One More River to Cross Read online

  “Jane Kirkpatrick has turned a scrap of history into a story of courageous women strong enough to meet the challenges of nature—and of men. Starting with a footnote about a group of pioneers in 1844 caught in snows of the California Sierra, Kirkpatrick weaves a tale of extraordinary women (oh, and a few men too) who fight blizzards and starvation to save those they love.”

  Sandra Dallas, New York Times bestselling author

  “What an incredible journey this novel is! Without ever trivializing or sentimentalizing the harshness of the circumstances, Kirkpatrick centers her novel on the bonds of community, family, and friendship that sustained these strong, complicated women through a harrowing winter trapped in the Sierra Nevadas. There’s not a false note in this book. It’s moving and beautifully told, and I absolutely loved it.”

  Molly Gloss, award-winning author of The Jump-Off Creek and The Hearts of Horses

  “I can wholeheartedly recommend this book. Jane gets the facts as right as they can be got out of the stories of the various participants in the experience of the winter of 1844–45 in the Sierra Nevada of California. Anyone can tell you what it was like—dirty and hungry and cold and lonely. Jane puts the heart-pounding, breath-taking, adrenaline-soaked feelings into the thoughts and the mouths of the people who lived the experience as real-time commentary on the events. The thoughts and words may not be exactly what those folks were thinking and feeling, but I believe in my heart they could be.”

  Stafford Hazelett, editor of Wagons to the Willamette

  “Award-winning western writer Jane Kirkpatrick tells the remarkable story of survival of the Murphy-Stephens-Townsend Overland Party of 1845, the first to bring wagons through the Sierra Nevada into California. Unlike the great loss of life suffered by the tragic Donner Party the following year, all fifty members of the party survived, despite harrowing ordeals in mountain snows, often with nothing to eat but tree bark. As with so many of Jane’s books, she tells the story of the women who are so often ignored in western histories—giving birth along the trail; enduring their own illnesses to comfort near-starving children; taking charge in emergencies, such as helping rescue a drowning man or a stranded horse; and resisting men who try to shout them down when they insist on being heard. And don’t overlook Jane’s acknowledgments at the end where she says she hopes this story ‘might celebrate the honor of self-sacrifice, the wisdom of working together, and the power of persevering through community and faith.’ This wonderful new book accomplishes this, and more.”

  R. Gregory Nokes, author and former editor for the Oregonian

  Also by Jane Kirkpatrick

  Everything She Didn’t Say

  All She Left Behind

  This Road We Traveled

  The Memory Weaver

  A Light in the Wilderness

  One Glorious Ambition

  The Daughter’s Walk

  Where Lilacs Still Bloom

  A Mending at the Edge

  A Tendering in the Storm

  A Clearing in the Wild

  Barcelona Calling

  An Absence So Great

  A Flickering Light

  A Land of Sheltered Promise

  Hold Tight the Thread

  Every Fixed Star

  A Name of Her Own

  What Once We Loved

  No Eye Can See

  All Together in One Place

  Mystic Sweet Communion

  A Gathering of Finches

  Love to Water My Soul

  A Sweetness to the Soul

  NOVELLAS

  Sincerely Yours

  Log Cabin Christmas

  American Dream

  NONFICTION

  Promises of Hope for Difficult Times

  Aurora, An American Experience in Quilt, Community, and Craft

  A Simple Gift of Comfort

  A Burden Shared

  Homestead

  © 2019 by Jane Kirkpatrick Inc.

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1949-4

  ISBN 978-0-8007-3706-1 (casebound)

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of historical fiction based closely on real people and events. Details that cannot be historically verified are purely products of the author’s imagination.

  Published in association with Joyce Hart of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.

  Dedicated to Jerry

  For showing me how to cross rivers

  and keep going

  Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is that little voice that at the end of the day says “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Mary Anne Radmacher, poet and artist

  And not by eastern windows only,

  When daylight comes, comes in the light;

  In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!

  But westward, look, the land is bright!

  Arthur Hugh Clough,

  “Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth”

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Also by Jane Kirkpatrick

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Route of the Stephens-Murphy-Townsend Party

  Epigraphs

  The Stephens-Murphy-Townsend Overland Party

  Prologue

  Part 1

  1. Sanctuary

  2. Consideration

  3. Decision Points

  4. Judging

  5. Separation

  6. Departure

  7. The Language of Snow

  8. Assessments

  9. Protecting Treasures

  10. Faith and Forward

  11. We Are Here, I Am Here

  12. Settling

  13. Little Gifts

  14. Bonjour and Farewell

  15. Yuba

  16. Landscape Hurdles

  17. Strength of Spirit

  18. She Stays at Home

  19. To Carry On

  Part 2

  20. Forward

  21. Plans

  22. Where the Shoes Take Us

  23. Confession

  24. A Way Out

  25. Filling Up

  26. Contemplating Reunions

  27. Character

  28. Hello and Goodbye

  29. Doing What We Can

  30. Warmth

  31. Now My Friends Are Here to Help

  32. Breaking Bread

  33. Food, Clothing, Shelter, and Love

  34. One More River to Cross

  35. Homecoming

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions for Book Groups

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  The Stephens-Murphy-Townsend Overland Party

  1844–45

  Horseback Group

  Ellen Murphy (Townsend)—spirited beauty; daughter of Martin Murphy Sr.

  Elizabeth “Beth” Townsend—asthmatic, wife of Dr. John Townsend, Ellen’s sister-in-law

/>   Daniel Murphy—hunter, struggling brother of Ellen

  John Murphy—hunter, trained as Irish slinger, brother of Ellen and Daniel

  François Deland—chef and French-Canadian servant

  Oliver Manet—oxman and French-Canadian servant

  Wagon Guards

  Moses Schallenberger—hunter, 17 years old, brother of Elizabeth Townsend

  Joe Foster—hunter, aid to Captain Stephens

  Allen Montgomery—gunsmith, confident husband of Sarah Montgomery

  The Wintering Women

  Mary Sullivan—wears Aran wool sweaters, rounded braids at her ears, is Irish-Canadian—sister of John Sullivan and two younger brothers Michael and Robert

  Maolisa (mail-issa) Bulger Murphy—housekeeper extraordinaire; mother of Elizabeth Yuba, BD, Mimi, and two others; wife of Martin Murphy Jr. (“Junior”)

  Ailbe (all-bay) Murphy Miller—wife of James Miller, mother of Ellen Independence and four others, daughter of Martin Sr. Has premonitions.

  Sarah Armstrong Montgomery—quilter and knitter, wife of Allen

  Isabella Patterson—widow; hoping to transform her life; daughter of Isaac Hitchcock; mother of four, including Lydia

  Ann Jane Martin Murphy—“round as a rutabaga,” wife of James Murphy, mother of Kate and Ide (ee-day)

  Margaret Murphy—one of the two single Murphy aunts; sister of Johanna, Ellen, and Ailbe Miller and Murphy brothers

  Johanna Murphy—the other single Murphy aunt; sister of Margaret, Ellen, and Ailbe Miller and Murphy brothers

  Also at the Wintering Cabin

  James Miller—hunter; husband of Ailbe; father of William and four others, including Ellen Independence

  Patrick Martin Sr. (“Old Man Martin”)—weak left arm; father of Dennis, Patrick Jr., and Ann Jane

  Seventeen children total including BD, scampish son of Maolisa Murphy; infants Ellen Independence and Elizabeth Yuba; Lydia Patterson; the Sullivan “little boys”

  Cross-Country Men

  Captain “Capt” Elisha Stephens—hawkish nose, elected leader of party, blacksmith, trapper

  Martin Murphy Sr.—widower, praying leader of party, Irish/Canadian/Missourian

  Dr. John Townsend—physician, entrepreneur, husband of Beth

  Martin Murphy Jr. (“Junior”)—husband of Maolisa Bulger and father of Elizabeth Yuba

  John Sullivan—assumes role of parent, Irish-Canadian, brother of Mary Sullivan

  Bernard Murphy—son of Martin Sr.

  James Murphy—husband of Ann Jane, father of Ide

  Dennis Martin—has a lisp, rescuer, son of Patrick Sr.

  Patrick Martin Jr.—son of Patrick Sr.

  Old Caleb Greenwood—guide and trapper, pilot for the party

  Britain Greenwood—buckskin-clad mixed-blood son of Caleb

  John Greenwood—tobacco-chewing mixed-blood son of Caleb

  Isaac Hitchcock—father of Isabella Patterson, grandfather and mountain man

  Also four ox drivers

  Prologue

  Mary Sullivan stood outside the circle of men, watched through the triangle of elbows as they nodded and commented about the markings the Paiute drew in the dirt. Dust, the color of ash-laden snow, shrouded their brogans and britches as they stared at the desert lines indicating rivers, mountains, and lakes. Based on the scratching of a stranger, the men would decide their next course.

  A dog barked. A child cried and was comforted.

  One day, Mary vowed, she’d make her own choices, be clear about what mattered in her life, and hope to have the courage to act on that.

  1

  Sanctuary

  October 1844

  For a second day, the company that seventeen-year-old Mary Sullivan traveled with found sanctuary beside a river edged with willows and rocks in the shadow of distant mountains. Their green-painted Schuttler wagon had passed through a long desert onto this place of promise, where the sunset of pinks and yellows colored the rush of water. An Irish whistle rang a tune in competition with the bodhran likely pounded by Old Man Martin. The music gave respite in the midst of their slow journey toward the Sierra Nevada.

  Mary scrubbed at the washboard. She wore her dark hair braided in rounds at her ears—just as her mother had—and she scoured her brother’s pants like her mother had too, hundreds of times. It was what women did. Such stains. The boys ground dirt into cloth the way dogs rolled in mud: they saw it as a lark. She sat back on her heels. And why shouldn’t they have fun? They were young. Mary licked the blood from her knuckles. Perhaps their boisterousness served as a bridge from sadness to acceptance.

  The breeze cooled her face, and she returned to pound the stiff cloth harder. Her back ached. The other women chattered to each other at the river’s edge. She could join them—they’d welcome her—but she wasn’t kin. What she wanted to do was tear off her poke bonnet and stand on her hands, maybe. Wouldn’t that raise Irish eyebrows? She smiled. In Quebec when she was alone on the family’s farm, she’d done such a thing, her linen skirts falling around her face like a waterfall. Her head buzzed, and she remembered laughing out loud, feeling strong as she saw the world upside down and made up poems like Skirts and boots dance in the air, while tongues and eyes birth laughter. But here, next to this river heading toward the mountains, she must express decorum or risk her brother’s wrath.

  “Did our mother neglect to teach you properly that your knuckles still bleed?” Mary’s brother John stood over her now, accusing. He’d come upon her, silent as sunset.

  She wondered if he still grieved.

  She squinted up at him, shaded her eyes with her hand, her bonnet having slipped behind her, resting on her back. “How about you finish these trousers to show the little boys how it’s done and that a man can do it as well as a woman.”

  He grunted. “A good effort, sister. You’re behind on your duties and we have animals to tend to. I expect your help. Finish up.”

  She stood, twisted the pants to remove the water, then rubbed damp hands on her skirt. “See? All ready.” She loved working with the oxen, scratching their big heads, feeling their velvety ears, and was happy indeed to give up scrubbing for that even when her brother demanded it.

  “Take the clothes up to the wagon and meet me at the corral. You can hold the lead while I scrape out their hooves.”

  She made her retort a tease. “Maybe you’ll take the rope and ’tis meself who’ll clean their feet.” She bundled the duds into her arms. “I’m closer to the ground than you.”

  He grunted. “Put your bonnet back on.”

  She was tempted to counter him, but instead she stayed silent and followed. Standing on her hands would have to wait for another day.

  Sarah Armstrong Montgomery imagined the wispy clouds above her to be threads ready to be sewn into a quilt-backing as blue as bachelor buttons. If they found this balmy weather in Alta California, Sarah would stay there for life, contented as a honeybee, queen of its hive. Sarah had made a nest leaning back against the wagon tongue, a quilt rolled up behind her as a backrest. She’d removed her bonnet as she sat in the shade, brushed strands of blonde hair away from her eyes. She’d need to stitch up a loose portion of her faded green wrapper, but she could do that tomorrow. Laughter drew her eyes to her husband standing beside lovely Ellen Murphy. Allen Montgomery was a fine-looking man even if he did spend more time grooming his mustache than Sarah thought necessary. But today she had no complaints. Like the rest of the Stephens-Murphy-Townsend party comprised mostly of Irish Catholics, optimism perfumed the scene around her and Sarah felt relieved—relieved of the worry she’d carried with her from Missouri when she’d feared that they were heading toward trial and trouble and perhaps their deaths. She envied the Irish Catholics they traveled with. Their faith buoyed them like sticks on a stream flowing ever toward their destination, weathering bumps and bruises while praying over beads. And the truth of it was that nothing had gone terribly wrong these past five months.

  Best of all, ea
rlier that day, the men had met a lone Indian, and the elders—as she thought of them, old men of experience leading this company—had used sign language and drawings in the dirt to communicate. The Paiute, whom they’d named Truckee, gave them directions, advising them to follow this river they’d camped beside until they arrived at a fork with a smaller river heading west and another flowing south. There was some confusion about which way wagons would travel most easily. Earlier parties—the Bidwell-Bartleson train for one—had abandoned their wagons in 1841, so avoiding their aborted trail was optimal. It was this Stephens-Murphy-Townsend party’s goal to take wagons all the way to Alta California—a foreign land south of the vast Oregon Country and far north of the province’s Mexican capital. Which stream they’d follow to get there Sarah wasn’t certain, but either supposedly would end near Sutter’s Fort. The men would decide once they arrived at the river’s fork. But for now—they had a plan: travel until the decision place. A plan always comforted Sarah.

  She looked at her fingernails. Still strong. Another good sign they’d carried with them the right foods and portions. Murphy wives and sisters snapped wet petticoats and sheets they’d rinsed at the shoreline. Children scampered with hoops or played “catch me” in the heavy dust. Her own clothesline, strung earlier, sagged with the laundry she’d washed that morning. She heard aprons and wrappers flap in the late afternoon breeze. Time to take them down. She watched as dark-haired Mary Sullivan followed her brother toward the corrals, head down. Mary was a quiet soul, a loner, carrying her brother’s duds. Duds. Such a spritely word for mundane things like worn clothes or cloaks.

  Sarah ran her palm over her stringy blonde hair. It needed a good wash. Tomorrow. Captain Stephens said they’d remain another day, then start out on the last leg. Last leg. What did that really mean? Only one leg left to stand on? Or the last table leg to attach for a finished product? Words were entertaining. She could amuse herself for hours with words. If only she could read them.

  Ellen Murphy retied the ribbon around her hair and lifted the auburn mass of curls from her neck, bending as she did to cup a palmful of river water she flicked at Allen Montgomery. He skipped backward. “Is this your way of suggesting I bathe, Miss Murphy?”