Chapter Sixteen
Flooded Lowlands
Rain drummed against the small canvas tent before dawn, a hard, steady sound that did not belong to the mild shower Caroline had fallen asleep hearing.
She opened her eyes to the bottom of the wagon and the cold touch of damp air.
Beside her, Lucy had burrowed beneath two quilts and left only the end of one braid visible.
Caroline dressed by feel, stepped down into ankle-deep mud, and found the camp already awake.
Men pulled picket pins from the softening ground.
Rebecca stood at the oxen with water streaming from the brim of her hat.
Beyond her, the shallow creek they had crossed the previous afternoon had spread into a brown, rushing sheet.
“That rose fast,” Caroline said.
“It intends to rise faster.” Rebecca pointed with the end of a wet lead rope. “The bank has gone beneath the second wagon.”
During the wet morning, Mr. Bell attempted to protect his hat by placing it beneath his coat. This left his head exposed and his hat dry, an arrangement the younger Mrs. Bell considered proof that marriage could not cure every defect.
“The hat cost money,” he protested.
“So did the medicine you will need when your ears freeze.”
Caroline sent him to help Coleman move feed sacks before the dispute required a wagon council.
At the Whitaker wagon, Grace and Lucy tried to stretch one oilcloth over three crates.
“It covered them yesterday,” Lucy said.
“Yesterday the crates were closer together.”
“Then move the rain.”
Caroline took one corner from her. “Move the flour.”
Thomas passed carrying survey stakes beneath his coat. “Do you want assistance?”
“Can you persuade oilcloth to become wider?”
“Not without falsifying the measurement.”
“Then take that crate.”
He obeyed, and Lucy whispered to Grace, “The courtship is less partial today.”
Caroline heard her. Thomas plainly did too, but the rain concealed his smile only briefly.
Nathaniel called the wagon owners together beside the first Whitaker wagon.
His right arm moved more easily than it had at the beginning of the month, but he still kept the elbow close when the cold rain stiffened his shoulder.
Eleanor stood at his left with the company ledger protected beneath her oilcloth cape.
Thomas arrived carrying his map case under his coat. Rain had darkened his hair and made him look more severe than usual. “This is not all local rain,” he said. “The water is carrying branches and red silt. There was a heavier storm upstream.”
Mr. Avery peered toward the creek. “Can we go back?”
“The road behind us crosses two lower channels,” Thomas said.
“If this one is over its bank, those are worse.” He opened his route sheet against the wagon side while Caroline held the upper corners.
“There is higher ground west-northwest. A ridge appears to connect with the main road beyond the low country, but this record was made in a dry year. I have to see whether the grade and surface will take loaded wagons.”
Caroline studied the penciled contour marks. “I’ll go with you.”
Thomas’s gaze lifted at once. “Caroline—”
“I know the weight of every Whitaker load. I know how our teams pull on a grade.”
“Which is why I need you here,” Nathaniel said. “We may have to move all twelve wagons before Thomas returns. Eleanor and I will set the ground. You’ll order the teams and loads.”
Caroline disliked the decision for the very reason it made sense. Thomas saw that in her face. He folded the map once and stepped closer.
“Mr. Hall knows this country,” he said. “We will take two horses, mark the approach, and signal from the ridge before dark.”
“A white cloth if it will hold wagons,” Caroline said. “Red if it will not.”
“And two shots if we need help.”
She took the repaired compass from her pocket. The crack across its glass caught the thin morning light. For one foolish instant she wanted to press it into his hand. Instead, she closed her fingers around it. “What bearing?”
Thomas gave it to her. She repeated the number until he nodded.
“Come back before I have to organize a search,” she said.
“I have learned not to create unnecessary work for you.”
“You have learned to say that.”
His smile was brief and private. He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, then mounted and rode away beside Mr. Hall.
The company spent the morning fighting water without entering it.
Caroline sent the lightest wagon first to a shelf of firmer ground, then ordered sacks and crates shifted so no wheel carried more than it must. Rebecca took charge of the rear teams. Eleanor settled children and older travelers near the rise while Nathaniel tested every route between camp and safety.
By noon, mud had worked through Caroline’s shoes and patience. When Mr. Bell protested that his stove should not be moved beneath his bedding, she said, “Then you may explain to your wife and mother why the stove reached Nebraska, and their blankets did not.” The stove moved.
Martha passed Caroline a biscuit gone soft from the damp. “You have looked toward the ridge seventeen times.”
“Have you been counting?”
“Grace has. I guessed lower.”
Caroline ate the biscuit because arguing required strength. No white signal appeared. No red one did either.
The hours after Thomas left stretched beneath worsening rain.
Caroline kept the company moving toward the highest available shelf, one wagon at a time.
The Hall wagon sank to its hub near the old fire ring, and Caroline ordered the load shifted instead of calling for every man to pull at once.
Rebecca brought the spare team. Eleanor moved the children out of the rain.
Nathaniel controlled the approach so no second wagon entered the soft ground.
By midafternoon, Caroline had mud to her knees and no patience left for Mr. Bell's desire to recover a tent peg already beneath six inches of water.
“It is a good peg,” he said.
“Then it will make a fine marker for the old camp.”
The company reached the shelf with all twelve wagons. Caroline walked the new line, checking wheel blocks and drainage. Each task was necessary. None kept her from looking toward the ridge.
Charlotte brought a cup of coffee and stood beside her. “You can be frightened and still be in command.”
“Rebecca said something similar last week.”
“We discussed you.”
“I suspected.”
Charlotte did not ask whether Thomas would return. She asked what signal they expected and recorded it. Caroline watched the ridge until dusk thinned every shape into rain. When hoofbeats finally came, hope rose so quickly it hurt—and fell just as sharply when only Mr. Hall emerged.
Near sunset, a horse emerged from the rain. Mr. Hall bent low over its neck. The animal limped badly, and Thomas was not behind him.
Caroline reached Hall before his boots found the ground. “Where is he?”
“We separated at the fork.” Hall struggled for breath. “My mare stepped wrong. Reed said he could reach the limestone ridge alone and come back by the marked line. I waited. Then the creek cut between us. I fired twice, but the storm swallowed it.”
“Did he answer?”
Hall shook his head.
Rain slid from Caroline’s hair into her eyes. Around her, twelve wagons stood on higher ground because she had kept her place and done the work required of her. Thomas was somewhere beyond the flooded creek because he had done the same.
She opened the compass. The needle trembled, then settled beneath the cracked glass.
“Show me the fork,” she said.