The following is Chapter Eleven of my story about a pair of free black siblings making the journey to California in 1849:
Chapter Eleven – Crossing the River
May 10, 1849
The wagon company came upon the Kanzas River. Mr. James took one look at the body of water and decided that our wagons would not be able to ford it. I could see why. The clear water seemed to gush from a cluster of rocks at a breakneck speed. And it flowed above the banks. Spring flood.
Mr. Robbins suggested that we wait for the river’s current to die down. But Mr. James naysayed the notion. “There’s no telling how long it would take for the water to go down. And we can’t afford to wait.” In other words – the company had to find a way to ferry across the river.
In the end, we did it with the help of a band of Indians that operated a ferry service. We came across their landing, just a little upriver. According to Mr. Wendell, they were Osage. “They came here nearly two hundred years ago from the Ohio Valley.” We stood near the riverbank, while we watched two Osage braves ferry the Robbins and Palmer wagons across the river on a flat, wooden raft. I asked about the other Indians, who also lived in this region. “Oh, you mean the Kansa and the Pawnee? They’ve been pushed a little further west. To the Platte River.”
I saw that the Osage were a handsome, bronze-skinned bunch whose clothes were decorated with colorful beads, cloths and feathers. They seemed to have established a brisk business as ferrymen and traders. For us emigrants, they were our last chance to purchase goods, until Fort Laramie – 600 miles from here. To our dismay, we discovered that the Osage charged steep prices. For all services.
“This is downright robbery,” Ben complained. “Why doesn’t the Army do something about them?” Typical Ben. Grumpy as usual. A dark suspicion began to enter in the back of my mind that he might be harboring regrets about this journey. What had he expected? A picnic on the Plains?
When our turn came to cross the Kanzas River, Ben parked our wagon between two others – the one belonging to our fellow emigrants from Indiana and the wagon belonging to the Gibson family – on what looked like a flimsy piece of wood. This was our raft? This was going to carry three wagons across the river?
The river crossing turned out to be the longest twenty minutes I have ever experienced. My anxiety increased when the water began to rise above the raft in the middle of the river. Just as I had feared, three wagons on one raft was turning out to be one wagon too many. Yet, before I could catch my breath again, we had finally reached the other side.
Mrs. Robbins commented on my expression. She declared that I looked ”a little drawn in the gills”. When I told her about the water rising above the raft, she revealed that the same had happened during her crossing. “Them Injuns sure know how to make a sturdy raft with a pile of flimsy sticks.”
Those of us who were safely on the river’s north bank, watched the other crossings. It was not long before it was time for the Crosses and our flashy New Orleans friends to cross the river. Everything seemed to proceed smoothly . . . until Mr. Wendell cried out loud. The lines holding Mr. Anderson’s wagon had loosened.
The river’s current surged upward, causing the raft to lurch. Because it had been loosely tied, the Anderson wagon slowly began to slide . . . toward the Crosses’ wagon. Fortunately, the latter wagon had been firmly secured, or both wagons would have slipped into the river. Despite this, a tragedy nearly occurred. Marcus Cross, a chestnut-haired fellow with a long, solemn face, had been sitting on the wagon seat, when Mr. Anderson’s wagon had begun to slide toward him. When the two wagons collided, Mr. Cross fell from his wagon seat and toward the river. His cousin grabbed him in time to prevent him from falling into the fast-moving river. A very close call.
After the raft completed its crossing, the two wagons rolled onto the north bank. Marcus Cross jumped from his wagon seat and angrily accosted Mr. Anderson for failing to secure his wagon. It was not before the two men became engaged in a fist fight. Thankfully, Mr. Robbins and Mr. Gibson pulled the two men apart. Judging by the looks the two men exchanged during the rest of the day, I fear that a feud has commenced between the Crosses and Mr. Anderson.
End of Chapter Eleven
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