The Long Journey Home: A Novel of the Post-Civil War Plains

By Laurel Means

A fascinating family saga set in the 1860s prairie of Minnesota and the Dakotas. Pioneer and Civil War veteran Henry Morgan sets out on a dramatic journey that takes him through mazes, river currents, down dangerous trails, and up against dead ends. From an unlikely beginning, Morgan's hasty marriage to the young and illiterate Agnes Guyette has unforeseen consquences. As they attempt to claim a government land grant two hundred miles away in Green Prairie, MN, they must fight local Indians, hostile wilderness, and desperados determined to steal their land. Filled with nonstop action and unexpected plot twists and turns, this novel is a roller coaster ride of action, intrigue and high adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2008
• ISBN: 9780897339179

Book preview

First Journey

Almost—almost— Henry Morton gasped out the word.

"Almost—what does that mean?"

"Some irony, eh? Almost! Steps away, and I can’t get it out, can’t even almost say it."

Where are we?

"Almost there, I know it. Have to be. Four years is a long time. But—see that pile of rocks? Stunted pine?"

If you say so. Wilson’s voice, flat and mechanical. Collapsing on a log at the side of the road, "My leg, my leg, don’t much care ’bout where, even if we are—almost. Damn well, almost!"

Only half mile now. Winona Bluffs more’n an hour back.

Weren’t keepin’ track.

Didn’t we just pass the old Wacouta cemetery? Those lights over there—most likely the Lindstrom place?

If’n you say so, Pa.

"Come on, get up, pull yourself together. We’re nearly there, I said. Nearly there!"

Don’t care no more. I just— Wilson broke off with a moan, overwhelmed with the pain of memory and the physical throbbing of his foot.

You can’t give up now, after what we’ve been through.

Just want to forget.

Know that’s hard, but the battle’s over. Reckon we lost a few, don’t like to think ’bout those, especially Fitzhugh’s Woods—that Fed prison, neither. Waves of nausea, even as he tried to suppress the indelible imprint upon his brain of stench, maggot-infested food, the screams of dying men, bloody piles of amputated limbs. Least ways you’ve still got your foot. Sure argued with that army surgeon ’bout that, didn’t I?

Would’ve been better cut off. Wilson moaned between clenched teeth.

Still alive, aren’t you, son? Listen, you’ll think different on it, once we get home. By way of encouragement, he added, Say, wonder what the old place’ll look like, eh? Hope they kept it up. Your ma’ll sure be glad to see you, even in that old uniform—or what’s left of it, some’at the worse for—for war. He smiled wryly at his pun.

She mayn’t recognize me, neither. Four years—seems more’n a hundred. Grown up a bit, I reckon.

All right, enough talk. Sooner we move on, sooner we’ll get there. Here, lean on me. Wilson struggled to stand, succeeding only when Henry supported him under both arms. "Might help to use this rifle like a crutch. Maybe a good thing the army didn’t want it back—damned thing defective and near useless. Guess they hadn’t thought ’bout that use for it."

He positioned the butt under Wilson’s armpit. That’s right, keep the butt there, lean on it. It’ll take some weight off that foot. Maybe later we can ask ’bout a doctor in Winona Bluffs. Wilson tried a few steps. Come on, do the best you can, got to get a move on. Sun’s already down, can’t hardly make out the road as it is.

Wilson winced as he stumbled over rocks on the road and hobbled after his father. Ow—oh wait! he cried. Wait—wait for me, Pa! Can’t keep up, you keep goin’ faster!

Although aware of Wilson’s pain, Henry couldn’t slow down, not now, not this close. Only a quarter mile at most now—no, less’n that. Look—that big tree up there overhanging the road—oak at the turn off! He plunged ahead, then stopped to wait for Wilson. They would share this glorious homecoming together, just as they had shared the horrors of war.

But Wilson, limping up closely behind, stumbled. The rifle butt slid out from under his arm. Ow—my foot! he cried. Just let me die here, Pa, close to home. Come far enough.

"No, you have not come far enough, not yet. I’ll carry you on my back if I have to."

Wilson moaned as he struggled to his feet. Can’t let you do that Pa. I’ll manage somehow. He retrieved the rifle lying on the road and resolutely pushed the butt under his arm. Why’d you stop so sudden like? Thought you’d be racin’ halfway down to the house by now.

Dunno. Thought I’d wait for you, then something didn’t seem right. Look down there toward the end of the lane—what do you see?

Well, I think I see the old house all right, leastways somethin’ gray. Too dark now to see much.

That’s just it. It’s all dark.

Maybe they’ve gone to bed.

Too early, sun only just set. Can’t even be nine yet.

Gone to town?

Too late for that. They’d be back by now, before dark anyway. I’m thinking there ought to be a light showing somewhere—one upstairs, maybe a light in the barn, somebody checking on the stock. Something’s amiss. Henry’s heart sank. To come so far and find the place empty, what a cruel disappointment. It wasn’t what he’d expected.

Seems awful quiet, Pa.

Sure doesn’t look like anybody’s around. Come on then, he sighed, only thing to do is just go in and wait. They’re sure to be back soon. As they approached the house, Henry added, Something we need to consider, though. Your ma. Think what a shock it’ll be to arrive all sudden like this, her heart the way it is. Have to take it gently, maybe, in stages. Won’t have to worry about William or your little sister, Helen, though. They’ll be mighty glad to see us. Helen’ll have grown into a young lady by now, I ’spect.

Not likely. Always was too independent, to my mind.

Standing now directly before the front porch, Henry looked up at the house. All the windows dark. For certain they’ve gone out somewhere, most likely visiting a neighbor, back soon. Well, we can wait some more—waited enough already.

Suddenly Wilson shouted, Pa, look! Some light out back, just make out a reflection against the chicken coop.

You’re right, somebody’s home, at least. They continued around the side of the house and headed for the back door. Of course, lamp’s lit in the kitchen, just couldn’t see the light from the road. They must all be in there, finishing a late supper.

Coming through the mudroom into the kitchen, Henry found his elder son, William, sitting alone at the kitchen table, his blond head bent over what looked like an account book. The remains of a half-eaten meal and days of dirty dishes littered the table. My boy— Henry blurted out and stopped. He thought he was prepared for this homecoming, he’d rehearsed it many times. His emotion now annihilated all preparation.

Who’s there? William cried, jumping up so suddenly that the table tipped half the dishes onto the floor. His chair screeched backwards, and his head hit the base of the hanging oil lamp, which swung dangerously back and forth, sending moving shadows across the ceiling and around the room. Who’s there? Can’t see—blasted lamp! Get back or I’ll …

It’s your pa, son. And your brother. We’re— Words once again failing, Henry threw his arms around William. My boy, my boy, he said, and held him close for a long moment. Then embarrassed by this sign of weakness, he drew back, rubbed his hand over his chin, and asked, Your ma asleep already? Go fetch her—best break the news gently, though. She’ll be so—

Not upstairs.

Where, then?

Just—gone. Sis, too.

"What do you mean, gone? They both in town, then?"

Didn’t you get our letters, Pa? We wrote—or mostly Helen, anyway.

No letters. Well, one a couple of years ago, just before we were sent south. Couldn’t hardly expect letters, moving from one camp to another, then after Arkansas and then Libby Prison in Richmond. Not much chance to write, either, for that matter.

True, never heard from you. Once in a while the Bluffs newspaper said where the Minnesota Third was, that’s all we knew. Ma got anxious, lived in a state of dread every Friday when the paper came out.

Your ma, then, is where?

Like I said, gone.

"What d’you mean gone? She’s either here or somewhere else. Henry was growing impatient. Quit beating around the bush, I’m not in the mood for such crap."

William picked up the fallen chair and sat down heavily. So you didn’t know that Ma— He paused, realizing that he would, sooner or later, be forced to break the news. He took a deep breath, and went on. Well, Ma passed away, over a year ago—in the spring.

Her heart? Henry had half expected it.

No, Pa. Consumption, not her heart. Sick for nearly three months through the winter, took what we had to pay for a doctor. No hope, he said, so when the end came, we buried her down in that glade near the creek, place she liked because of the wild violets in the spring. And they were there. He swallowed hard.

Henry was stunned. Although Sarah’s fragile state meant living constantly with the thought of an early death, its reality was hard to accept. How was it that he and Wilson had survived, escaped death a hundred times, and Sarah had not? She died? Died in the spring? Consumption, your mother dead? Over a year ago? he repeated in disbelief, echoing William’s words as if to confirm them. He had to steady himself against the edge of the table.

No, it’s true, Pa. After that—well, didn’t think we could hold on much longer after that. War seemed to go on and on, no word from you—you could have been dead, too, and Wilson as well, for all we knew. What could we do? It was hard working the fields, even if we’d had good weather. Drought, then hailstorms, seemed like one damned thing after another. Nobody to help look after the stock, neither.

Your sister?

Tried her best, but she’s only a girl—bit frail, too, like her Ma. We did our best, Pa, honest we did. But a couple of months ago, in May I think it was, she took off and left.

"Left? What d’ya mean left?"

Well, just—left. Note said her’n Lindstrom boy were gonna get hitched. He’d been hanging round the place awhile back. He shook his head. You’d of thought he’d offer to help some, but no, he was only after Helen.

Helen—and the Lindstrom boy? My Helen? Why, they’re only children!

You’re thinking back four years ago, Pa.

This was too much. Where? Do you know where—

Note said something ’bout the city—St. Paul, maybe, looking for work. Then, after a pause, Can’t say as I blame ’em. Things here—so unfair—hard—tried so hard— With that, William, his mouth contorting with suppressed sobs, blurted out, Who’s to blame? So hard— He put his head down on the kitchen table and cried like a child, wrenching, dry sobs of despair, coming from deep within.

His brother Wilson had sunk into a chair, exhausted, pale and shaken by William’s news. What, he began, grasping for words, what can—why didn’t you about Ma— and broke off.

Henry, too, was shaken. Almost home, now here—what bitter irony. His original relief at having survived the war, made it back, if not entirely of sound mind, at least of sound body, evaporated along with the anticipation of uniting the family, reaping the fall harvest, planting the spring seeds, and enjoying peaceful years ahead. As for Wilson? Glancing at his younger son, Henry’s heart filled with pity. This son, so eager to sign up with him when the Minnesota regiments were forming, had been through so much. Had expected so much, coming home.

But his feelings of compassion gave way to guilt. Moved to an unconscious gesture of remorse, he gently placed his hand on William’s bowed head. My boy, he said hesitantly, I am sorry, so sorry, my son, to have left you with all of this, you were only eighteen, I should have known. In his guilt, too, he thought of how vulnerable his young daughter was—left alone at twelve, was it? Sixteen now? That Lindstrom boy—taking advantage. Marriage—pah! A likely story! He rubbed his hand over his eyes, as if to dispel the inevitable scene. Maybe she’d already be deserted, wandering the streets—easy prey—his girl Helen—

The light of the next day revealed the tragic spiral of events at Beaver Creek. Walking with William around the badly weathered backboard house, Henry saw a broken parlor window and the front porch rotting away. When did those shingles come off the roof? he asked.

Tail end of a tornado, said William. Took some of the barn roof as well. Tried to put a tarp over it, but it blew off a little later.

And look at those big holes in the south pasture fence, Henry pointed out as they walked down a little farther. Surprised you didn’t lose some of the cows.

William looked uncomfortable. Well, we did lose old Daisy. Found her down at the bottom of the bluff a little later.

And what happened to that big old maple tree beside the porch? Sorry, Pa, had to chop it down for firewood. We had some pretty cold winters.

There’s plenty of old deadwood around, why that tree? Good shade in the summer.

William bristled in self-defense. How’d you expect me to have the time to go out collecting it? Hauling it back here? Same for mucking out the barn.

Henry said nothing more, there’d been enough of a litany and he was already aware of the state of the barn and the stock. Only two cows and the wagon team, Major and Jack, left. They looked emaciated. There was little hay up in the loft, nor had this summer’s hay been mown—it still lay in the fields, choked with weeds. What about last fall’s harvest? Get much for that?

No, Pa, William answered hesitantly. You see, it was like this. Me and Helen, we got too busy caring for Ma. What little we did manage to sow in the spring—only that half-acre along the south pasture—just dried up, no rain.

What was Henry to do? What could he do? All that night, he lay awake, tossing and turning. Should he and the boys try to salvage what little they could? Borrow enough hay from neighbors to feed the stock during the coming winter? If so, was the stock worth saving? And Wilson’s injured foot—how long to heal? Could a doctor in town help? And how to pay him? Should he go looking for Helen, bring her back? Like looking for a needle in a haystack. He sighed and pounded the pillow in frustration. Of course, he’d received some mustering-out pay, he and Wilson. But would it be enough to see them through to next year’s harvest? Could he get a bank loan, mortgage off some of the land?

Over the next few days, such questions plagued him over and over again. His mind spun from first one solution to another. He was torn between the longing to settle down and the commonsense that it would be hopeless to try.

Well, boys, Henry was forced to conclude after still another troubled night, we can’t stay on here. They had just come back from taking the cows out to the one good pasture.

Not stay on, Pa? William looked shattered.

No, son, don’t think it’ll be worth it.

But why, Pa? Wilson asked. Sure put a lot of work into this place ’fore the war.

Too far gone. Not only that, but never was a promising place to begin with. You know all too well, up here on these limestone bluffs all the best soil washes down into the Mississippi. And then, sooner or later—what’s left? It was a hard decision, a bitter conclusion.

We can still keep tryin’, can’t we Pa? Wilson sounded hopeful.

No, my boy, don’t think so. Know how eager you were to get home. But you’re young, expecting more. It’s too hard for me to start all over again. Behind me I’ve got those two farms in Pennsylvania and the one in Iowa before Beaver Creek. He did not mention the real reason, the most troubling reason. The perpetual self-punishment of the weight of years, of life’s events.

Sure you—we—can start again, though, can’t we, Pa? Wilson seemed unwilling to give up. I can do it, we’ll all work together. Why, I’ll go into town, get some work. Maybe find out something about Helen. We can salvage some of the hay, there’s a couple of cabbages, some potatoes in the garden, and—

No, son, don’t think so. It was hard to admit, but Henry now understood how much war had aged him and drained him of energy and will. Looking in a mirror as he had the first morning home, he hardly recognized that haggard face reflected back, hair and beard streaked with gray, a twisted tenseness around his mouth, a hollowness around his eyes. He’d always been considered handsome, a fine, strong figure of a man Sarah used to call him, often jealous of his attractions for other women. Yes, by God, he’d given her cause. There’d been a few times, all right. His sons?

Look, he continued, there’s only you and William. And with your leg—how could you manage, at least until it heals properly—if it ever does? Instantly he regretted saying this, for Wilson turned away and limped back into the house, his shoulders hunched in an attitude of defeat.

Could be that Helen’s all right, Pa, William said, although with little conviction in his voice. Then, as if determined to continue Wilson’s argument, Couldn’t we hire a few hands?

Henry sighed, shrugged his shoulders. Not much money for that. Besides, not many men around, war’s taken off so many, the ones left are needed on their own farms.

But Pa— Despite the hardships of the past few years, trying to manage the farm on his own, William still seemed unwilling to give up. Please, give me a chance. I’ll make it up to you, honest, I will.

As a concession to his son’s feelings, Henry added, Well, I’ll think on it. No hasty decisions, mind you.

The next day, however, several factors contributed to a decision sooner than Henry expected. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it a conspiracy to force him into making the choice he’d been resisting.

What you said yesterday makes sense, Pa, Wilson conceded over breakfast. I’ve thought a lot about it. Maybe I don’t belong here, a burden to everybody. Maybe I could go back East—Uncle James always said we’d be welcome if any of us wanted to come back. He owns big acreage back in Pennsylvania, sounded like better land than here at Beaver Creek, anyway, get some schoolin’, maybe, make somethin’ of myself. With my leg, not much for farmin’, anyway.

And then William, who’d struggled so hard to keep the farm going, now seemed prompted by his brother. That same afternoon, while he and Henry were trying to save what hay they could from the weeds in the near field, William announced his own decision. Say, Pa, what would you think ’bout me moving into town? I know I can make more money there, Pa. Sure I could get a job as a drayman right away, railroad building up there, lots of freight coming up river. He paused, smiled, then added by way of an afterthought, Maybe get me a pretty little wife, as well.

The final actor in Henry’s suspicion of conspiracy, however, was the United States Government. Late one afternoon several days later, a figure on horseback came riding down the lane toward the house. Henry, upstairs trying to repair a broken window sash, immediately thought it must be news of Helen, that something had happened to her. Seeing a soldier in corporal’s uniform standing in the doorway, however, took him by surprise. Had he been prematurely mustered out by mistake and was now being ordered back to Fort Snelling in St. Paul? If so, it would be a horrible mistake and he was prepared to fight it. You here about deployment? he asked, none too civilly.

Are you Private Henry Morton?

What of it?

Letter for you, sir, if you are the one named Private Henry Morton.

Henry nodded. "Yes, Henry Morton, late Private Henry Morton, Third Regiment, Company B. Well, come on, out with it, what’s your order?"

No order, sir, and General Sibley sends his compliments, sir. If you’ll please to sign this receipt? He handed Henry a pencil and a slip of paper. Puzzled as well as apprehensive, Henry signed his name, and the corporal pulled a large manila envelope out of the leather pouch slung over his shoulder. Handing the envelope to Henry with a half-hearted salute, he remounted his horse and rode back down the lane at a quick gallop.

As Henry watched the man disappear, his mind raced with possibilities. An official letter. Orders to re-enlist for sure, although Wilson would be most certainly exempt because of his disability. He’d been under the impression that the Sixth and Seventh Regiments were to be deployed for new disturbances breaking out around several Sioux agencies farther west. How unreasonable to call him back, after what he’d been through. Yes, he was prepared to fight that order. He wouldn’t fight the Sioux.

He sat down on the broken porch step, tore open the envelope, and held the sheets in his unsteady hands for several long moments. He was not looking forward to reading them. If he hadn’t been forced to sign that receipt, he could’ve claimed he’d never received it. But, there it was, all three pages duly acknowledged. At the top of the first page was an official government letterhead and seal, and the date, 1st July 1865. That was one month ago—why take so long? Looking more closely, he saw that, although it had been sent by way of Fort Snelling, it was actually from the government land agent in St. Cloud, Minnesota. That might explain the delay.

William, coming back from the barn, saw Henry sitting on the porch step, papers in his hand. What’s that, Pa? Looks like something important.

Well, let’s see what it says, Henry said and sighed as he glanced at the first few pages. By God, government sure has a roundabout way of saying things. What’s it all mean? Let’s see, now, something about a grant for military service? Yes, I think I remember that captain talking ’bout that when Wilson and I re-enlisted in ’63.

How come Wilson didn’t get a letter like this, then?

Didn’t apply to him, since he was counted as my dependent. Damned unfair, too. Your brother fought, suffered as well as anybody. Henry re-read the second page. Be damned, looks like a tract, some place west. Well, now, I do recall Captain Brown mentioning that treaty with the upper Sioux, made in ’51, how the government came to acquire all that. Fact, if I remember right, it was millions of acres, damn well the whole western half of Minnesota territory. Problem was, it caused a lot of trouble with the Sioux, the ones down around New Ulm.

"Had to do with that rebellion in ’62, then? Big news in the Winona Bluffs Sentinel. For a while in fact, Ma thought that’s where you might be. Never did hear, you see."

I know some of the regiments had to be taken out of the war, deployed to put it down. Matter of fact, lot of talk about mine, but then it was the Fifth got sent in ’62. Not sure which would have been worse. Henry paused and looked off into the distant trees. Yes, I’m sure it would have been worse.

Making an effort, Henry redirected his attention to the words of the letter: —to wit, two parcels of eighty acres each granted for service to the Grand Army of the Republic, located in Todd County, as described below.

But Pa, William asked, what does all that mean?

What does it mean? Well, son, in sum it means homesteading two allotments of eighty acres each, and you know what that means—we’ve already done it here at Beaver Creek and for only one parcel of eighty at that. And say, will you listen to this. Those hundred and sixty acres are described—if you can cut through the official language—as woods filled with game and timber, fields with potential for rich harvests, the property bounded on the east by a river, on the south by a lake teeming with fish. Well, be damned, doesn’t that sound like a farm made in heaven, so rich and productive that it’ll farm itself? And it’s all there, waiting for me—for us. He glanced over the final paragraph. Here’s something else.

You, the aforesaid Henry William Morton, are enjoined to homestead the aforesaid one-hundred-sixty acres from the fifteenth day of October 1865 to the fifteenth day of October 1866. You are further enjoined to verify occupation of the aforesaid described homestead by registration on or before the date of 31st July 1866 at the Government Land Office in St. Cloud, Minnesota. You are advised that, under the United States homestead act of 1855, you must recognize said claim by building and occupying a structure on said property for the aforementioned three-hundred-and-sixty-five day period. You are further enjoined to officially register your initial occupation of said claim at the Todd County record office in the town of Green Prairie in the state of Minnesota, no later than 30 September 1865. Failure to observe said conditions will be deemed as forfeiture of your rights and those of your heirs to said claim, and any conditions between you and the government of the United States will be considered null and void.

Ain’t that something, Pa, William exclaimed. And will you look at that official seal with all those signatures, even if you can’t read ’em. What’ll you do?

Don’t know, son. Have to think on it. You go on, finish your chores, we’ll talk ’bout it later. Still sitting on the broken porch step, he read the letter again, went over some parts several times more. Last day of September—how long ’til then? Let’s see, today was the fourteenth of August, he’d just looked at the kitchen calendar that morning. End of September was only six weeks away.

Why didn’t the government send the damn thing earlier? And the place called Green Prairie? Where the hell was it? He’d have to find out about roads, trails. At least a good part of that would be only a rough wagon trail, couldn’t make much more than ten, twelve miles a day. Was his team up to it? Those old horses—Major and Jack—sure didn’t look like it. William had let them dwindle down to skin and bones.

And what about Beaver Creek? His mind teemed with all that he might have to do before he could even leave the farm. Could he manage all that? Would it mean he’d lose all contact with Helen? What if she came home, a lost woman? And what about Wilson, William? It did seem their decisions had already been made. As a matter of fact, so had his own. He couldn’t start over again. He hadn’t the stamina, the will. No, an impossibility. He would write to the land office, declining the offer.

And yet, and yet—what was the alternative? Move into town and become a drayman like his son? Get a job as a laborer on the new railroad? Work for somebody else, at his beck and call, cooped up in a rented room somewhere? He rubbed his hand over his chin, his eyes. What could those damn eyes of his see in all this? He picked up a rock and threw it into the distance. Stay or go? Go or stay?

By God, there’s no alternative! he shouted, smacking his open palm against the porch post. No, this option’s been granted me, and, by God, I’ll make the most of it. The thought of Wilson’s response, William’s—Won’t they be excited about such an opportunity, couldn’t help but be. Yes, they’d all go, every man jack of them, and they’d keep the family together. Couldn’t refuse. Nothing left for them here, they’ve all said as much. Those 160 acres in Todd County—a virtual paradise, a future to be dreamed about.

Euphoria over this unexpected solution to Henry’s dilemma, however, soon gave way to disappointment. Over the kitchen table, in the course of several evenings, Henry and his sons debated the issue. No, I’m sorry ’bout this, Pa, said William finally, but my plans too far gone to change. You know Wilson, here, got his heart set on leaving, too.

What about Helen, then? Henry asked.

Sure dunno what to do ’bout her, Wilson answered. Gus Lindstrom told me he hadn’t any word yet from Jack. Mad as a hatter ’bout him going off with Helen like that. Left him short-handed, too.

Stubborn, willful, just like her ma, Henry muttered under his breath.

If the apparent desertion on the part of his sons and daughter struck an angry, resentful note, worse thoughts were to come. No, still worse was Henry’s overwhelming realization that so much had to be settled here at Beaver Creek before he could head west to file his claim.

You don’t seem too happy these last few days ’bout your decision, Pa, William observed as he helped his father pack things in the big trunk.

Didn’t realize how much it’d involve. Still trying to sell this place. Last man, the one named Gustafson, insists on haggling over the price. Got to get into the records office in town, make out the papers.

Can help you some, Pa, before I go? Pity Wilson’s already gone off. Leastways he did take care of the cows last Saturday’s auction, and tomorrow some neighbors coming for the chickens, what’s left of the hay. Not much for letter writing, like I said, but I’ll try to keep in touch, let you know how things go, any news of Helen.

Well, at least you can help me decide now what’ll fit into this wagon. So little space. And look what all I’ll be needing—basic furniture, tools, food for myself and the team.

Think they’re in good enough shape to pull a heavy wagon, Pa? Best leave most of that furniture behind, sell it off.

I’ll think on it, Henry replied. Yet he knew in his heart there were things he couldn’t leave behind. Maybe I’ll suffer from making the wrong choices, he added, as he began sorting out items for the big pine chest. Like this old book, for example. Might be useful someday, who knows? Maybe I’m a kind of pilgrim, too, different kind of journey, though. His thoughts, as he began packing, continued down the long line of wrong past choices. An old pattern of a lifetime, wasn’t it? By God, couldn’t patterns be broken? Things turned around?

It was a difficult time, an emotional time, a time when he tried resolutely to suppress his feelings which grew more confused each day. Going down to the creek, he announced to William the day before he was due to leave. Back shortly.

He headed through the woods bordering the lower pasture until he came to the glade where Sarah was buried. The violets she’d loved had finished blooming, but it was still a beautiful place, quiet and peaceful. Arching willows overhung the creek, the tips of their long, graceful branches caught in the flowing water. Sarah’s grave was already covered with weeds and grass.

Henry sat down on the stump of a dead willow and rested his chin on his hand. Well, Sarah, old girl, he said, you know me pretty well as a man practical and realistic, never one to show his emotions. Maybe you did know me better than that, though. Wouldn’t surprise me. And I have to admit, that war left some scars. Can’t help myself now, feeling bad about leaving this place. He paused to throw a twig into the water and watched it float downstream. Leaving you. Least you’re at peace, while I’m about to enter into a new life, fool that I am. What’s it going to bring? Well, your guess is as good as mine, old girl, but I reckon we’re both thinking it’ll be difficult. At this, he fought back the tears beginning to come despite all resistance, uncertain who they were for—Sarah or himself.

Walking back up toward the house on that last day, he recognized each furrow he had plowed. At the corners of every field he saw each pile of rocks heaved up from the ground at spring thaw, rocks he and his children had picked up, one by one. There was the house he’d built with his own hands, the big stock barn he’d built with William and Wilson and his neighbors, the Clarks. The barn raising had been a celebration of Sarah’s food, of the community. Good times and bad. The end of a rotted rope hung limply from a big oak tree, the remains of the children’s swing. An overturned, rusting tin tub had held the babies’ bathwater. That bucket half-hidden in the grass—over there, a stand of Sarah’s rhubarb engulfed in weeds—Yes, challenges were already beginning.

Shortly afterwards came the next one. No sooner was he at last on his way, Beaver Creek receding behind him in an early morning drizzle, than he knew he was running out of time. It had taken him so long to settle Beaver Creek affairs that it was now the fourth of September. He began calculating time and distance on his fingers. It’d be near two hundred miles to Green Prairie. After he cleared St. Paul and turned onto the main government road constructed north-westward for military access to Fort Ripley, he reckoned he would be about halfway there. Given his heavily loaded wagon and the condition of the team, he couldn’t expect to make more than about twelve miles a day, maybe even less on that rougher trail between St. Cloud and Park Center, then north from there up to Green Prairie.

He hunched over on the wagon bench, overcome with doubt and anxiety. What a fool’s choice this had been. Suppose he didn’t make it in time to Green Prairie in order to register his taking up the claim? The government letter sounded threatening. He could lose everything. He could get trapped somewhere with a broken wheel, an exhausted team, attacked by wolves or bears. And where exactly was that new homestead to the west, anyway? The letter gave no specific instructions, no parcel number. Suppose it was just another one of their promises? He’d arrive to find—nothing.

Henry’s worries about the condition of the trails proved correct. Going became slower, more tortuous. The trails seemed to stretch endlessly before him, more hazardous, more often requiring bypasses around large rocks and fallen trees.

Yup—yup, haw! Major—Jack! He urged on the flagging horses. Can’t blame you, you old plow nags—never expected this wagon to be so loaded, did you? It relieved his frustration to talk, even if only to the team. Should’ve left most of it behind, he went on, encouraged by the fact that Major turned his head slightly and seemed to nod in agreement. Know for a fact, tools, farm equipment needed for a new start, but all that furniture— He glanced behind him disgustedly, saw with added annoyance that the large pine chest which he’d wedged tightly into one corner had now shifted and unbalanced the load.

He remembered it was Sarah who’d always insisted on dragging that chest along. The woman would get emotional, calling it her hope chest. He smiled at the ironic thought of hope. She clung to hope, that woman, from the very first day of their marriage. At her insistence, he’d hauled that damned chest through Pennsylvania, then Ohio, Iowa, Minnesota. He’d promised her Iowa would be the last. He’d figured on establishing a big family community there, eventually persuading other family and his two brothers to settle on the rich farmlands around Muscatine.

He sighed at the thought that not a single winter had passed before Sarah wanted to move from Muscatine, frightened of the swamp fever when it broke out. "Why’d I agree, anyway, eh, Major? Against my better judgment, pulled up stakes again, headed up the Mississippi to Winona Bluffs. If only I’d stayed in Muscatine, built up a good farm, worked up good crop yields, kept the family together, things