Urban Archaeology: Third Installment

Tristan gave the boy a tip, then moved into the compartment. He stowed his gear, as did the rest of his team, and sat down. He chose the seat next to Lacie.
"So, you dont remember who I am?" he asked in his deep, rumbly voice. He searched her face for the lie he was sure would be coming. Instead, he saw...guilt?
"Yes, I know exactly who you are. You are Tristan. You are then man who caught me 6 years ago at our college graduation and you are they man who kissed the socks right off my feet. Now you are the guy who has been following me. I saw you outside of Prague, Helsinki, Dublin and the last time I saw you, besides just now in the Customs building, you were in Bangkok. You are the guy who never gave he his last name, but managed to work is way into my memories and, I must admit, into my heart for about 6 months. And that is who you are. I'll bet that you've been around so many women that you dont even remember who I am."
"Lacie. Your name is Lacie, and if I remember correctly, you never gave me your last name either. I found out later it is Sullivan. As for following you, we work at the same company: Urban Archaeology. That is why you have seen me where you are."
Both Lacie and Tristan hadnt realized that they had started yelling at each other. When they looked up, they saw that Tristan's team was looking at them, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open.

Oregon Trail Diary

I had to write this for a class assignment, and wanted to share with everyone who didn't see it on my facebook page.



Diary of Elizabeth Anne Brockway
1847-1848

Friday, March 15, 1847
Today my husband and I packed our covered wagon. I desperately wanted to bring my mother’s silver and china, but my husband, Michael, told me to only bring what we must. I am so happy that it is just the two of us traveling west to Oregon. This trip would be much more difficult with children for us to take care of along the way. We leave tomorrow with a wagon train that is leaving our home of Independence, Missouri.


Saturday, March 16, 1847
I rose early this morning to finish the packing. Between some quilts that my grandmother made Michael and I for our wedding I managed to secret a single table setting of my mother’s china. I sincerely hope it does not break along the course of this trip, and I also hope that Michael does not find out that I went against his wishes. I only wanted to bring a single setting to remember my mother and family back here in the east.
As Michael helped me up into our wagon, I looked back at our little house for the last time. It still had the pretty lace curtains at the windows and my chickens were still clucking about the farm yard. I wanted to take them with me as I figured that we could eat them along the way, but again Michael deterred me, saying that there wasn’t any room for them either. We are to meet the wagon train at some meeting place outside of Independence. Michael spoke with the wagon master to find out when we were leaving. Michael flicked the reins over the backs of our oxen, which I named Blackie, as he is black, and Adam, as he is the father of Blackie. My mare, Stella and Michaels gelding, Trigger are tied to the back of our wagon and, as we bump along down the rutted road to the rendezvous point outside of town, I can hear our pots and pans rattling and our washtub clanging against the wooden side.
About an hour later, we reached the rest of the train. Michael and I met some of the other families, including Mr. Elias and Jenny Jones and their children, Eliza, Aaron and their baby Sarah Jane, as well as the widow, Mrs. Margaret “Call Me Maggie” Thompson and her sixteen year old daughter, Opal. We then met the wagon master, Steven Harcourt. We then were assembled into the train and were on our way. While the weather is beautiful, my heart mourns leaving my home.


Sunday, March 17, 1847
Yesterday we travelled about 20 miles. I thought that we might be a little farther, but with so many people, I can understand why we didn’t make it far. We camped next to a small creek near a grove of trees for the night. I made some biscuits and opened some beef stew that I canned. The Joneses and Maggie and Opal came to our fire and had dinner with us. We discussed sharing the duties of dinner, that way there is enough food for all of us to go around.
Right now we are travelling over a flat wasteland that has nothing more than brush and sand. It makes the land seem more bleak and empty to see tumbleweeds of sage brush outrunning our wagon train. I have been riding in the front of the wagon on the buckboard since dawn and became bored, so I decided to write. Alas, I am bored again, so I think I will either drive for a bit (If Michael will let me) or get off the wagon and walk for a while or possibly untie Stella and ride for a few hours, it is sunny and the air is swept along by a brisk breeze, so it is the perfect weather to do either of my chosen activities.


Monday, March 18, 1847
As it were, I eventually got out of the wagon yesterday and took a leisurely walk with Eliza Jones and Opal Thomson, both of whom are near the same age and got along famously. It was droll to see the two young ladies fawning over Mr. Harcourt. I must admit that he is a dashing man, with dusty blond hair and smiling blue eyes and always a kind word and helping hand. He reminds me quite a bit of my brother Jamie, who left for Oregon two years ago last spring.
Last night, Jenny Jones made apple dumpling soup and we had some of the jerked venison that Elias made before they left St. Louis. Jenny is quite the cook. We were all together for dinner again, this time being joined by Mr. Harcourt. Once more, Eliza and Opal were mooning over him and, being the kind man that he is, he took it in stride and promised to introduce both of the girls a few of the other families travelling in the train, including his parents, Will and Allison and fifteen year old sister, Emily.
As for today, not too much has happened. At least nothing that didn’t happen yesterday, everything stays the same. I am to meet Eliza and Opal after lunch to go with Mr. Harcourt to spend time with his family. I hope we have a pleasant time. I enjoy meeting the other people who are travelling to Oregon. They all have so many reasons to go. The men go because of the land and the first cries of “gold”, while the women and children go because their men want them to come with them to have an adventure and make it to the “Promised Land” of the United States of America. That is the reason why Michael wanted to go and I refuse to be left at home, so that is why I am here with him.
Mr. Harcourt told us last night that he plans to camp the train at Courthouse Rock by next Wednesday. That is a long way to go in ten days, but he says that we are making good time and I have faith in his abilities, so I have no doubt that we will be to Courthouse Rock in the allotted time frame. Today the weather is fair, a light breeze with fluffy clouds drifting aimlessly above my head. It is almost time for lunch, so I had best get ready to go with Eliza and Opal. Mr. Harcourt says the trail will be getting a little more rough, so I am not sure if I will be writing tomorrow or not. I suppose it depends on where I am needed.


Wednesday, March 20, 1847
Whew! Mr. Harcourt was right, that was a rough bit of road. The last time I wrote I spoke of pretty fluffy clouds that were seemingly innocent. The clouds were anything but because after Eliza, Opal and I got back from visiting the other families in our train, it started pouring buckets from the sky. There was so much rain! The sandy clay that we are travelling on turned into mud and the wheels of our wagon got caked with them and made it much too hard to pull for our oxen, so we were forced to stop, get out and knock off the mud so we could continue. When we planned to make the journey to Oregon, Michael insisted that we buy a pair of boy’s pants that would fit me, just in case we needed them. I am glad that he talked me into them, for they came in quite handy. Michael drove the oxen and I, armed with a shovel, knocked the infuriating mud off the wagon wheels.
The next day, the sun came out again, and the mud dried, making the barren wasteland that it was before. Life as we knew it went back to normal. Mr. Harcourt stopped the train for the day, so that we could assess damages and fix them. Michael and I fared reasonably well, so we set out to help some of the other families. We met the very interesting couple Mr. William Zachariah Hight, who always had the stub of a cigar protruding from his mouth, and his lovely brown haired wife Fanny. We helped them uncake the mud from their wagon and by the time that we had finished this, it was time for dinner. We were all so exhausted that a biscuit was all that I could eat before I climbed into our bed in the wagon. Michael joined me about an hour later and the next thing I knew it was morning.
Today, the Hights and Michael and I are travelling side by side, making it easy for Fanny and I to talk together. She is a very interesting woman. About the time that we decided to climb down from the wagons to walk together for a spell, Mr. Harcourt rode up on his dun stallion and told us to circle the wagons. The Indians were coming! I don’t know when I have ever been more scared in my life than when I heard that the savages were coming to kill us. I didn’t realize until now that Mr. Harcourt didn’t seem surprised or even the slightest bit frightened.
We quickly circled the wagons, with Mr. Harcourt and some of the other men riding around us to make sure we were packed in safely. The air was being rent with the battle cries of the Indians. They were coming toward us! They were a sight to behold when they topped the hill above us. Red skinned men, clad in leather fringed leggings, each holding a rifle in one hand and a fistful of mane in the other. Their chests were covered in blue war paint and their hair was streaked with it as well. Their horses had blue handprints on their rumps and cheeks covering their black, white and brown splotched hides.
To my left there was a gunshot, but whoever had fired it missed. Mr. Harcourt turned sharply in his saddle and motioned for the man to never do that again, then turned back to the savages and raised his right hand and yelled something in their language. It seemed to appease the chieftain, because he held up both of his hands, palms open and facing us, and smiled. When he smiled, he turned from fiercely handsome to wildly stunning. He grunted at his followers and when he rode down the hill, they stayed where they were. The Indian and Mr. Harcourt got off of their horses and embraced one another and Mr. Harcourt turned to the wagon train and introduced the Indian standing beside him as Shon’ge-sab-be, meaning Black Wolf in his native language.
Black Wolf had his tribe ride within the wagons as Mr. Harcourt had us move our train to the Indian settlement. We were greeted by the Shaman, who looked as old as the earth that he lived on. The whole village came out of their teepees to look at us. A particularly pretty young Indian woman ran from her teepee to leap into the arms of Mr. Harcourt. Eliza and Opal looked crushed, then happy as a blond haired man ducked out of the same teepee that the woman came out of, a tiny bundle in his arms. It was quite fascinating to watch Mr. Harcourt greet the man, whom we later learned was his brother, Seth, and take the baby from his arms. Michael and Mr. Harcourt had become fast friends in the days since the wagon train left Independence, and we were invited to come with him into the home of his brother and sister-in-law, Little Leaf.
We spent the night and the next day in the Indian village, trading blankets, thread, beads, mirrors, liquor, tobacco, bells and in return we received shoes called moccasins, porcupine quill worked jewelry, horses, food and blankets. Though we only stayed there a few days, it was sad to go. It was hard to leave Seth, Little Leaf and Aaron Long Feather, their baby, after becoming friends so quickly.
Mr. Harcourt said that if we made good time, and nothing else happens, we would make it to Courthouse Rock soon.


April 8, 1847
We are here! Finally! Courthouse rock came into sight last night, but was just a bump on the horizon. We reached it today about four o’clock according to my broach watch that my mother gave me when I was sixteen. Mr. Harcourt says that a man that came out only two years ago, when he was in his fifth year of guiding wagons to Oregon, said that courthouse rock “resembled the ruins of an old castle which rises abruptly from the plain.” Personally, I cannot look at it and not believe that God had something to do with its construction. Others have called it Courthouse Rock, but I think it looks more like a Capitol.
Along the way, nothing of much consequence happened. There was a little rain on Wednesday, but not enough to cause any problems. All was clear sailing. Oh! What a pun! Mr. Harcourt told me that people referred to our wagons as Prairie Schooners.
We are camped about a mile from the Rock and as I am writing the sun is going down behind it. The sky is streaked with orange, red, gold and pink and the silhouette of Courthouse Rock stands out against the burning orange of the setting sun. Such a beautiful sight to behold. Mr. Harcourt says that we will start off again in the morning, hopefully making it past Chimney Rock and on toward Fort Laramie.


May 15, 1847
We have finally reached Fort Laramie. I must admit that I was never quite so happy to see log walls before. Many fur traders were there as well as Indians and a few pony express riders and some military men. We bought goods, food and such, and circled the wagons outside the fort and left in the morning.


July 4, 1847
We are back on the trail, as Mr. Harcourt says. I am beginning to feel lonely, as Eliza and Opal have taken to spending their time with Emily Harcourt. Michael is usually busy driving the wagon or helping one of the other men with something. The women mostly stay in their wagons and don’t venture too far from them. An odd feeling has overcome our wagon train. One of dread. It seems too good to be true that nothing bad has happened yet, aside from the rain at the beginning of our journey, it is as if we are expecting something to happen.


July 5, 1847
Last night it did happen. Not something horrible like we all expected like an Indian raid or something like that, but something good happened. A woman, Julia Newcastle, and her husband Paul were expecting a baby when they left. Mr. Harcourt tried to discourage them from coming until the baby was born, but Mr. Newcastle wanted to go as soon as possible. Maggie thinks that he was running from something, they way that he keeps looking over his shoulder all of the time. Anyway, last night Julia’s baby was born. The birth was difficult without a midwife on the journey, but Maggie knew a thing or two about how to birth babies. I was called in, as well as Jenny Jones, to help Maggie in any way possible. For a short time, I had thought that we had lost Julia, she was so still and pale and even as her contractions got closer together and became more painful, all she could do was whimper. Needless to say, just as the sky was beginning to streak with reds, blues and pinks, Carrie Independence Newcastle was born. She is a very healthy little girl, and was named for her grandmother Caroline and the place where we were camped, Independence Rock.


August 23, 1847
Mr. Harcourt says that we should be getting into Fort Bridger by the middle of September. I hope we get there sooner. I remember Jamie writing to Michael and I and telling us that he had problems around this area with the Indians, and then later, after reaching the fort and leaving again, had problems with the snow in the mountains. They lost seven people on their wagon train. I don’t wish that upon anyone in ours.


September 19, 1847
We have finally made it to Fort Bridger. I realize that I haven’t written much since the birth of little Carrie Independence, but I have good reasons. Julia is still weak, only strong enough to feed her baby for short periods of time. Michael, as well as everyone else in our train, with the exception of Maggie, who is afraid of no one, is wary of Mr. Paul Newcastle. I do my best to ignore him. I go every morning to visit with Julia and help her take care of Carrie, make their breakfast, which both Paul and Michael join us, and their lunch, where we are again joined by the men folk, and I do my best to care for both mother and child. Watching Michael hold Carrie makes me see that he pines for a child of his own. I want one as well, but will not have one until we reach Oregon. I don’t want to be in the same condition as Julia. I hope she gets stronger soon, I don’t know how much longer I can take care of her and her family as well as Michael and myself.
I had hoped that Fort Bridger would be like Fort Laramie, but I was quite mistaken. I was hoping for hot food that I didn’t have to make and a bath to actually wash off the dust, one with hot water as opposed to the occasional stream that we came upon. But it was not to be. We were greeted by harsh men, fur trappers and mountain men that we only heard legends of back in the east. At least there was fresh water running in a creek nearby so that we could replenish our water supply and they had a tiny outpost store where we could purchase flour, sugar and coffee. I am very happy about that because Michael and I are almost out of all three of these things.
Mr. Harcourt says that we will stay here tonight. A Native American (that is what Mr. Harcourt, both of them, call the Indians) midwife is coming to look at Julia to make sure that the complications of Carrie’s birth didn’t hurt her internally. Another doctor is coming to give her medicine to make her stronger.
I was amazed that when we made camp, a man came from the fort to speak to all of us waggoneers. He was over six feet tall, with light brown hair and eyes and was clad entirely in buckskins. He came to each of the camp fires, shook hands, said a few words and moved on to the next. He first went to the Newcastle’s wagon, spoke with Paul and the doctors looking at Julia, and held little Carrie for a moment, then looked toward our fire. As he strode in our direction, you could almost feel the air of authority about him. He crouched down next to Michael and across the fire from me. “I am Jim Bridger,” he said. “I think it is mighty brave of you folks to be traveling to Oregon. I’m gonna give you a few words of advice here. Take care of yourselves, that country is mighty dangerous. Don’t trust nobody you meet out there, unless you already know them. When you get to the pass, don’t stop movin’, you will get cold, but if you move, it will keep you warm. That lady in yon wagon aint doin too good, she might not make it over the pass. Ifn that’s the case, take care of the little one, she will need to be kept warm all the time. Good luck with the rest of your journey. And when you get to the bubblin water, don’t drink it. It aint good for nothing but bathin.” He shook Michael’s hand, then mine and moved on to the next campfire.


September 26, 1847
Today we reached Soda Springs. Now I understand what Mr. Bridger was talking about when he was telling us about the bubbling water. It appears that Soda Spring is heated by some sort of lesion in the earth. Everyone had a bath, first the women while the men were on a hunting expedition, then the men while the women cooked dinner. Some of the women were getting water from the pool to cook with, but I didn’t. I remember what Jim Bridger had said. It wouldn’t be good for us. I told some of the other women, but they didn’t listen. Mr. Newcastle thought that it tasted better than the water we got at Fort Bridger, so he drank the water from Soda Springs instead. I hope nothing ill comes from it.


September 28, 1847
Today Mr. Newcastle and ten other people became ill all of a sudden. As we have no physician with us, we didn’t know the reason behind their sickness. I had Michael ask everyone who was sick whether they drank from Soda Springs or not, and they all said that they had. They also said that they should have listened to Jim Bridger. I suppose that he gave all of us the same piece of advice. I am very glad that we listened to him.


September 30, 1847
Today seven people died due to the Bubbling Water Disease, which is what Eliza, Opal and Emily are calling it. Mr. Newcastle and the other three people are not doing well. Mr. Harcourt said that he expected them to be dead within the next two to three days.


October 2, 1847
Today Mr. Newcastle and the other three people died. Michael helped dig the graves while I stayed with Julia and Carrie. I don’t know what will happen to them now. I suppose I will drive their wagon while Michael is driving ours. The grimness of the deaths has overcome the wagon train. Eleven dead in a week will do that to a person.

October 4, 1847
We have reached Fort Hall. I have given up on wanting to see real civilization, given what the other two forts were like. I have no excitement seeing this fort, except to stock up on food stuffs and water. I said as much to Maggie, Jenny and Mr. Harcourt. He told me that we would be leaving in the morning as we had when we were at the other two forts. From here we would be going to Fort Boise.

October 11, 1847
We left Fort Hall the next morning bright and early. A week later (today), we are three quarters of the way to Fort Boise. We got caught up in a little bit of snow and a lot of wind. Julia became even more weak and is now extremely ill. Mr. Harcourt had Michael and I move her and Carrie, as well as their food stuffs and other small belongings into our wagon so that we could watch her at all times and keep her and the baby warm. I pray that God either heals Julia soon or has the mercy to take her to heaven. I don’t want her to suffer any longer. That, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep taking care of them and my husband and myself.


October 13, 1847
Very early this morning Julia’s shaking started. She wouldn’t stop even when I put more blankets on her to keep her warm. Just as the sky was beginning to streak with light, Julia passed away. Michael, Mr. Harcourt and Elias dug her grave while I kept Carrie warm. It is almost disturbing how Mr. Bridger knew that this was going to happen.
After Elias said some words over Julia’s grave, we pressed on. The snow kept getting deeper and the air got more cold and the wind more bitter. Michael drove our wagon while I kept Carrie and myself heaped under blankets in the very middle of the wagon where the least amount of cold could get to us.

October 16, 1847
I find it disappointing that Julia died within three days of the nearest doctor. Dr. Morris is a kind British man, who checked us all over to be sure that we were healthy enough to finish out our trip to Oregon. Fort Boise is a sight better than the last forts that we have been to. Not only was this a place where we could get all of the supplies we could ever need, we could also take baths. With warm water! Mr. Harcourt says we will be staying here for four days to recuperate and then be on our way to what he calls the Whitman Mission.


October 20, 1847
Today we left for the Whitman Mission. It seemed like another average day on the Trail, until we were about ten miles from Fort Boise.
We were driving our wagon train around a very large bluff, when all of a sudden, we were attacked by Indians. These ones were not friendly like Black Wolf’s tribe. These particular ones wanted to kill us. They came pouring down either side of the bluff, screaming, covered in red and black war paint, wielding rifles, bows and arrows and spears. By the time we knew what was coming for us, three men and four women had been killed as well as two children. We circled the wagons, and we women and children not old enough to know how to shoot were forced inside the middle of the circle. The older boys and the men were assembled around the inside of the circle, hiding behind the wagon wheels.
By the end of the skirmish, we had lost two more men, both single, and most of the Indians had been killed. The ones that remained alive rode off. Hopefully not to get more to attack us. Mr. Harcourt got us all back into the wagons and we were on our way once more. The women took care of the wounded men and drove the wagons.


October 25, 1847
Today the last of the men were mended and on their feet doing their usual manly things. We are still on the trail on our way to Whitman Mission. I cant wait to get there. I looked back on my journal this morning. I had written the first day that I was happy that I didn't have a child to take care of on the trail and how hard it would be to have one to care for one while on the trail. Even with the circumstances surrounding her coming to Michael and I, I am so glad to have Carrie. Michael and I have discussed raising her as our own child. Since both her parents are gone, it only makes sense that we do so.
Mr. Harcourt tells us that we are about four days from Whitman Mission, so we will be there soon!


October 31, 1847
We are about two days from Whitman Mission. One of the wagons broke a wheel in a rut, so we were held up for a day and a half fixing it.


November 3, 1847
As we neared the area where the Mission should be, we saw a huge plume of smoke. I, being the curious person that I am, unhitched Stella and rode out to Mr. Harcourt and a few of the other men standing on the crest of the hill. Below us we saw the source of the smoke. The Whitman Mission was that source. All of the buildings were either gone or being quickly consumed by the hungry fire. We all congregated at the site an hour later. The sight before us was horrific. Bodies were strewn all over the place, some burned, some shot and some were trampled to death by horses. The men had the women stay with the children at the wagons while the men dug graves and buried the unfortunate death.


November 11, 1847
We have FINALLY reached Oregon! Michael and I have decided to settle in The Dalles. It is such a beautiful country. It has fertile ground for growing gardens and fields, and the wind is very strong. I love the wind. This is possibly the most perfect place to raise our daughter and the children that will come.



April 9, 1848
Michael and I have been in Oregon for six months. I love it here. Carrie is sitting on a blanket in the tall grass watching me write while taking a break from my gardening. Lying beside Carrie is Leo, our tabby cat and Hugo, Michael's dog. In a basket set between me and the blanket lies our son, Charles Jeremiah. I love Oregon and I am so glad that Michael and I moved here.

Urban Archaeology Cover... WOOP!

So, here is the cover for Urban Archaeology! Tagline: He's playing hard. She's playing hard-to-get.

Urban Archaeology: Second Installment

Okay, I know this is going to confuse everyone reading, but I am changing the location of the story from Ethiopia to Cambodia. The locations within Cambodia also have changed, it is now Angkor Wat instead of Axum and the other place, which I cannot remember at this point in time, being up since early this morning and it now being 10:30. Now that you are all informed, here is the next part.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lacie grabbed up her duffel bag and put on her Ray-Bans as she walked out into the very bright, very hot Cambodian sun.
I wonder who that man was back there. He looked familiar, but I don't know where I've seen him before. She thought to herself. She pulled out her black leather wallet and handed the money to the native with a bright white smile, so she could get the train ticket to the closest station to Angkor Wat.
As Lacie turned to walk to the platform, she noticed the man was just coming out of the customs building, accompanied by five other people, three men and two women. They were walking toward her, laughing, talking and looking, for all the world, like a family.
Tristan's eyes met Lacies again, and at the moment that their eyes locked, he realized who she was, and Lacie realized as well.
Startled, Lacie looked away and slowly picked her way to the platform through the sea of high baskets balanced on heads, small children dodging between adult's legs and people hawking handmade jewelry. When she finally made it to the platform, she gave her ticket to the Ticket Inspector and was escorted to her seat by a barefooted boy of about eleven.
Her seat was in the private car area and had enough room for eight people to sit comfortably. Just as Lacie was stowing her over-sized duffel, the door opened again. And, again, the cute little boy was standing at the door. The only difference this time was that Tristan and his team stood in the doorway, waiting to be let in.