Passing Strange: The Overland Trail, 1852

By Kathrin Rudland

"Passing Strange" is the fictionalized story seen through the lens of an educated, older woman who experiences the devastating loss of her husband at the beginning of the Overland Trail in 1852. Determined to fulfill his plan to build a school in Oregon, she travels in an ox-driven covered wagon with a large coffin filled with books, unaware thousands of gold coins lay hidden in the flour bin. Knowing she cannot travel alone, she hires a weary, older scout to safely escort her on the two thousand mile trail. Along the trek she meets and travels with an erratic cast of characters: a pregnant, steamboat survivor; a mysterious preacher; an abused runaway girl; a malaria-ridden writer; an unhinged man; a photographer of the dead; and Native Americans.
Enduring a trail of fast-paced adventures in a quicksand-filled river, blinding storms, arduous mountains, and brutal deserts, she secretly records her innermost thoughts in a Commonplace Book. As a granny healer, she treats many snake bites, camp fevers, childbirth, and deadly cholera.
Unlike the heroic and noble pioneer stories with events written by men, this is a tale not of a woman's limitations, but of her strength of mind and resilience to succeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350906639

Book preview

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Passing Strange: The Overland Trail, 1852

©Kathrin Rudland

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-662-2

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-663-9

To Megan and Matt

*

The cover of the Commonplace Book had become tattered and frayed in the last year. It didn’t look like a bound journal but an accumulation of assorted pages attached together with thread and glue. Thick with notes, ideas, and drawings, it captured moments that described the texture of life on the trail the woman saw and felt. She had also jotted down words of hopefulness as well as times of suffering and hardship on the long two-thousand-mile journey. The book was not an indulgence but a necessity. Its words saved moments that could never be repeated and feelings that might have been lost.

One well-worn page held her favorite quote from Shakespeare: Othello quotes Desdemona: She swore, in faith ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; ’twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful, she wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d that heaven had made her such a man. The world is full of strange happenings, and through it I will go, passing stranger than strange.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

Jared Hamilton stopped, shook his foot in irritation and stomped it up and down on the ground. The stinging sensation slowly turned into numbness, and he stared at his boot for a while as though it held some secret for the annoyance. He reasoned the air wasn’t cold enough to suffer frostbite, yet his foot remained without any feeling. Twisting his ankle around and around, he became startled when the strange feeling began to creep up his leg and into his thigh. It felt odd, almost as though something inside his body was determined to have its way, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

No need for a fuss, he told himself; it would go away in time. Hadn’t he suffered ague, a broken leg, fevers, and cuts and bruises during his fifty-six years of life? His wife could make a good, hot poultice on his leg that would put things to right as soon as he got back to the wagon at the campground. Martha had packed her medicine chest to treat everything from colds to snakebites.

It felt almost as if he had stepped on nettles. Reaching down with his left arm to rub his leg, he frowned as he watched his arm move in slow motion. It felt heavy and tired, not connected to his body. Irritated, he spat a wad of saliva beside his boot and stared at the ground. Clenching his teeth, he leaned forward. Move. Move, dammit, he demanded. His voice sounded garbled, almost like low barks of a dog.

A pounding pain began behind his left eye, and he shook his head. Damn, his voice rasped as his throat became tight. It was getting harder to breathe and he jerked at the collar of his shirt with his right hand to get more air. In the effort, he lost his balance and toppled over sideways.

For some time, he lay in the prairie grass, his mouth opened wide as he struggled for air. The numbness had spread all the way up the left side of his body.

If only the pain in his head would go away.

*

Martha covered her mouth, her eyes wide. Her husband, Jared, had been found dead.

I was out huntin’ and saw him lying on the ground near a tangle of brush and vines and such. The man took off his hat, holding it in both hands as a sign of the gravity of the news.

Arm outstretched, he pointed in the direction where he discovered the body. There, out there I found ’im. Sure enough. He were cold and not breathin’. Sorry, Miz Hamilton, to bring you such news.

Martha softly scoffed at his words. No, it can’t be Jared. You’ve made a mistake. It’s someone else, maybe someone who looks like Jared.

The man wore a thin frown on his lips. Ma’am, I’m sorry. T’were your husband for sure. I knowed what your husband looked like. Musta sickened out there fast and couldn’t git movin’ again. I’m here to git some men to help carry ’im back to the campground. Thought it right to tell you first.

Martha sighed. Jared was fine this morning. Suddenly the words rushed out of her mouth. Why, he fed the oxen, ate breakfast, and checked the wagon rims just as he’s done every morning. Then he went out hunting for quail. Shaking her head, she stared out into the prairie. The day’s getting on. He’ll be here shortly for dinner. You can see him for yourself. She strained her eyes and stood on tiptoes to search for his familiar, loping figure returning to their wagon. What an outlandish idea, she whispered.

She looked like an outgrowth of the Iowa prairie grass itself where she stood: tall, thin, swaying back and forth in gusts of the cold wind. There was nothing remarkable about her. She left no lasting impression on anyone meeting her, other than her quiet composure and unchanging face, making it difficult to guess she was fifty-two years old. Squinting her brown eyes, she shoved her hands inside her apron, tightened the shawl about her shoulders, and stared into the horizon where Jared had wandered.

No part of her hinted at the fear she held inside.

The man turned to leave, and stopped as though he needed to share something he didn’t want to say out loud. Jest so you know, he said softly, prepare yourself. Looked like he’d been out there for a long while, maybe dead for couple hours ’fore I saw ’im. He’s not the same.

He’s not the same? Martha repeated, shaking her head. The same? Jared’s the same dependable person I’ve known for the last thirteen years. She wished the man would go away with his outrageous story. In a controlled voice she said, He’ll be here as he promised, and he’ll be plenty hungry. There’s broth simmering over the fire for a good stew. His favorite.

*

Four men walked toward the campground in the waning light of the evening sun, their bodies hunched over the heavy burden they carried. Martha watched as they lowered Jared’s large, cumbersome bulk on the ground as if placing a baby into a cradle with great tenderness.

Easy now, easy now, one man murmured. Give his body some comfort at the last.

For several minutes, the men stood encircled over the dead body, solemn and waiting for her to speak. Martha’s mouth twitched, but the words refused to come out; once the words were said, they would become real.

Dead. Jared. Dead.

Finally, the captain of the wagon train spoke. Mrs. Hamilton, sorry for your loss, right enough, but you need to make some decisions soon. These wagons have to move on early tomorrow mornin’. Sunrise early. Can’t wait. Folks need to git to St. Joe. Most have reservations for the ferry to cross the Missouri. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved closer to Martha and said in a sympathetic tone, Now, I’m gonna ask the men here to dig his grave over yonder by that tree while you spend some time with your husband, preparin’ him for his final restin’ place.

A pause and then she whispered, Bury him out here in this prairie wilderness? She began to weep, gulping words as she breathed in and out. Leave him here . . . all alone? She stared at Jared’s motionless body. He looked as though he was asleep. She wanted to lean over and poke him to wake up.

If you want, we can have a short service in a few hours over the grave site. There’s a preacher hereabouts who can say a few words, read some verses from the Good Book, sing whatever you think is suitable. He glanced at her confused expression. Mrs. Hamilton, are you listenin’?

Yes, yes. Short service. Can’t you give him more time before he’s buried? He was here this morning and felt fine.

His eyes widened, and he sighed. Mrs. Hamilton, I’m putting out the hard truth for you. Your husband’s been dead for some hours and won’t mind what anybody says or sings, and that’s a fact. Glancing around the campground, he pointed to a slight rise in the ground next to a tree. There, right there, is a good enough place. We need to bury him as soon as we can. We’ll put plenty of stones on the grave so’s the wolves won’t dig him up. Ground is hard-diggin’ with those grass roots. Frost is settlin’ in as well. Do the best we can for ’im.

Head bowed, she whispered, Stones for the wolves. Yes. Stones.

You’ll want some women to help you prepare him for burial.

No, no help. I can manage by myself. Martha looked at Jared’s still body and couldn’t imagine him being so exposed, so vulnerable, in front of strange women. She half expected him to sit up and politely refuse their help, embarrassed at the intimacy of their work.

The man’s stout hands gestured back toward the east. You need to decide whether or not you want to return to your family back in Illinois. But for now, you need to move on with us to St. Joe ’til we can find someone to take you back. I can’t leave you here all alone. He removed his hat and scratched the side of his head. I’ll find someone to help you, especially with your ox team.

He cupped his hands against his mouth and shouted to the others in the camping site, We’re leavin’ before daybreak tomorrow, shove on as planned. Need to get going, keep ahead of them other folks on this trail. Time’s a-wastin’. We have to get Jared Hamilton buried decent. Give the missus time with him while you dig the hole, then we can say a few prayers for ’im. Understand? He bit his cheek on the inside, nodded his head to Martha and to the others, and walked away.

Shovels resting across their shoulders like rifles, several men walked toward the area of the tree, talking in low voices.

A goodly blanket of earth for a man in his last bed until Kingdom Come. And stones to make sure he stays put.

After we found ’im his mouth were opened as if he were prayin’ with his ear on the ground listenin’ to what it were gonna to be like buried under that dirt blanket.

God’s truth! And his eyes all wide open and no light in ’em, jest starin’ at the streets of glory.

*

Later, when she thought about that day while sitting in the covered wagon, Martha did not remember the offers of help from anyone, the hard, root-clogged hole, the hurried service by the graveside in the setting sun, or the sound of rocks as they layered one on top of the other. All she could call to mind were how her hands looked and felt. Long fingers and callused palms lifted and turned his cold, stiff body to remove shoes and outer clothing, wash his face with warm water, and scrub the earth from his fisted hands. Caressing his strong facial bones, the fingers moved against the pliable skin, causing the flesh on his nose to protrude out in a beak. One soft fingertip closed his eyes to protect him from bad visions. Finally, the hands wrapped a band of soft linen around his head and chin to keep the gaping mouth closed, ending the startled expression on his face. He looked like his father, like an old man, she thought.

Jared had disappeared. Barely visible from the canvas opening in her covered wagon, Martha Thompson Hamilton stared at the candle resting beside her. Too exhausted for sleep, she did not move but sat transfixed as the candle’s flame flickered in the drafty air.

It didn’t seem possible. He had been cheerful and confident, full of energy hours before, and now he was lying under a mound of dirt and a pile of heavy stones. Why hadn’t there been some feeling, a prescient of something bad about to happen? Not one warning. No omen like a bloody sunset or a hooting owl predicting his death. He never complained of any problem or sickness; it didn’t seem natural.

It was like the prairie lightning: a crackle, thunder, and then silence.

Always determined and in charge of events, Jared lived his life on his own terms. For once, he was not in control. Out there in the prairie grass when he realized what was happening, he was probably terribly angry. Jared hadn’t been ready to die; in fact, he was excited to start a new life in Oregon, the land of beginning again, throwing himself into an unknown and untried life at age fifty-six. Intoxicated by the idea, he crowed to friends and family such a different life would energize him, make him feel younger. He wouldn’t have to teach classics to indifferent students any longer. Now his life would have more meaning: he would build an academy in Oregon, one of the first to bring education and culture to the undeveloped area. Friends and colleagues shook their heads at his unbridled enthusiasm and wished him well, privately thinking he was making a mistake.

The day Jared told Martha of the move to Oregon, she refused to go. His eyebrows had gone up and his mouth had turned slack-jawed in surprise. He stood with his feet spread wide, hands on his hips, and stared at her for a long while before speaking in a hard voice, The academy is not a mere project. Martha. I’ve spent hours and hours thinking about it. Now it’s time to put those plans into action. I’ll have to meet with sponsors and bankers to get support and financial backing. We need to be there in Oregon when the territory takes shape.

You need to develop it, but for others to build it. There is no need to travel all the way across the country to build it.

No, that’s where you are wrong, Martha. I have an obligation to continue its construction firsthand. I’ll supervise it so it’s completed the right way. Get it up and running. Let me put it clearly to you: It’s my responsibility to see it through to the end. Mine.

Obligation. Responsibility.

By the time he finished talking, Martha had turned and angled her face away from him. She didn’t want him to see her anger and frustration. Instead, she took a deep breath. Jared, I don’t want to leave here. I love the peace in our home, the gardens, our friends, our church, our lives with literary and music societies, and . . .

He regarded her in silence with his hands folded and didn’t respond. Unshakable.

We had other ideas for the future. After you retired from teaching, you planned to write about the battle of Saratoga. We were going to visit the area, travel by steamship and the new train lines to northern New York. She stopped and sputtered, Not in a covered wagon for two-thousand miles.

His lips remained in a tight, straight line and she watched a vein throb on his forehead, pulsing time in the quiet room. Unwavering.

Jared, please listen. That Overland Trail is dangerous. We could drown in a river. Fall off a mountain ridge. Get killed in a buffalo stampede. Snakes. Starvation. Get lost. God knows what else. I’m not telling you things you don’t know.

His eyes looked flinty and cold. I’ve sold the house. We have nowhere to go but forward.

Stunned at the news, she took another deep breath. What? We no longer have a home here? Home is now two-thousand miles away at the end of a trail? When did you sell our home? When did you plan on telling me? We’re too old to travel miles and miles and then build a new home, begin gardens, or even make new friends. All the people I’ve nursed these years, where will they go now? We don’t have that kind of stamina, the endurance, we used to have. Maybe if we were younger . . .

Her words slowly tapered off into the quiet and her chin began to tremble. She began to cry into the hard, unwavering silence that spoke of finality. There would be no change in his plans; he was beyond reasoning. The truth was he believed more in a world of his own making, more than in her opinions and feelings. Fifty-three years old, her future was the western wilderness, and she was without any hope or means to stop it.

Now he was dead. Now it no longer mattered.

She blew out the candle and untied the puckered canvas covering at the back of the wagon. Cold night air blew around the open Iowa prairie. Inside wagons or bedded down on pallets, other emigrants slept in the calmness. At that moment she hated the smug certainty of their lives. They would wake up in the morning, stretch, and grumble to one another about the day’s work ahead while her husband lay in the ground. He would never wake up.

Squinting her eyes, she stared at his burial mound of rocks in the distance. One of the smaller rocks on the top shifted slightly, and then tumbled down to the bottom of the mass. She gasped. Was it possible Jared was still alive, trapped in his grave, desperately clawing out?

Eyes riveted on the pile, she grabbed the shawl and bolted to the gravesite. Jared! Jared! Jared! It’s me, Martha. Jared, are you alive? Shout as loud as you can. I’ll get you out of there. She began to move the rocks one by one, grunting and straining with the effort while talking to the body lying below, Don’t be afraid, I’ll save you.

Lady, he won’t appear even after you remove every rock. He’s no Lazarus, if you take my meaning. Talking’s not helping either, that’s for sure. He’s dead. All you’re doing is just making more work for the men who buried him decent. Now they have to pile those rocks back on in the morning.

Kneeling on the rock-filled dirt, she looked around in the dark for the man who was talking. I saw movement in the rocks. I did, I did! He’s trapped in there! He’s not dead. I know it! Help me! Her voice was frantic. Please, help me!

The ground’s settling a bit, that’s all. The only live things moving down there are critters smaller than my fingers doing what they always do with the dead. So, best move on.

I can’t. The thought of Jared, cold and rigid, covered with insects and worms made her want to silence the infuriating man. She picked up one of the smaller rocks and threw it in the direction of the voice. The thud on the ground meant she had missed the mark, so she grabbed several more and hurled them into the darkness. Go away! Go away! she screamed.

I’ll not niggle with that, the voice replied from a distance. I’ll be dead soon, too, with you throwing those rocks. Jesus.

Quiet after the man left, she sat for some time beside the grave with her hand stroking the rocks. Jared where are you? Her family believed that spirits of the dead lingered by their loved ones for a while after dying. Are you close by watching me? Are you there? I’m sorry you died. she said out loud as though the hard sound of the words might justify the terrible predicament. You’re dead. I’ll never see you again or hear you.

She gathered several small stones and a fistful of dirt, storing them into the pocket of her apron. I’ll carry these with me always, she whispered.

Later, she wrote with a pencil into her Commonplace Book.

Commonplace Book

I’m on a journey I never wanted to be on. I want to go back to where things were before.

Jared is gone forever. I cannot go backward. How can I go forward?

CHAPTER TWO

Before dawn, a lone man stood in front of the wagon’s canvas opening and waited. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he leaned forward and whispered, Mrs. Hamilton? Mrs. Hamilton, are you in there?

He heard soft mewing as though a cat were hidden inside the dark interior. Coughing to himself, he peered closer to the puckered opening. Mrs. Hamilton? We’re moving out. Need to yoke up your oxen. Mrs. Hamilton, you there?

A face appeared in the hole of the canvas and whispered, Are you the man who’s come to help me?

His first impulse was to back away. In the pewter morning light, her eyes were red and spider-veined as if tormented by some bad dream. She grasped the wagon’s hickory wooden bow and held on as if she had little strength to stand.

She blurted out in one breath, You the man?

To be sure, I’m . . .

I think I have to . . . meet family . . .

Sure. Family.

In St. Joe. My stepson will be there. I hope. Her voice trembled. At least, I think they’ll be there. It’s all so strange. Nothing’s the same.

He nodded. Nope, nothing’s the same. That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Hamilton. Name’s Martin MacDonald. Most call me Mac. I’ll get you to St. Joe. You need to get ready. You need to stop crying, that’s for sure.

I can’t stop. Can’t go on. The mewing sound continued, followed by sharp intakes of breath and finally a high-pitched moan.

Missus, I need to yoke your oxen. His calm voice became hardened. Time’s a-wastin.’ Need to leave. Soon.

Looking near the wagon, he found four oxen tethered and grazing on grass. Are these your oxen? He pointed to the animals while she remained hidden inside. They’re the only ones still grazing nearby. Missus, are these your animals? Need to hitch them. We need to get moving.

No, no, no, no, no. I’m . . . not . . . going. No!

He stiffened as her words slapped the air. Goddammit, another Bonnet, he said out loud. Now what am I going to do?

Mac decided he had good reason to be irritated by her; the frontier he called home for the past twenty years had changed with the invasion of Bonnets. More and more prairie schooners were filled with women who wore wire-rimmed sunbonnets, their eyes peering out at him with scorn on their faces. They never behaved like a normal person should, always grousing or acting mulish, even having a tantrum when they didn’t get what they wanted. It was particularly hard to understand why Mrs. Hamilton refused to leave when it was the only thing she could do. No man would act like that.

The trail boss had given him clear instructions: Take her to St. Joe, find the relatives and let them decide what needs to be done. Join back up with us before we cross the Missouri.

That wasn’t the only reason he needed to hurry; he had another schedule to keep. After getting rid of her, he wanted to find work in St. Joe, hire on as a trial guide, especially with a train that paid well. Competition for guides was fierce and he hoped to sign on with a group of card-playing, hard-drinking men headed for the gold fields. No Bonnets.

He worked his tongue over his lips, slithered it back and forth before he spat a stream of saliva. Things had been going well until this moment. Mrs. Hamilton, we don’t have much time left. Now the wagons are lined up and moving out.

I don’t care. Let them go. I . . . can’t . . . She stopped mid-sentence, her throat closing around the words.

The slow grinding of wagon wheels, clanking of chained oxen and mules, and shouting of drovers filled the air at that moment. Mac kicked the dirt with his boot. Oh, Jesus, now we’re in trouble. The train’s leaving us! He stomped over to the canvas opening, Lady, that man is dead. He’s not coming back. We’ll be dead too if we don’t start moving right along.

No. I can’t leave Jared.

It occurred to him she planned to do exactly what she wanted. No amount of talking last night had changed her mind, and he had a headache from getting hit with one of her damn rocks that grazed his head. Yanking off his hat, he slapped it against the side of the wagon. I’m of a mind to leave you here. All alone. Serve you right.

Go ahead. Leave. Leave me alone.

He shook his head, turned from her voice, and reached into his coat pocket for a green bottle. Pushing his thumb against the stopper, he took a swig of the whiskey, gasping as it slid down his throat. He hesitated, looked around, and took another large swig, this time for the pain in his chest that had troubled him for as long as he could remember. The greenish-brown liquid tasted like evergreens and something he couldn’t name at the moment. He felt tired and weary, almost unable to move. His body was wearing out like some rotten apple that looked good until you bit into it and found worms. He took another swig, this time for any worms that may be the cause of the pain.

Dammit. Cussed worms wasting my innards. Cussed woman wasting my time. Not sure which one is worse.

*

Hours later, Martha slowly staggered behind her moving wagon and four yoked oxen as they trudged along, heads tossing and large eyes rolling. Mac cracked a long whip in the air inches above their heads, but it did little to control them as their massive bodies pulled the wagon in different directions.

Martha moved in silence beside the horse tied to the end of the wagon. She repeatedly turned around to gauge how far they had gone from camp and from the lone tree near where Jared had been buried. He would vanish forever if she could no longer see its branched outline. Finally, the tree’s form grew vague in the distance and faded away. He was gone.

Mr. MacDonald, I want to go back. He didn’t respond or react, but continued to walk without turning around, intent on controlling the oxen.

Stop. This is a mistake. I’m going back by myself.

In an off-handed manner, he mumbled, No, you’re not.

"You don’t understand. I can’t, I can’t go on. I can’t leave him there.

He cast back his head and stared at her, looked thoughtful for a moment as if thinking what needed to be said. His face hardened and he blew air out of his nose. Missus, so far, I’ve spent two hours coaxing you to stop crying and get moving. Two more hours trying to hitch up your ornery oxen.

Well, I’m not going on. She cradled herself, arms folded crosswise over her chest, elbows sticking out. I’m not.

Mac stopped. His eyes flicked from side to side before he shouted, spittle spraying out of his mouth. If’ you have any ideas about standing there stubborn-like or running away, I’ll stop you. Heard plenty enough of your weeping and wailing. Walking closer to her, he added, You’re stuck with me. You don’t have a choice.

Martha put her head in her hands as her body pleated to the ground. She knelt on the road, rocking back and forth as her wailing rolled and pitched with the movement.

Mac stood silent for several minutes, clenching and unclenching his white-knuckled fists, scowling at her with clear disgust. Words lurched out before he could stop them. Quit caterwauling. I should just leave you the road. Serve you right. You are one contrary woman. A man can only stand so much. He waited. After several minutes he walked over, grabbed her by her shoulders, and shook her. Get up!

She stopped moving, almost perplexed at how she happened to be kneeling in the road with someone shaking her and shouting. Looking around with a puzzled expression on her face, she tried to stand up, lost her balance and fell back down. Please help me. Please. I can’t do this by myself.

Mac reached out for both of her arms and helped her to stand for several minutes. Mrs. Hamilton, you don’t belong out here. Trail is for the strong. Strong young animals. People, too. You’re old, and you aren’t strong. It killed your husband. It might kill you. By the time he finished his outburst, he realized he was still holding her arms.

Her face ashen, she looked into his eyes. But Jared said we both could survive the demands of the trail. He said so. We just had to try harder than others.

Mac bit the side of his lip. Talking and doing are two different things.

Surprised to hear so much out of him all at once, Martha stared intently at Mac. Tall, strong, and broad-shouldered, his long legs seemed planted on the ground. No prairie wind would blow him over. He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face that almost hid