Where the Lost Wander(10)
Webb tugs at my skirt and points to the river, his words tumbling over themselves trying to be first. “There’s Mr. Lowry! He’s got his mules. Look at his donkeys! Those are Mammoth Jacks. For breeding with the mares.” Webb knows too much about breeding for an eight-year-old, but I’m sure he’s right. He goes right on babbling about stallions and jennies and their offspring, called hinnies, which supposedly aren’t nearly as desirable as mules.
John Lowry is one of a swarm, and it takes me a moment to pick him out. John Lowry Sr., his shock of white hair easily identifiable, follows behind, waving his hat and driving the animals forward. Twelve mules are strung together in two long lines behind the younger John Lowry’s horse, the two donkeys Webb is so excited about bringing up the rear. Fine animals, the lot of them. The donkeys are black and lanky, with long ears, thin noses, and oversize eyes. They look almost comical, like childish drawings that trotted off the page and grew with every step. Despite their spindly legs and narrow hips, they are the biggest donkeys I’ve ever seen, their backs as tall as the powerful string of Lowry mules being led to the water’s edge.
With no hesitation, the younger John Lowry urges his horse, a tawny bay with powerful haunches and a thick neck, into the muddy waters. The mules and the jack donkeys follow him with only a little urging and immediately begin swimming hard toward the opposite shore. A skiff, loaded with packs and paddled by a huge Negro, sets off about the same time, keeping an easy distance from John Lowry and his animals. I’m guessing the man’s been hired to get Lowry’s supplies across so they don’t get wet in the swim.
“Look at ’em go!” Webb crows, jumping up and down and waving his arms, cheering them on.
“He makes it look easy, doesn’t he?” Wyatt says, less exuberant but every bit as transfixed. “Everyone else fighting and pushing for a place in line, and he just goes into the water, easy as you please, and starts swimming.”
“Mr. Lowry didn’t even say goodbye to his pa,” Will says, his mouth turned down, his eyes fixed on John Lowry Sr., who watches his son’s progress across the river. The elder John Lowry doesn’t wave, and he doesn’t shout goodbyes. He stands silently, observing, unmoving, until his son and the skiff reach the opposite shore. Then he turns, puts his hat back on his head, and climbs the bank, back toward the main thoroughfare. I cannot see his expression from this distance, but his stride is slow and his back slightly bowed, and I am overcome with sudden sadness, though I’m not sure why.
“Why are you crying, Naomi?” Will asks, concern lacing his voice, and I realize with a start that I am. At twelve, Will is more sensitive than all the other May boys combined, and he notices things the others don’t. Maybe it’s being a middle son of many, but he’s the designated peacekeeper in the family and takes every rift and row personally.
“I’m not sure, Will. I just feel a little melancholy, I guess.”
“Do you miss Daniel?” Will asks, and I feel a flash of guilt that my tears are not for my dead husband but for a stranger I know nothing about.
“Are you scared of crossing the river?” Webb’s interjection saves me from answering Will, whose eyes are narrowed on my face, and I swipe at my cheeks and smile.
“No. Not scared. I just don’t like goodbyes,” I say.
“Pa says once we head out, we ain’t never comin’ back. So I been sayin’ goodbye to everything I see. But I sure am glad I’ll get to see Mr. Lowry’s mules and those jack donkeys a bit more,” Webb chortles.
“Do you want to go back to the camp, Naomi?” Will asks, his brow furrowed.
“No. I’d like to draw for a bit. Would you sit here with me?”
Will nods agreeably, and Wyatt and Webb are more than willing to linger as well. A barge is being filled with livestock that won’t stay put. One mule is herded aboard only to have another bail over the side into the drink, much to the delight of my brothers, who laugh so hard Webb almost wets his pants, and Wyatt has to take him to find a bush where he can relieve himself.
The landing dock is full of people to watch and adventures waiting to happen, but my mind is too full, and my eyes rest on my page while my hand recreates the myriad faces I’ve seen in St. Joe over the past three days, faces I don’t want to forget. I draw until the sun begins to sink, turning the sea of white-topped wagons a rosy pink, and my brothers and I make our way down the hill, back to our family, eager for the morrow.
We wake before dawn and are readied and clopping along toward Duncan’s Ferry before the sun begins to change the color of the sky. Pa has a wagon; my oldest brother, Warren, and his wife, Abigail, have one too. Pa thought about getting a third, there being so many of us, but he didn’t think Wyatt could handle a team every day on his own. Abigail and Warren don’t have any little ones yet, and we decided that between the two wagons, we would make do. The Caldwells have two wagons as well, along with a dozen head of cattle. I imagine there will never be a moment’s silence on the trail with all the bleating and bellowing.
It takes us a little more than an hour to reach the cutoff and the sign for Duncan’s Ferry that points us through a boggy forest so thick and deep we are cast in shadows almost as dark as the predawn. Pa stews and makes a comment about Mr. Lowry’s character and good sense. Mr. Caldwell almost turns back to St. Joe, and his son, Jeb, and my brothers have a dickens of a time keeping the livestock together as we navigate the trees and do our best to avoid the mud.