The same was true with the girls. All of our charges were dressed in the best French fashion, and they comported themselves like highborn ladies, as May had trained them to. Still, most of the men on the boat guessed what they were.
Hence, Patrick and I had our hands full “convincing” the male passengers to keep their hands off the goods. I was bigger than most, at six two and two hundred and twenty pounds. So, all I had to do was gently encourage good behavior.
Patrick was a fireplug, perhaps five seven and a hundred and eighty pounds. And he got his Irish up if guys took liberties; especially with Aphrodite, who he seemed to have a thing for. That led him to toss a planter’s kid into the Mississippi, which nearly got us kicked off the boat.
Luckily, they fished him out and Aimee smoothed his ruffled feathers. She didn’t do it herself. That job was given to Abigail, who was happy to perform the task. Seriously!! there was something wrong with that girl’s head.
The Natchez pulled into Hannibal Missouri like you’d park a wagon. As a sailor, I was disgusted by the inelegance of the process. They just steered it up to the dock and backed-water.
We unloaded our cargo, which included enough trunks and valises to accompany Napoleon’s army on the march, and then loaded it all onto a private coach on the Hannibal to St. Joe railroad line. Thence we traveled on to the Missouri riverport of St. Joes.
The railroad journey took a half day. Then, early the next morning we and our charges were loaded abord the steamer Excel for the two-day run down to Kansas City. Kansas City was called “the City of Kansas” back then and it didn’t have the trappings of a cow-town yet, because the railroad hadn’t gotten there.
It bordered “Bleeding Kansas.” Thanks to the Kansas-Nebraska Act, there’d been fights between bushwhackers and jayhawkers all over the Territory. President Buchanan had sent in enough Federal troops to calm the place down and we didn’t linger there long anyhow. We just needed to outfit a couple of wagons to head out on the Santa Fe trail.
By 1860, that trail had been in operation for over thirty years. The deep ruts that marked its path testified to the thousands of folks who had made the trek through Kansas Territory to points west.
The wagon train that we joined was like a military expedition, with elected officers and armed men to scout and protect the main group. It operated on a fixed routine, up at 4AM, departure at seven. We traveled ten or fifteen miles a day, depending on the countryside.
We’d bought a Conestoga for the freight. The white cotton canvas cover on the Conestoga, was why they called them “prairie schooners.” It was cantilevered out from the front and rear of the bed for better protection of the interior during storms. So, it looked like a sail.
Each wagon could handle a rough two tons of cargo. Oxen were the preferred team; since the greater number of mules required to do the pulling, would be a bitch to maintain. Oxen weren’t guided by reins. So, we hired a couple of boys to walk alongside, to “steer” them.
Since prairie schooners had no suspension and the trails were rough, most people preferred walking, rather than endure the constant, painful jolting and lurching of the wagon. So, we bought an Overland stagecoach to give the girls some basic comfort. It had a suspension and the passengers didn’t suffer the hard bumps and jolts. But it swayed a lot.
I sat up on the driver’s box, with the reins, guiding the mules. Driving was tricky at first. I was a sailor, not a teamster. But you can get the hang of anything if you do it for hours a day. I’d traded my “gentleman’s” attire for the boots, canvas pants, big neckerchief and checkered shirt that all the men in the train wore. It was topped off by a big Stetson that kept the weather off. I even had a waterproof duster if things got too inhospitable.
To my utter astonishment, Aimee rode up top with me. It takes grit and stamina to sit for hours in the heat and dust of the Kansas prairie. Being a whaler and blue-water sailor, I’d coped with adversity my whole life. But Aimee was by far the most beautiful and exotic of the women.
Yet, Aimee’d sit by my side, day-in-and-day-out. It was like she sensed that the endless vistas made me uneasy. I suppose people out west would be equally anxious in the open ocean, which was my domain. Her reassuring presence and her quiet strength encouraged me to be the man she needed me to be.
Aimee wore “men’s attire” while she rode with me. That was just common sense, given the harsh environment. But her amazing ass in a tight pair of buckskin pants and her deep cleavage in a fringed buckskin coat, attracted too much unwanted attention from the other members of the train.
In response, Aimee would visibly disdain the ogling of the immigrant men and she exuded nothing but anger and contempt at their wives. Aimee always did what she thought was right and she hated petty-minded judgement.
We traveled behind the Conestoga during the day. We had to keep the pace of the lumbering oxen. Pat oversaw the big wagon, along with a random team of kids. They made sure the oxen stayed in line and kept plodding.
Surprisingly, Aphrodite walked the entire time with Pat chattering and laughing. It was comical, Pat was five-seven and Aphrodite was nearer six feet. But apparently the two had become close at their former place of employment and they were in love in their own peculiar way.
Pat was Irish, and the Irish suffered a lot of bigotry back then. While, Aphrodite was a black prostitute. So of course, that evoked tons of moral outrage from the “righteous” members of the train. Still, nobody ever said anything openly provocative to them, because Pat had already thrashed a couple of fellows for various offenses. He had a temper.
Both Pat and Aphrodite knew that there was no changing human nature anyhow; people will believe, what they believe. So, they ignored the sanctimonious stares and enjoyed each other’s company. In many respects that was the best revenge.
Aimee and I never talked. We just sat there companionably, mile-after-mile. It was as if she was making the statement that we were in this together. I respected her steadfast spirit and our partnership grew as we plodded west.
You might even call it falling in love. If such a thing could happen between an itinerant sailor and a prospective madam. She’d even shoot me the occasional companionable glance as we bumped along. We were indeed a pair.
The journey across Kansas followed the north bank of the Arkansas river. That was what the guides called the “wet route” since it featured plentiful grass and water. The “dry route” took much less time. But there was very little water. Only the eager beavers went that way.
The trail split again at Fort Dodge. That was where the people who were in a hurry could take the south fork following the Cimarron River. That passed through Comanche territory and those fellows were notoriously inhospitable. So, the folks who took that route often regretted it.
We took the mountain fork. Every mile was a test of physical strength, even with six oxen pulling. The trail itself. was an eternal mass of ruts, mud, and steep elevations. I was one of the biggest and strongest of the men. And they needed my muscle to move the wagons through the various gullies and fords.
After we made camp, Aimee spent all of her time with the women. Of course, that was to be expected. Still, I missed her company. That feeling of discontent was an alien emotion. I hadn’t felt close to anybody since the day I kissed Faith goodbye.
Oddly, Aimee seemed just as lonely as I was, even while she was sitting among a gaggle of gossiping women. Once in a while I would even catch her gazing pensively at me. It was as if we were an actual couple. I kept telling myself that she was a whore. But she had been nothing but steadfastly loyal, and reassuring throughout the journey.
The presence of eight gorgeous and clearly sexual women was an issue in a camp full of men. So, Pat and I slept under each end of the Conestoga, which was were the girls bedded down. We kept two fully loaded Army Colt 44s under our pillow. We also kept a . 45-70 lever action Henry repeater and a ten-gauge shotgun in the drivers box.
Our destination was Bent’s old fort, which was located on the Arkansas River. It was about 500 miles as the crow flies from Kansas City. From there, we would turn north along the Cherokee trail toward Denver. That was another two month’s journey.
We had gotten into Colorado, west of Fort Lyon, to the site where the two trails split and were camping in the cottonwoods along the Arkansas River. It was the middle of the night. I was asleep when I heard somebody creep stealthily out the back, directly over my head, and walk off toward the banks of the river.
I hastily pulled on my boots, grabbed a Colt and followed in my long-johns. I was feeling both anger and curiosity. It was certainly one of the women. But he shouldn’t be by herself at this hour. The figure was easy to track. It was one of those classic moonlit starry nights on the great plains of Colorado.
When the figure reached the riverbank, she knelt down and appeared to be praying. I lingered behind a cottonwood and just watched. All I could hear was the rushing current of the river.