Sep 30, 2013 6 min read

? Chapter FOUR

THE STORY SO FAR: Moses and Jesse Damron scared off the panther that nearly killed their mule. Now the family is packed and ready to move to Kentucky – but what’s wrong with Mama?

June 17-20, 1828. Crossing to Posey County, Indiana.

Papa wakes me before sunup the next morning and sends me out to milk Nettie. The cow smells funny. She stomps her foot right into the bucket. Milk splashes onto my skirt and runs into the straw. “No milk for breakfast,” Moses says, scolding me.

But we’re too excited to eat or drink. Mama is quiet, and Papa helps her climb into the wagon with Louisa. Sadie leans forward into the traces, and the wagon lurches down the track toward the Little Wabash. Moses rides ahead of us on Pearl. He doesn’t look back, but I turn around one last time. The barn door creaks in the wind. Our house seems empty and lonesome in the clearing.

“Jesse, hurry up!” Solomon calls. I run after the wagon, my bare feet sliding in the mud.

We’re off to Kentucky!

We ford the Little Wabash in a shallow place, then cross the Big Wabash on our first ferry ride. Two days later we’re traveling through Indiana, in country Papa calls “The Barrens.” Scrubby trees line the trail. The wagon sinks up to its hubs in the ruts, just as Moses predicted. It’s hard for Sadie to pull the load, so I have to walk. I flick a stick at Nettie’s rump to keep her moving. Her legs tremble whenever we stop.

Louisa lies in the back of the wagon. She’s made a house for her dolls on the pile of quilts. Mama sits on the wagon seat, holding the reins. Moses rides high on Pearl, with Solomon in front of him. “I’m taller than you are,” Solomon calls.

I make a rude face and catch up with Papa and Sadie. Mud squishes through my bare toes. “It’s not fair,” I tell Papa. “No one else has to walk. Why can’t I trade with Louisa? She has shoes.”

“She’s too small to keep up,” Papa says. “I’m walking, too, Jess. I guess that means you and I are the strongest.” He rumples my hair. “Watch Nettie, now. Don’t let her wander off.”

I stand aside while the wagon rolls past me. I don’t feel strong. My legs are tired and my belly is empty. What if I have to walk all the way to Grandma’s?

We follow the Wabash until dusk, when we make camp. I tether Nettie to a skinny tree to milk her. She lowers her head to the ground, breathing hard. “Easy, girl.” I stroke her flank, but she kicks the bucket again. Dirt spatters into the foamy milk. I pick out as much dirt as I can before I carry the bucket to the wagon. Luckily Papa doesn’t notice. Everyone but me drinks a big creamy cup at supper.

Later Mama has a chill again, so Papa covers her with extra quilts in the wagon bed. Louisa climbs up on the wheel and peers down at Mama’s face. “Do you have fever and ague, Mama?” she asks.

“I don’t think so,” Mama says in a soft voice. “I’ll be better in the morning. You all stay dry under the wagon.”

Louisa cuddles up next to me and puts her mouth to my ear. “Mama’s tongue is brown,” she whispers.

“Don’t tell stories,” I say.

“I’m not. It is brown.” She turns away, pulling the blanket off me. I yank it back, too tired to fight. An owl hoots from across the river. Worries about Mama keep me awake a long time.

I wake up shivering and scratchy with mosquito bites. The morning fog makes everything clammy. As I snuggle close to Solomon, trying to get warm, Papa calls Mama’s name. “Rebecca,” he says. “Rebecca, speak to me.” Papa’s voice is hoarse. He doesn’t sound like himself. I scramble out.

“Papa, what’s the matter?”

“She’s burning with fever,” Papa says. I stand on tiptoe and peer into the wagon. Mama’s round face looks mottled, like a dapple-gray mare. “Run to the river for water. Now!” Papa demands.

The Wabash is muddy and swift, and I almost lose the bucket. Papa sponges Mama’s forehead, then her wrists. Mama moans. Louisa was right: Mama’s tongue is brown as dirt. My heart beats fast. I crawl to the back of the wagon and pull out Mama’s medicine box. Why didn’t I listen when we packed up the herbs? I stare at the twiggy bundles, trying to remember what Mama taught me. “She made me chew on willow bark when I had the ague,” I say, clambering back to Papa. “Shall I fetch some from the river?”

He shakes his head. “I think this is the milk sickness.”

Milk sickness? Mama never told me about that disease. “Is she going to die?”

“I pray not.” Papa stares into Mama’s face as if he’s never seen it before.

A prickly feeling gnaws at my belly. I think about the dirty milk we had last night. “How did she get this milk sickness?” I whisper.

“From the cow, I guess.” Papa strokes Mama’s face. I turn away. Everyone but me drank the milk. What if they all get sick? I jump down, run to Nettie, and throw my arms around her neck. My hand brushes her nose and I freeze. Instead of being soft and moist, her nostrils are hot as embers. Her sides heave in and out, and her head hangs down low. “Papa! Nettie’s sick, too,” I cry.

“Stay away from that cow!” Papa shouts.

I hurry back to the wagon and bury my head on Mama’s soft chest. She mumbles something. “Mama,” I whisper, “it’s me, Jesse.” She doesn’t answer, and Papa tugs my sleeve. “Go find your brother.”

Moses is fishing downstream. When I bring him back, Mama is worse. Solomon and Louisa wail at her feet like the world is ending.

I guess it is.

• NEXT WEEK: My Blood Runs Cold