Charlotte's Sacrifice

Three decades ago, I was reading the account of my great-great-grandfather Robert Dansie's journey from England in 1862 that included a harrowing ship ride and a trek across the American Midwest. One event, in particular, made me stop and think... and then put pen to paper (or fingers to computer keys, as it were) to relay it.  This is what I wrote.   

The long column of wagons must have appeared a mere smudge on the vast canvas of the prairie.  The verdant greens of the summer had vanished, only to be replaced by a monotonous brown that extended as far as one could see in any direction.  The wind blew icy cold, and the sun did little to warm the body, even in the broad light of the afternoon.

 

     "Charlotte!  It's good news!"  Robert ran to the side of the wagon, breathlessly calling her name over the clamor of the wooden wheels.  "Charlotte, Dear, I just spoke with the Trail Boss, Mr. Harmon." There was no answer.

     “Father, when... when will it be my turn to ride?"  A tiny voice came from behind the wagon.   

     Robert slowed his pace to allow the wagon to pass.  The voice belonged to his young son who was walking directly behind the wagon, his hands wrapped around a rope tied to the worn wood.  Holding on to the rope helped him keep up with the others, but he took nearly three steps for each taken by his father and his older brother.

     Robert smiled.  "Now, Charles,... you know that the team is already overburdened...  Your little brother and sisters must ride.  We'll be stopping soon, and I promise--"

     "But when, Father?" The little boy interrupted, "I'm so cold.  And my feet hurt.  I don't think I can keep up."

     "Please hold on, Charles.  You can do it.  Do it for mother.  She needs you to be strong for her."

     Tears came to the little boy's eyes, but he gulped them back and forced his feet ahead.  "OK, Father... I think I can do it."   The little boy raised one dusty sleeve of his coat and wiped the salty drops from his cheeks.  The sleeve left a muddy track across the boy's face, and he stumbled, nearly losing his grip on the rope.  The tears started again, and he sobbed silently as he walked. 

     Robert's heart ached for the boy.  "We'll be stopping soon," he said lovingly, "I'm sure of it."  He tousled the boy's hair.  Little Charles managed a smile.

     "Charlotte?"  Robert called again.

     This time there was a reply.  "Robert..."

     Robert lifted the edge of the canvas to see his wife's face bathed in the faint yellow glow of the afternoon sun.  Her pain was immediately evident.  Even in the bitter cold, great drops of feverish perspiration poured from her forehead; Her once sparkling eyes were closed tightly in dark, sullen circles.  "What is it, Dear," she managed to speak.

     Robert took her hand and placed it in his.  He smiled at her.  She opened her eyes briefly, but did not return the smile.  "It's Mr. Harmon.  He said we are moving ahead quickly in spite of the weather.  He said that we may be just two to three weeks away.  We're going to make it, my Dear, we're going to make it!"

     "Robert!"  Charlotte winced as she called his name, "Please find Mrs. McBride.  I think--"  She paused, holding her breath, "Please.  Tell her I think its time."

     "The baby?  But I thought--"

     "Please find her, Robert.  I--"  Pain again silenced her voice.  She managed one longing gaze into his eyes, then whispered, "Please."

     "I will, Charlotte.  I will."  Robert gave his wife's hand a slight squeeze.  "I'll be right back.

Please stay warm."

     He left the side of the wagon and ran wildly ahead, stopping only briefly as he passed the Trail Boss’ wagon.  "It's Charlotte, Mr. Harmon.  She's having the baby."

     "We'll begin looking for a place to camp for the night, Mr. Dansie.  I'll ask Mrs. Harmon to bring some extra blankets back for you."

     "Thank you.  I'm going to get Mrs. McBride."  Robert started off again toward the front of the column.  His feet flew beneath him, dodging the sharp rocks and sagebrush that stuck out of the snow.  Nearly out of breath, he reached the McBride's wagon and grabbed hold of the wood to help keep himself from falling behind.  "Mrs. McBride?" he called.

     "Mr. Dansie, how are you today?"  Mrs. McBride leaned from her seat at the front of the wagon.  The young man's face she saw was flushed from his sprinting run, and he walked slowly, gulping air.

     "Mrs. McBride, it's Charlotte" He paused to catch his breath.

     "I'll get a blanket," she said, disappearing into the canvas opening.

     "How is she, Robert?" James McBride called over his shoulder.  He was walking at the front of the oxen team, holding the yoke with his hand.

     "She's not well, James, and I think the night's going to be even worse for her.  The baby's coming early."

     "You let me know if I can help.  Please."

     "I will."

     Mrs. McBride, now standing at the side of the seat, leaned over to watch her feet and stepped cautiously from the platform.

     "I'll be with the Dansie family," she called to her husband.  She stopped to let the wagon pass by.  "Come along, Mr. Dansie.  Let's go deliver a baby."

     The pair turned and walked back toward Charlotte's wagon.  They moved quickly, traveling against the forward motion of the group.  A scout on horseback rode by, making his way to the back of the column.  "There's a river just up ahead, everyone.  Prepare to make camp."

     "None too soon," Mrs. McBride said as he passed.

     They found Charlotte nearly overcome by pain.  Mrs. McBride immediately went to her side.  Robert took the team and pulled the wagon into a group with the others.  Once the wheels had been blocked with large stones, he pulled the team free and led them toward the river.

     Thomas Allred, already standing at the bank of the river, looked-up to see Robert and ran up the hill toward him.  "Give me that rope, Robert, I'll water those Oxen.  You should be at your wife's side."

     "Thank you so much, Tom."  Robert placed the ropes into his hands and walked briskly up the hill.

     "Robert!"  Tom Allred called after him, "Our prayers are with you all."

     Robert made his way back to the camp in deep thought.  For a moment, he wasn't on a cold, windswept hillside in Dakota Territory, he was home, in England, with his family.  He remembered the lush green gardens he tended to earn money for the family, and the fun and tender moments they had enjoyed together.  He recalled the jubilation he shared with his wife when they learned they would be able to immigrate.  It had been a long journey, over sea and land, but it was nearly over.  Soon they would reach their new home.

     A cold gust of wind roared past Robert's face, chilling him.  But now, here he was, on the plains of North America; and he felt alone, even among so many friends.  Anxiety welled inside his chest, like the darkness that now enveloped the landscape around him, and he ran quickly back to the wagon.  A small group of people had gathered outside, praying and waiting to hear news of the young mother’s condition.

     Robert climbed quietly into the wagon, closing the thin canvas flap behind him.  Mrs. McBride was there, and the Mrs. Harmon had brought blankets.

     Robert immediately took Charlotte in his arms, laying her head on his chest.  She was trembling.  Her feeble hands could scarcely have held a cup; and yet when her body cramped with the pain of labor, she grabbed his arms tightly with clenched fists.  She had no strength left to scream, so she cried softly with each contraction.  Robert's prayers for his wife became even more fervent with each breath she took.

     "Everything... Everything will be fine, Robert," she said softly, without opening her eyes.  "The Lord will bless us and--"  The pain took her words again.

     Robert's own eyes welled with tears that flowed like his thoughts.  How is this woman able to withstand such hardships?  Surely it is more than anyone should be asked to bear... and yet she seems to do it so courageously--even cheerfully.  What is it that gives her such faith?

     The answer came in the form of a simple request from Charlotte to Mrs. Harmon.  "Please... please read to me from the Bible," she said haltingly between breaths.

     "Me?" Mrs. Harmon looked puzzled.  "But what do you want me to read?"

     Charlotte nodded.  "From Luke," she whispered, "The story of Christmas."

     Mrs. Harmon adjusted the lamp and opened the Bible, pausing momentarily to find her place. 

     "And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.  And so it was that while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.  And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn."

     As the words of the scriptures filled the dark wagon, Charlotte's thoughts were of the Christ Child’s mother, valiant in her faith and courage, never complaining nor deriding.   Charlotte had pondered Mary's legacy often during her journey from England.  Charlotte's trials seemed so similar; and they both shared an absolute devotion to life—an unflinching selflessness that it is said can only be truly understood by a mother.  

 

     Charlotte, in times of extreme difficulty, had often visited the manger in her heart.  In her own way, she had seen the bittersweet joy on Mary's face.  She had shared her elation at his birth, her sorrow at seeing his sacrifice of love.  For Charlotte, as for Mary and for every mother since Eve, the blessing of being entrusted by God to bring children into the world was itself ample reward for her suffering.

     "And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

 

     Mrs. Harmon's voice trailed-off into silence. Only the incessant whistle of the icy wind could be heard through the camp as families huddled together against the cold.

     In that brief moment, Charlotte's son had been born.  He was so beautiful, with thick dark hair and a round face.  But his body was small, and frail, and he was so quiet.  Mrs. McBride wrapped him carefully in clean linens and placed the tiny bundle near his mother's face, choking back tears of her own.  There was nothing more she could do.  She pulled the blanket up to warm Charlotte and the baby, and the two women climbed from the wagon, leaving the little family in silence.  Faint whispers and veiled weeping could be heard through the canvas.

     Robert reached out to support his wife's arms.  She was now so weak that she could scarce mutter a word.  "Joseph,..." she whispered to the tiny infant, "Your name is Joseph."

     "He's beautiful, isn't he?" Robert said tenderly, raising a hand to brush a lock of hair from her eye.  "Just like his mother."  He wrapped his arms around the two of them, and kissed them each in turn.  "I love you," he said softly.  "You have made me the happiest man in the world."

     "Robert,..." Charlotte mouthed the name in silence. The corners of her lips raised slightly to smile, and then the smile vanished.

     "Shhhh," he whispered, "You rest now.  I'm here with you."

     Robert held the mother and the baby all night, rocking them gently in his arms as the wind howled outside.  Huddled in wagons or under blankets, the immigrants prayed fervently for the mother and child. Later, the wind stopped and the sleepy camp lay in silence under a moonless black sky strewn with brilliant stars.

     No one knows exactly when, or how, but as the light from the lantern faded, so did the two lives in the wagon.  And as the last flicker illuminated the father's tear streaked face, Charlotte's painful journey ended in peace.

 

 

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 For three-quarters of a century, the Dansie family--including my grandfather, Marvin England Dansie--searched for the grave of their beloved mother.  Then, in the summer of 1939, a series of miraculous events brought together two grandsons of Robert Dansie and a local sheepherder who knew where their grandmother's grave was located.  A stone monument now stands near Pacific Springs, Wyoming, where Charlotte Rudland Dansie was buried with her infant son in her arms. 

 

Many died during their journey to the West.  Not all have monuments, and even the names of those who are known are too numerous to mention.  But to one man in a wagon on a cold night in 1862, any monument to the memory of this woman is dwarfed by the strength she demonstrated for all.

The grave of Charlotte Dansie and her baby son Joseph, Pacific Springs, WY in 2018.

[Photograph by Scott Beck]