Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 by Victoria Murata Read Free Book Online Page A

but when Ernest’s mind was made up, no one could dissuade him.
    Emily’s father, Henry Lawton, had persuaded Nellie, her personal servant, to travel with them and be a companion to Emily.
    “Nellie, I know how much you love Miss Emily—like your own flesh and blood. You’ve raised her from a baby. I would be eternally grateful to you if you would accompany her and Ernest to Oregon.”
    “Mr. Lawton, I am not young. I know the journey is difficult, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for any woman.”
    “I agree with you, Nellie.” Mr. Lawton’s face looked troubled. “I certainly don’t want my only daughter traipsing across this country with who knows what in store for her. I’ve pleaded with that fool husband of hers, but he won’t be persuaded.” His eyes misted and he took Nellie’s hands in his.
    “Please, Nellie. If you go with Emily, I’ll rest a little easier.”
    Nellie’s heart softened. She couldn’t refuse the man who had always been so kind to her.
    “Alright, Mr. Lawton, I’ll go. God help me, I’ll go with Miss Emily to Oregon.”
    Henry Lawton had hugged her then. Nellie remembered the embrace. She had always been fond of Mr. Lawton.
    “Thank you, Nellie. I will never forget your sacrifice.”
    Nellie was small and wiry, and twice Emily’s age. Her features were sharp, but her warm eyes softened an otherwise fierce expression. She had married young, and two years later her husband had been killed in a brawl in one of the bars he frequented. Columbus, Ohio had been predominantly German, and once the Irish moved in with their Catholic ways, trouble was always brewing. Nellie’s husband had joined in when fighting had broken out between the German Protestants and Irish Catholics, and when the brawl was over, he was dead.
    Nellie had been a young childless widow with no prospects until she found the ad in the Ohio State Journal placed by Emily’s family for a domestic servant. When she began working for Emily’s family, Emily was nearly three years old, and Nellie was twenty-two. Nellie had lost her only child in childbirth, so she quickly bonded to Emily, and the family made her Emily’s nanny. She loved the little girl, and Emily had always returned the affection. Emily’s own mother was cool and distant towards her, saving her love and attention for the younger brothers.
    Fort Kearny appeared ahead, and Nellie looked forward to the lay-by. A number of long, flat-roofed low buildings made from sun-dried bricks were strung along the mostly flat landscape. Captain Wyatt was instructing the leading wagons to camp to one side.
    Later that evening after camp had been made next to the fort, Emily composed a letter to her father. Buster lay at her feet asleep.
    Dear Daddy,
    As I write this letter, I am shaking from cold and exhaustion. We crossed a raging river today and I nearly drowned. Many of my fine dresses are ruined from the dust and mud on this horrible trail. My skin is so brown I look like a darky! The food is unpalatable, and it’s the same morning and night. Most of the women are not friendly, and there is no one to talk to besides Nellie.
    I cannot go any farther, Daddy. I am not a pioneer, and I cannot go one more step towards an uncertain future with a husband who is determined to see me to an early grave. In the morning, Ernest and I will turn our wagon around and head back.
    I will send you a wire as soon as we get to Independence, and from there we will catch a train to Columbus.
    Your loving daughter,
    Emily
    P.S. In the event that I cannot convince Ernest to give up his plan, Nellie and I will be coming home without him.
    Nellie found her in the tent holding pen and paper, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked knowingly at Emily.
    “It would be best for all concerned if you would quit your mooning and be the wife and partner you promised to be in your marriage vows.”
    Dismayed, Emily looked at the woman who had been more mother to her than her own mother