surplus of weapons. We finally all agreed that JC's plan was our best option and decided that we would allow him to trade one of our extra Spencer Carbines. Every one of us had great confidence in JC's bartering ability; he haggled like a Yankee fishwife.
Later that morning, JC went back into town and returned with the riverboat captain. Captain Lowell Pickett was a Yankee from Ohio. He had spent the war doing the same thing for the Union that he had been doing for the twenty years before, ferrying freight up and down the mighty Mississippi. Captain Pickett lived in Cairo, Illinois, at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. JC met him at the wharf while he was unloading a shipment of mules and horses for the Union garrison. Vicksburg's commercial water front and wharfs were not on the Mississippi. Instead, they were on the Yazoo River, a slow moving tributary of the Mississippi.
Captain Pickett looked over our wagons and livestock and pronounced that he could easily carry us and all our possessions up to Saint Louis but wanted to know why we just didn't steam all the way to Saint Joe (Saint Joseph, Missouri). That idea got all of our attention and JC and the Captain moved a ways from the camp to dicker over the price of such a trip. The men settled on a price of one hundred twenty dollars which included four cabins on the riverboat. We had originally thought we'd be stuck on the barge the Captain pulled with his old side wheeler riverboat, so one-twenty with rooms included sounded as if it were a bargain. Ma and the other women out-did themselves on the super they prepared that night with Captain Pickett as our guest of honor. We sent him back to his boat stuffed to the gills on fried ham, black-eyed peas and Ma's sweet cornbread. With Ma in charge of meals, good victuals were never a problem for us.
The following morning we loaded up the two large covered freight drays and JC and I drove them down to the wharf. I was impressed with my first glimpse of the Belle of Ohio. The riverboat was about a hundred and twenty-five feet long, thirty feet wide and two full decks high. The wheelhouse was perched atop the second deck at the front of the boat. The boat was painted a gleaming white with red piping and the paddles on the side wheel were painted blue with white stars. The barge was at least one hundred feet by fifty feet. Half the barge was fenced off for animals. Even the barge seemed freshly whitewashed and was sparkling clean. The condition of the boat and barge greatly eased my mind about embarking on them.
Captain Pickett's crew was just as well turned out as his boat, and they were efficient to boot. In less than an hour, both wagons were lashed to the deck of the barge and our horses and mules were settled into the fenced off portion of the deck. JC and I stowed our harness tack in one of the wagons and rode back to our camp on the spare horses we had brought with us. The rest of the family was loaded up and ready to go by the time we made it back to camp. Our second trip went as smoothly as the first. By two in the afternoon we were all loaded and our families were settled into their cabins on the boat.
Sorting out who would occupy which cabin was a chore because we were only allotted four of them for twelve of us and the cabins were tiny. Curtis said he wanted to sleep near our animals to keep them from being frightened and, in the end, I decided to stay on the barge also. Ma shared a cabin with her grandsons, while Florence and Rachael shared one, and the three girls bunked together. That left Mister and Missus Colbert in a room by themselves for the first time since they met. Florence and Rachael being alone in the same cabin was a boon for me in that I would be able to share private moments with both of them in the evening after everyone else was abed.
The crew of the Belle of Ohio pushed her away from the wharf with long poles at first light the following morning. Captain Pickett expertly steered a passage out of the mouth of the Yazoo and turned upstream on the broad, flat as glass, Mississippi. The mighty river was placid in advance of the flooding that usually followed the spring thaw, still a month in the future. Although Captain Pickett called the Belle a tow boat, we actually pushed the barge up river in front of us. The Captain explained that having the barge in front made it easier to control and kept it in his view at all times. The barge also would be the first thing to hit any obstructions in the river allowing Pickett time to save his boat.
JC, Curtis and I all stayed with the livestock as we got underway. The horses were alarmed and skittish as the boat started moving but the mules, cow and calf took it in stride. Curtis was a wonder as he gentled the horses down with a soft sing-song voice. I was amazed at what a clear and sweet singing voice he had, and with the fact that he knew all the words to the hymns and other songs we sang around the camp fire at night. Never once had he joined in the singing, although he always tapped his toe in time with my fiddle and seemed to enjoy listening to the rest of us. It took an hour or so for the horses to acclimate to the swaying and lifting of the deck under their feet.
After the plodding pace of our travels by wagon, the riverboat's progress was swift and smooth. Captain Pickett informed us that we were making a steady six knots against the river's current.
"The Navy replaced our boilers in '62," he explained, "so we have a more powerful and efficient propulsion system than before."
I developed a healthy respect for the Captain, Yankee though he was. He ran a tight ship and his six able seamen were well trained, courteous and efficient. Captain Pickett and my mother got on famously as they were both staunchly devout Baptists.
We steamed up the river from first light till sunset then anchored near the shore for the night. Traveling on the Mississippi was exacting work for the crew because of constantly shifting sandbars and flotsam headed down stream. During the day a crew member stood on the front of the barge studying the water while Captain Pickett kept a sharp lookout from the elevated wheelhouse. Although we spent the night in anchorage, we still made seventy-five miles a day.
The women in my family took over galley duty from the sailor who had been performing the chore. Captain Pickett and his crew were right happy about that. After a nice sit down meal on our first night aboard, I was proud as punch to promenade Flo and Rachael around the deck for our evening constitutional. I felt like some fancy rich boy with a beautiful woman on each arm. We were on our second stroll around the upper deck when I heard music coming from the fantail of the first deck. Rachael caught onto my interest right away.
"Go get your fiddle, Sweet Baby, and show them Yankee boys how to play," she said with a grin.
I did not need more prompting than that. I was off to the barge like a shot. I grabbed my fiddle and, for good measure, I pulled Curtis back onto the boat with me. I hastened to the rear of the boat and asked the four sailors sitting there fussing with their instruments if I could join them. Yankees or not, those old boys played pretty danged good. It took me a couple of numbers to catch on to the way they played together, but on the third number, off we went with Arkansas Traveler.
Now Arkansas Traveler is a reel that you can play as fast as the musicians can go. Those sailors had been practicing for years so they were no slouches. Banjo, accordion, guitar and harmonica swung into the tune at double quick time thinking they would leave me floundering in their wake. Even a hillbilly like me saw that coming so I was puffed up like a Banty Rooster and ready to play. I think we were all surprised at how good we sounded. After that first song together the rivalry ceased out of mutual respect and the real music began. We were on our second piece together when the rest of the crew and my family showed up to enjoy the show.
The arrival of my family led me to a hurried conference with my new band mates to find some songs we knew that my family could sing. Except for some popular Steven Foster numbers, all we had as a common singing repertoire were hymns. Never one to be shy, I started us off with Ma's favorite, What a Friend We Have in Jesus. We also did Rock of Ages and Nearer my Lord to Thee. As we were playing, I kept urging Curtis to sing with the family. He shyly looked down at his feet and shook his head until we played Amazing Grace. We had our only false start with that song as my new friends set a tempo faster than my family was accustomed. I set them straight and we started again. When I saw Curtis look up and nod his head I shushed everyone else and let him sing. Curtis squeezed his eyes shut and from his mouth came a sound songbirds would have envied. The accordion player, a big Irisher named McDougal, stopped playing and cross himself in goggle-eyed wonder.
"Saints preserve us!" He exclaimed. "Tis an angel himself asinging."
Ma reached over and took Curtis's hand as he sang, her eyes filling with tears.
"For everything the good Lord takes away, he gives something back," she murmured softly.
I think Curtis finding his singing voice is what finally helped Ma that final step past her heartbreak and sorrow. From them on, she saw Curtis as a precious gift bestowed by her Savior; she saw her purpose in life as to be protecting that gift. She again had something for which to live.
We steamed into the bustling port of Saint Louis at three in the afternoon on Saturday, April 10, 1866. We had been on the water for five days. Captain Pickett made landfall at Saint Louis because he refused to work on the Sabbath. JC, two of the able seaman and I hustled off the boat to find hay and grain for our stock so we could depart at first light come Monday. Three of the fellows who played instruments in our impromptu band headed into town for racier entertainment than we could provide. As a result, only Mister McDougal and I were left to serenade the family. It was a wonder to me that Sean stayed on the boat instead of sampled the vices of Saint Louis given what I had heard about the Irish.
We attended church with Captain Green Sunday morning at the Calvary Baptist Church. Green said he put in about once a month at Saint Louis and always attend the Sunday service here. Monday morning we shoved off again and steamed two miles up the Mississippi to the mouth of the Missouri River. The Missouri was wide and muddy but it was even more placid than the Mississippi. The Big Muddy also meandered all the heck over the map as it made its way across the 'Show Me State'. That tortuous meandering made the second leg of our trip almost as long as the first. We stopped Friday mid-afternoon just south of Saint Joseph. We spent the night on the river ten miles down stream instead of making port in the late afternoon. We all wanted one more beautiful night to enjoy each other's company in such nice accommodations. Captain Pickett and his crew readily agreed to our wishes; we had forged some strong friendships in an amazingly short amount of time. I was sad to be leaving my new musical partners and Florence was very sad about parting company with Sean McDougal.
Yes, love had struck my sister-in-law Florence and the big Irishman as, somewhere between Curtis singing Amazing Grace and us playing Sally Goodin, some sort of magic passed between the pair. I was, of course, too dense to catch it, but Rachael clued me in about it later that night when we stole a few moments together. The next evening, Flo and I walked around the deck and discussed her and me. Flo took my hand in both of hers as we leaned against the prow railing.
"Jeremiah, you have been wonderful to me and the boys this last year. Because of you, I can face the future and see something besides bitter old widowhood. I will forever love you for that, but meeting Mister McDougal showed me that love may again be in my future."
Florence detaching herself from me was not a painful experience for me. I loved her, but it was a love that had more to do with family than the burning passion that Millie Sivestry inspired in me. I kissed her on the forehead and held her close as I softly voiced my understanding.
We disembarked at a wharf in Saint Joe mid morning on Saturday, the 17th of April, 1866. We organized ourselves and moved out to settle in for the night in a big field outside of town that was the starting point of the Oregon Trail. We weren't the only wagons set up in that big field by a long shot as I counted twenty-two others looking to form a wagon train. I expected Florence to be sad that evening when we assembled our wagons and set up camp. As usual when it came to women, I was completely wrong. Instead, Florence was her usual bright and cheerful self. The reason Florence was not heartbroken became obvious even to me when we reached the First Baptist Church of Saint Joseph the next morning. Standing on the church steps, hat in his hand stood Sean McDougal. Next to Sean was a small elfin faced little girl in a blue gingham dress and white straw hat. The girl was adorably cute with her fiery red hair in pigtails and her face lavishly dusted with freckles.
Florence stood up on the back of our wagon and Sean hurried over to hand her down to the ground. As we all stood there gape-jawed, Sean introduced us all to his daughter, Alice. She greeted us sweetly and politely and we all fell in love with the little angel on the spot. During the service, Sean, Florence and their children sat together as if they were already a family. I was still perplexed about the whole thing when Sean pulled me aside after the service, and after some hemming and hawing, asked me for Florence's hand in marriage. Now I liked Sean as a person but I did not think for a minute that being the wife of a man constantly gone from home was the best thing for Flo. I told Sean that and he rushed to tell me that if the family agreed, he and Coleen wanted to move west with us. He had approached me about it first because Florence said I was the head of the family.
The long and the short of it was that we held a family meeting that afternoon and unanimously agreed to bring the McDougal's with us. Sean and Alice joined us later that afternoon and within thirty minutes we all wondered what happed to the sweet girl we had met at church. Little Alice had a temper akin to that of a Grizzly Bear. The first to find that out was my nephew Joshua. Josh decided to tease Coleen about her freckles and it took both me and her father to pull Alice off him. She gave him a good pummeling and a bloody nose, even though she was three inches shorter and ten pounds lighter. From that moment on there was hardly ever a dull moment when Alice was around.
We did not leave Saint Joseph and Missouri until four days later, Thursday, April 22nd, 1866 to be exact. We stayed around Saint Joe because Sean needed time to purchase a wagon for his and Flo's family and we needed to stock up on dry goods and other provisions for the seven hundred mile trip to the far west end of the Nebraska Territory. We would be following the Oregon Trail all the way and there were a number of towns and forts along the way. However, we had been told that we would pay anywhere from two to four times an item's true value if we bought it on the trail. We had plenty of room for supplies and enough draft animals to pull the wagons so we stocked up in advance.
JC and I helped Sean find a suitable wagon and we convinced him to purchase mules instead of oxen to pull it. Sean ended up as purchasing a well used but very serviceable farm wagon with a doubled cotton bonnet and four decent mules. JC sold our smallest wagon because it wasn't needed so we ended up with a couple of extra mules, and extra mules were never a bad thing. We talked Sean out of purchasing a Prairie Schooner because of the number of draft animals needed to pull one. We figured that we could get by with our smaller wagons because we weren't going all the way to Oregon so we didn't need as many provisions. Plus, except for the McDougals, we were all southern country folk so our needs were simple.
It was an exciting time for us as we mounted our wagons or horses and pointed them towards the west that cool April morning. As usual, JC took the lead riding one of the horses and Anne and her girls led off in their wagon. Also as normal, Rachael, Carol and I took the last position in line. In between us and Anne, Curtis drove one wagon with Ma as his passenger while Sean drove the other with his family in tow. We expected our trip to be long and arduous but we were buoyed by the notion that our travails would be over in two months or less while the settlers forming the wagon train behind us had five or six months of travel in front of them.
Joe J