John wasn't improving as quickly as the doctor thought he should. There had been no infection, the bullet wound was clean, and only muscle had been damaged. He didn't have an alarming fever and, although he slept most of the time - and that, restlessly - he certainly showed no signs of delirium. Hopefully, he just needed time to get over his 24 hours of severe trauma. Hopefully... but the doctor was still worried.
Anna stayed with John as much as her other responsibilities allowed. When he was awake, she fed him and tended to his personal needs. Often, she just sat beside his bed, holding his hand, and praying. Sometimes, she stayed in her chair all night, to be there whenever he woke up.
As for John himself, after the first several days, he didn't feel any pain or distress. He just couldn't quite stay awake and, every time he dozed off, he found he was back to living his past life in his dreams. He'd had dreams in which memories surfaced, but usually in a garbled way, and never in actual sequence like these were. It was strange, but not unpleasant.
***
After John had walked away from Sarah at the edge of town, she had stayed in place for almost an hour, assuming (hoping!) that he would come to his senses, and come back to her. He didn't, and finally she went to John's house, and told them that she had seen and talked to him, but that he hadn't come with her. The teamster had already alerted them that John was near, so it was a double disappointment. Sarah attributed his absence to his obvious illness, and to his frustration in missing the war. She didn't mention Margaret. leaving that explanation to John, however he wanted to handle it.
John's brothers had gone looking for him, eventually walking halfway to Altoona, and questioning canal men and everyone else they saw along the way. No one remembered seeing him.
John, of course, didn't know any of this until several years later, so his dreams (sticking close to the actual timing of events) did not cover it. When his newest dream began, it was with him walking away from Sarah, and out of his Williamsburg life.
John had no idea what he was doing, or where he was going. He began by taking the canal boats and Allegheny tram to Pittsburgh. He had very little money left, but he easily found part-time work, first with a logger, splitting and hauling firewood, then in a livery stable. Such unskilled labor paid only about a dollar per day, but his needs were small, and he knew how to live frugally, so he wasn't worried about having to find work to survive the winter. Still, when an unexpected but interesting-sounding position became available, he found himself applying for it.
Just as the Pittsburgh school term started, a popular teacher suddenly died. There was no obvious candidate to take over, so the city put out a quick call for applicants. John had never taught school - had never dreamed of teaching school! However, he could read and write, about as well as anybody in his circumstances; his handwriting was legible when he tried; his spelling was creative, but understandable; and he loved to read, although his tastes ran mainly to adventures and romances of the "dime novel" variety. He could do only simple arithmetic, but his comprehending and learning abilities were likely above average.
To his surprise, he was immediately accepted for the position. To his further surprise, the job paid about $20 a month. Still more surprising to him, he found that he liked teaching quite a lot. It turned into a comfortable, interesting winter for him.
A further bonus for him that winter was the regaining of much of his former strength and feeling of wellbeing. Also, he was only occasionally revisited by his malarial fevers. He wasn't a person quick to make new friends, but he enjoyed the general comradeship of the other teachers - which, in part, made up for his loneliness for his own family. He could have contentedly stayed teaching another year, or perhaps could have gone home, but there was still something prompting him to move along. At the end of the school year, he started walking west.
Ohio had nothing to interest him, although he did have one bit of excitement. Outside the town of Mansfield, he was confronted by two rough-looking men, who demanded he give them his purse. He had developed a certain attachment to what was in it, and didn't think he should part with it without some discussion. He knew he was a lot healthier and stronger than he had been six months earlier, but he still doubted that he was a match for two very large, very mean-looking, and very insistent men of the scoundrel variety. He was saved from finding out by three local citizens, who had seen his predicament, and had come to help. The ruffians departed without further incident, probably to go in search of some other hapless traveler. John crossed the remainder of Ohio without further incident.
He hadn't been in Indiana very long, when in the distance he saw what appeared to be a major forest area. As he drew nearer, he discovered that was exactly what it was - a large tract of forested land in the midst of prairie and farmland. On even closer examination, he found that it was a very dense, very wet, forested swamp. He couldn't remember ever seeing anything like it.
As he was leaning on a fence post, looking at the unusual woodland, a farmer in a mule-driven wagon pulled up beside him.
"If you're thinking of going in there, I think you'd best change your thoughts."
John acknowledged the farmer's presence, but didn't turn around. "I hadn't been thinking of it, but it is intriguing-looking. Why shouldn't I go in?"
"Because it's an evil, deadly place."
John did turn around, then. "How is it evil and deadly?"
The farmer scratched his chin. "Nobody knows for sure. Few people have gone in, and those that have gone in have never come out, again."
"So, how do you know it's deadly and evil?" The farmer looked puzzled. "Let me ask it a different way. What do you think happens when you go in there?"
The farmer scratched his chin, again. "Well, the first thing you come to is quicksand - so quick, that even if you barely put a toe in it, it sucks you down in a flash." He paused, and checked for John's reaction. There wasn't much. "Well, if you somehow manage to escape the quicksand, there's the snakes - big rattlers. Oh, I know we got big rattlers right here in these fields, but I mean real big. They not only poison you, but they wrap you up like one of them big-old pythons, and hold you steady while they give you the poison stab."
The farmer shivered at his own description. John still seemed more or less unmoved. "Well now, say you somehow got by the quicksand and the snakes, then you got the bears and the painters."
"Painters?" John interrupted.
"Yep, painters. You know, the big mountain cats. Anyway, I don't suppose anybody could escape them. And that's why it's so deadly dangerous," the farmer concluded.
John seemed to be mulling this over. "Well, I can certainly see why it would be unwise to venture in there. Just one thing kinda puzzles me. If nobody who went in came out again, how do we know all this about it?"
The farmer looked puzzled, again. "Well, it's just common knowledge." That struck him as maybe not answering the question, in full. "Well, there was one fella who might have got out, and might have told about it."
"Well, that would make a difference. Who made it out?"
"Well, his name was Jim Corbus. He was a real old-timer, but a grand hunter.. He was the kind to risk a trip in there." The farmer paused. "Problem is, there are several versions of what happened. Everybody agrees that Jim got lost, in there. But some say he eventually found his own way out, while others say that some folks went in and found him, and guided him out. Then again, some say ole Jim went in, and was never seen nor heard from, again." He paused, again. "Then, there's some that say it wasn't Jim Corbus, at all, but some other fella."
John chuckled. "Yeah, that would make it a little hard to credit all the information. Say, what do they call this place?"
"You mean that swamp? It's called the Limberlost."
"Limberlost? Odd name. What's it mean?"
"Well, that's about ole Jim Corbus, again. I said he was old. He was real old, but he was as spry as a young man. Some folks called him 'Limber Jim,' because he could get around so smartly, despite his age. When people learned he had gone into the swamp, but never came out again, they started saying 'Limber's lost.' The name just stuck."
John just looked at him. "Do you believe that?"
The farmer scratched his chin. "I do, but I don't."
"I know what you mean."
The farmer offered John a ride in his wagon. He said he wasn't going far, but he was pointed west, and "west" was all John had for a destination.
"How long ago did all this happen with 'Limber Jim'?" John asked.
"Oh, must be eight- ten - years ago."
That was a surprise. "So, we're not talking ancient history. You probably knew Jim, yourself?"
"Well, sure. Everybody knew Jim."
John was tempted to ask how an event so recent had got so garbled so soon -- and why anybody would think Jim never came out of the swamp, if they all knew him, later. But he caught himself in time. No sense ruining a good tale. "So, what did they call the Limberlost before Jim's adventure?"
"Before? I don't recall it had a name. I think folks just called it 'the swamp,' or 'the woods.' Didn't seem to need any other."
***
John was just crossing from Indiana into Illinois when he began to hear about the gold strike in California. By the time he reached the Mississippi River, across from Burlington, Iowa, he had passed through several towns that seemed in full frenzy. Every man was talking about gold - gold that you didn't have to dig with a pick and shovel, but you just put your pan in the river water, and let the gold collect in it. There was so much gold available, and so easy to get, that folks who only a month ago were as poor as them, were already living in mansions in San Francisco, drinking champagne, and hiring other people to get more gold for them.
It was much the same on the Iowa side of the river - maybe even a little more frenetic. No one could talk about anything but gold. Men were considering selling their land and their equipment - or taking out loans - to accumulate enough cash to finance a trip West. Many talked like they'd have their fortunes made, and would be back home, before the court house had processed the sales. Then, they could buy everything back. They might have to pay a little more than what they'd sold for, but that wouldn't matter, would it, with all their new wealth?
John thought it was a grand fairy tale. He also saw that, if a little sanity didn't return by spring, that it could be the prelude to a major tragedy. He pictured every man, and every boy over 15, setting off by wagon train or ship for "El Dorado," and every woman and small child left close to destitution, with no idea when - or if - they'd ever see their men-folks, again.
Like everyone else, John felt himself being captured by the excitement. Still, he wasn't really interested in the gold. He knew he'd never "strike it rich" - never hit the big jackpot. He was resigned to never having that kind of luck, no matter what the odds. He didn't need any fingers to count the number of successes he'd had in his life, so far. In contrast, he figured he'd need all of his fingers - and most of his toes! - to cover all his failures and disappointments. Nevertheless, it sounded like going to California could be an interesting adventure, and he wasn't ready to go home.
In Danville, a village west of Burlington, there was already talk of organizing a wagon train, to leave for California the following spring. John talked to a young man - Nicholaus Johansen - who was really eager to join. He had oxen, and a small wagon, but didn't have money to buy the necessary supplies. John had been living mostly on what he could earn in day-jobs, and his teaching salary was essentially untouched. Without knowing anything about the man - and very little about the wagon train plans - John bought into a partnership. He was going to California.
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