Boston Jane

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Mr. Swan shrugged. “No one lives here. They think the place is haunted.”

  “Haunted?” I asked, and shivered despite myself. I thought of Mary. Really, a haunted Chinook lodge was the very last thing I needed.

  “The Chinooks believe that their dead ones haunt the house where they died, and apparently a number of Indians died here. That one’s ours,” he said, pointing to a lodge with a chimney. “I built the chimney myself.”

  The lodge smelled stale and unused, but it was large, twice as large as Mr. Russell’s cabin. Mr. Swan had divided the lodge into two areas and fitted up the sleeping portion with bunks. There were no ghosts in residence as far as I could tell. A thought occurred to me. Perhaps William and I could live here until we had a house of our own!

  I recalled Miss Hepplewhite’s words:

  A well-ordered home is a miniature of heaven.

  It was going to take a lot of work to make this lodge a miniature of heaven, I thought with some dismay.

  But I did my best. I swept and aired out the lodge. I knocked down cobwebs and scrubbed the bunks with hot water to kill any vermin living in them. Mr. Swan transported my trunk to the lodge, and I spread a tablecloth on a table and arranged flowers in the crystal vase, which had miraculously survived the journey. I fitted two bunks with sheets and blankets, fashioned pillows out of linen and rags, and placed embroidered cushions on the hard chairs. Because the floors were hard-packed dirt, every footstep sent dust flying.

  I recalled how clean and tidy the inside of Chief Toke’s lodge was and the woven mats on the floors. Those mats would certainly keep the dust down. However, I was not looking forward to trading with Suis. Her success with my corset had not improved her demeanor at all. Whenever I went down to the stream to fetch water, I would invariably encounter her and other women. She’d say something I couldn’t understand and everyone would laugh. It felt just like being back on Arch Street with Sally Biddle and Cora Fletcher. Not to mention, she was continually bringing me various useless handmade objects, expecting me to trade them for my last few precious belongings. When I would ignore her the way I used to ignore Sally Biddle, she would go storming off in a rage.

  After a particularly windy day when every opening of the door stirred a cloud of dust, I relented and set off for Suis’s lodge.

  “Boston Jane,” Suis said appraisingly.

  “I need mats for the ground,” I told her.

  She had Dolly haul out a large pile of woven mats.

  “What you have for trade?” Suis asked.

  I had brought along a linen sheet as well as several pretty buttons. They were the only buttons I had managed to salvage from Burton the cow’s rampage.

  She took the buttons and sheet and eyed me suspiciously. Finally, she pointed to my head, tapping the bonnet.

  “You want my bonnet, too?”

  Suis nodded. The woman was out to get her hands on everything I owned.

  “All right,” I said, untying it and handing it to her. My hair tumbled down around my shoulders.

  A group of nearby men paused in the game they were playing and stopped to stare at my hair. Suddenly Suis looked furious. She grabbed my hands, and began to pull off the gloves, finger by finger. They weren’t in very good condition, but still, they were the only pair of gloves I had left.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “You can’t have my gloves!”

  “Gloves or no mats!” she hissed, her eyes flashing—just like Sally Biddle’s.

  I threw off my gloves, grabbed up the mats, and marched away, her triumphant laughter echoing behind me.

  While I cleaned, Mr. Swan spent his days showing off the beautiful chimney. Indians from miles around came to admire it.

  “Many memelose tillicums,” Handsome Jim said, looking around the lodge, a worried expression on his face.

  “Boston tillicums are not worried by memelose tillicums,” Mr. Swan said.

  Handsome Jim raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Why not make fire pit in center of lodge?” he asked.

  “Too smoky,” Mr. Swan explained. “See, the chimney takes the smoke out of the lodge. This is how Boston tillicums make warm lodges.”

  Handsome Jim looked concerned. “But you need smoke for salmon.”

  Mr. Swan smiled expansively. “Ah, well, meat is kept outside in a smokehouse, built especially for that purpose. This also cuts down on the insects.”

  The Indians didn’t look convinced and shook their heads, nosing around the chimney.

  After one of these many visits, Mr. Swan came in for supper. I had prepared biscuits and gravy from one of Mary’s receipts.

  It had been a long, exhausting week. I had laid down the new mats, sewn simple curtains out of an old petticoat, and painted some pictures for the walls. It had taken me the better part of the afternoon to figure out how to rig up the curtains. It was a far cry from Walnut Street, but I was pleased with the results. No doubt Mr. Swan would compliment me on my skill and taste.

  “That smells wonderful,” Mr. Swan declared, pulling up a chair.

  I smiled hopefully.

  Instead of noticing my improvements, he started eating and chattering.

  “Toke showed me the most interesting plant today,” Mr. Swan said, taking out his notebook to show me his sketch.

  I stared at him with dismay.

  “It is apparently peculiar to the region, and Toke says it is very therapeutic for stomach complaints. Now, it looks rather similar to—”

  “Mr. Swan!” I interrupted.

  He seemed startled.

  “Don’t you like what I did?”

  He blinked at me owlishly. He looked down at his plate.

  “Oh yes, this is very tasty, my dear.”

  “Not the food!” I said in a frustrated voice. “The curtains!”

  “The curtains?”

  “Yes—the curtains!” I opened my arms wide. “And the bunks! And the flowers! And the pictures! And everything! It took me all week! Not to mention I traded away my last pair of gloves in order to keep the blasted dust down!”

  He peered around the lodge as if for the first time. “Of course, of course. Capital job, dear girl.”

  I felt tears prick at my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said gently. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at these sorts of things.”

  I shook my head wordlessly. I had tried so hard. William was always so good at noticing. And then a horrible thought occurred to me. What if William had changed since coming out here? What if he had become like all the other men on the frontier?

  Mr. Swan sighed, and we ate our supper in silence.

  Despite Handsome Jim’s dire warnings of memelose tillicums, I saw no ghosts. Nor did I see Mary. Perhaps I had left her back at Mr. Russell’s lodge. But while we did not have ghosts, we quickly discovered that we had something just as worrisome.

  A leaky roof.

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Swan said, peering up. “That does look bad.”

  It had been raining for the past several days, and I had spread the few pots and pans we had under the leaks, but the roof was clearly caving in. A sliver of gray sky was visible through the planks.

  Mr. Swan scratched his head and said in a hesitant voice, “I suppose I ought to do something about it before it really starts raining.”

  The two of us went outside into the misty rain, and Mr. Swan attempted to climb up to the roof. He managed to get one leg up, and the other swung wildly near my head.

  “Perhaps if you …,” he called down awkwardly.

  I pushed his other leg up and stood anxiously watching. After a few moments I heard bangs and an occasional curse. Mr. Swan did not strike me as a particularly handy man. Mr. Russell had taken care of minor repairs around the cabin.

  “Drat!”

  “Mr. Swan?” I called up. “Is everything all right?”

  He poked his head over the side, his spectacles wobbling on the end of his nose. “Capital, dear girl.”


  A moment later there was a tremendous crash. I rushed into the lodge.

  Mr. Swan was lying in a pile of planks on the floor, bleeding from a gash on his forearm, and there was now an enormous hole in the roof.

  He groaned miserably.

  “Why don’t we ask Handsome Jim for help? It is a Chinook lodge, after all,” I suggested gently as I went to retrieve some bandages from his gear.

  “What a sensible idea, my dear,” he said, sounding relieved.

  Handsome Jim appeared bright and early the next morning.

  “Boston Jane come help,” he said, clutching new planks and pointing to the roof.

  “I can’t go up there,” I said in dismay. Young ladies didn’t go gallivanting on roofs, and furthermore, I had a terrific fear of heights. “Mr. Swan should still be able to assist you.”

  Handsome Jim rolled his eyes. “Swan too fat. He break roof.”

  I looked up warily at Handsome Jim. It was drizzling now, but I could tell from the dark horizon that a storm was in the offing. How dearly I wanted to be dry.

  “Boston Jane, you not fall,” he promised.

  I thought it very likely that I would go tumbling, just as Mr. Swan had. All the same I scrambled up to the roof. I kept my eyes fixed firmly ahead and didn’t look down, for if I had I’m certain I would have fainted.

  “You don’t faint at the sight of blood, Janey, so don’t be fainting now,” I heard Papa say.

  Handsome Jim took the broken planks down and brought new planks up. I sat on the edge of the roof and slid them carefully into place as he instructed.

  We bantered to pass the time. Miss Hepplewhite always said that young men and ladies should not be familiar with each other, but it seemed to me that out in the wilderness with no other ladies, the rules could be bent a little.

  “Why you want Boston William for husband?” he asked.

  “Well, he’s very handsome,” I began.

  “Many men more handsome,” he said with a broad smile, leaving little doubt as to whom he meant.

  I could see his point. Mending the roof was hot work, and while I was damp and uncomfortable, Handsome Jim had stripped off his shirt to let the light rain cool him off. I must confess, his chest was a thing of glory.

  Handsome Jim caught me looking at him and grinned teasingly. “More rich, too.”

  I shook my head at him, and we both laughed.

  “Do you have a betrothed?” I asked, curious myself. There always seemed to be a girl trailing after him with moony eyes.

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Someone you want for a wife,” I clarified.

  He grinned. “Many women want to be wife for me. But I not want to be husband.”

  “But you’d make such a good husband. And a modest one, too,” I teased.

  “What means modest?”

  “Someone who is quiet about his beauty.”

  He raised his eyebrows in understanding. “Like Boston Jane.”

  “Ladies are supposed to be modest.”

  “Suis, she is not modest.”

  I thought of Suis’s strange behavior toward me. “Handsome Jim, why doesn’t Suis like me?” I asked.

  “Sick tumtum,” he said.

  I laughed. “What? A bellyache?”

  He shook his head and tried to explain. “Suis, she is most beautiful before. All men watch Suis. Now all men watch you.”

  “She’s jealous?” I whispered finally, astonished. I didn’t know which was more shocking—that the men thought I was beautiful or that Suis was jealous of me.

  He shrugged and said simply, “Sick tumtum.”

  We worked steadily all afternoon, and by the end of the day the roof was mended.

  Handsome Jim and I sat on the edge of the newly patched roof, feet swinging, admiring our work.

  “Capital job, dear girl!” Mr. Swan called up.

  I beamed. Who would have thought that I, Jane Peck, would have been able to help mend a Chinook roof? I felt that I could do anything!

  By the time we had supper, it was so very late that Handsome Jim decided to spend the night. He refused to stay in the lodge on account of the memelose tillicums and bedded down outside under the stars.

  The air had been oppressive all day with the threat of a coming storm, and we were tucked into our beds when the first fat drops began to fall. In short order the rain was pounding the roof like a drumbeat.

  “It was indeed fortuitous that our Chinook friend mended the roof today,” Mr. Swan said above the din of the rain.

  “Yes, it was,” I said, wondering how our Chinook friend was faring in the pouring rain.

  Brandywine whined low as if he, too, was concerned. I had not wanted the flea-bitten beast in our new home, but Mr. Swan was very fond of him.

  Moments later Handsome Jim appeared, soaking wet. He glared around the inside of the lodge, seeing danger everywhere.

  “Memelose,” he muttered, but settled down next to Brandywine by Mr. Swan’s grand fireplace.

  The wind blew fiercely, and I was reminded of the terrible storm at sea, and of Mary. The world howled and roared all around the lodge. I wondered if William was out in this storm. Or Jehu for that matter.

  All grew quiet and still. The firelight glittered, casting eerie shadows.

  “I do believe the worst is over,” Mr. Swan said in a hopeful sort of voice, peering around the room, his spectacles glinting oddly in the firelight.

  And then all at once, a screeching howl rose and a gust of wind shook the lodge. It blew through the chimney with such force that sparks leaped into the room, and hot burning coals scattered everywhere.

  “Handsome Jim! Brandywine!” Mr. Swan hollered in warning.

  Both man and beast leaped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being burnt by the flying coals. The dry rush mats lining the floor burst into flames.

  It was complete chaos. Handsome Jim and I were trying to stamp out the fires, and Brandywine was running in circles and howling and everything was confusion and then Mr. Swan hollered:

  “Everyone be still!”

  He shouted out orders: “Handsome Jim, put out those flames. Jane, mind the papers and maps! Brandywine, get out of the way!”

  Handsome Jim looked at the chimney and said, “Chimney is no good.”

  “It is a fine chimney!” Mr. Swan insisted.

  The wind was shaking the lodge, and all around trees crashed and fell with thunderous cracks.

  “Chimney is no good!” Handsome Jim stomped his foot.

  Mr. Swan glared at Handsome Jim. “The chimney is perfectly fine!”

  At that moment the lodge shuddered and shook, as if some great giant was squeezing it like a plaything. Time seemed to stand still as Mr. Swan’s beautiful chimney fell away from the lodge, pulling with it the newly mended roof and one of the walls in a tremendous clatter of stones and dust.

  “Watch out!” I cried, pushing Mr. Swan out of the way.

  “Memelose!” Handsome Jim screamed.

  We stood in the middle of the wrecked lodge, the rain pelting our faces. The river roared in the distance.

  Mr. Swan stood stunned for a moment, and then a look of pure panic crossed his face.

  “The canoe!” he shouted, and tore out of what was left of the lodge. I raced after him into the storm, Handsome Jim right behind me.

  We ran through the blinding rain down to the river where his beautiful gleaming canoe had been tied up. It was gone! It had been swept to the middle of the raging river and was caught on a snag. The powerful waters surged around the canoe, and it was plain to see that it would be swept away at any moment.

  “My canoe,” Mr. Swan moaned, distraught, crumpling to the ground, his face white.

  If I could mend a roof, I could certainly rescue a canoe.

  I ran past him and leaped into the raging river.

  “Jane!” he cried. “No!”

  But it was too late. I was in the middle of the river, the water up to my chest, the current rushing aroun
d me. It was frighteningly cold and my nightdress was heavy and sodden, the wet wool threatening to drag me beneath the surface. I looked around, squinting through the chilling rain, and saw the canoe at once. It wasn’t far out, just a few feet really, and I waded out, struggling to move my legs through the mud and muck on the bottom. I grabbed at the slippery rope and pulled the canoe free from the snag.

  “Boston Jane!” Handsome Jim called in alarm, stepping into the water.

  “I do believe I have it!” I yelled over the rain.

  Mr. Swan raised his fist jubilantly. “Capital, dear girl!”

  Then the river swelled, sweeping the canoe downstream into the black night.

  And me with it.

  Papa always said you make your own luck, but this had nothing to do with luck. It had to do with foolishness.

  Mine.

  What had I been thinking to dive into this icy cold river? What madness had made me think that I could rescue a canoe? What would Papa say? What would William say? I didn’t even want to think what Miss Hepplewhite would say.

  I clung to the rope for dear life as the world washed by in a dark, wet blur, the river tugging at me greedily. I could no longer hear the sound of Brandywine’s barking or Mr. Swan or Handsome Jim’s concerned shouts; there was only the hum of water rushing in my ears and the crash of the canoe banging against stray rocks.

  The river became rougher as the heavy canoe swept me down with terrible force and I clung desperately to the rope, the image of Mr. Swan’s stricken face wavering before my eyes. I couldn’t give up.

  But with every tree I passed the current grew wilder, the rocks became sharper. And I was suddenly struck with a thought: I had never learned to swim. And where exactly did this river end? The ocean? A waterfall? Furthermore, I was a proper young lady. I knew how to pour tea and embroider handkerchiefs and paint watercolors, but I had no idea how to get this canoe back upriver, even if I did manage to survive. What if I died before William returned? These were things, I could see now, that I should have considered before jumping into the river.

  I looked at the passing landscape and saw something—no, someone—standing on the bank of the river. I squinted through the pelting rain.

  The figure seemed to turn to me, as if in recognition.

  “Help me!” I shouted hoarsely.