Widow Walk

by Gar LaSalle

  Jacob watched for signs of the ship but did not see it again.

  Two days later, the long boats reached a rendezvous point where Jacob saw nine other long boats beached along the shore. As they came closer, the men in the boat began to chant loudly, and the camp on the beach came alive.

  He heard them shout, “Tyee!”

  The old woman nudged Jacob, looking to the front of the long canoe, and he saw the warrior in the lead boat mount the trophy on the pole again. Jacob, groggy from the cold, the drugs, and hunger, thought it looked like his father’s head.

  Breathing fast, a dull, nauseating pain deep in his gut, Jacob looked down the pole from the waxen head and saw the man who held it up, staring at him intently.

  Anah.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Sarah

  She looked in the mirror and, for the first time, saw a face that was older. In the past, she hadn’t spent much time grooming or preening, so a mirror was simply a place to look for tidiness. But over the past four weeks, with the burial of her stepfather, Isaac, and helping her aunt and Missy care for her mother, it seemed that her self-awareness had diminished so much that when she saw her face again for a moment, it was really a stranger looking back at her.

  Something else was different, too: she had two white hairs, one on each side of her head! How could that be? She was only eleven.

  She fingered them along their entire length, feeling if they were different in other ways.

  She pulled them out.

  Sarah was relieved when her mother regained her strength and was able to move about. Emmy had recovered quickly. As much as her Aunt Cora and Missy Crockett fretted, Sarah knew her mother would recover because she had never let anyone or anything best her. Sarah could never imagine her mother dying. Emmy had too much living to do.

  In many ways, Sarah had always sensed that her stepfather was vulnerable and would die long before Emmy. When he had been away in eastern Washington, Sarah had prepared herself for hearing that he had died in some massacre or by drowning or from snakebite.

  He always put himself out a little too far and didn’t look out for himself as much as she thought someone should. Long before he died, she had imagined herself at the graveside with the mourners, all saying sad praises for his departed soul. And she would cry and have to wait to see him again in heaven.

  She had practiced crying for that event, and it felt sad the first time and less so the second time she did it.

  She knew about death, of course. She had seen animals slaughtered, remembered when that farmhand was trampled, and had seen Jimmy Falcon’s washed-out body pulled from the sound when he and his brother had capsized their boat two years ago while fishing too early in the season.

  She understood the grief that relatives showed, and that was why she had practiced doing the same for the time when her father would die—so she could do it right and with some dignity. And when it happened, when Cora told her that Isaac was dead and Jacob had been stolen and her mother might die too, she had taken it in and knew the practice had been useful.

  She hadn’t expected Jacob to be hurt, and she knew her mother would survive, but she had practiced weeping for Isaac, so she got through it and all the people told her that she was a brave girl.

  But she was just doing what she had practiced.

  How would she find Jacob? Would they hurt him or slave him or turn him into a savage or feed him to wolves? What would he be like if she got him back? Would he be different?

  Would he have grown white hairs, too?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Emmy and Pickett

  Three days after she heard about the sighting of the long boats near Vancouver Island’s Campbell River, Emmy received an army change-order requisition in beef shipments. Beef was to be shipped to San Juan Island rather than to Bellingham.

  From the transport agent, she learned that Captain George Pickett was under orders to move most of his command to San Juan to establish a fortification in anticipation of a dispute with the British over control of the region. She also learned that Pickett would stop for a fortnight in Port Townsend to complete filling his supplies and await reinforcements from Oregon.

  She decided she had to act quickly before a distracting engagement between the Americans and the British ensued and she could not get assistance in retrieving Jacob. Accompanied by Sarah and Isaac’s brother, Winfield, Emmy booked a short passage to Port Townsend and requested a meeting with Pickett and the commanding officer of the fort.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Winter was early, and when Emmy and her party arrived, snow had already covered the pine and cedar forest around the fort.

  Pickett was surprised by Emmy’s visit and made himself immediately available, meeting Emmy and Winfield in the temporary office he had been given for his stay. He had only heard about the attack on Whidbey the week before and had struggled with a letter to Emmy, uncertain over the proper response.

  He had written three versions, each proper but incomplete and empty of the feelings that confused him all the more in the face of this tragedy.

  When Emmy arrived, he was still debating whether to send the last version, which offered to visit her at some point in the future to express his condolences in person. Would she accept that offer?

  Pickett looked at Winfield, a bantam redhead with a tense, angry posture, and immediately dismissed him as a weak, unworthy, and annoying distraction. But when he saw Emmy, he noticed that her mourning black reinforced the power of her eyes, and he felt immediately overwhelmed by her again.

  He tried to remember the terms of the arrangement he had made with her and recalled that it had been a hopeless negotiation for him from the start. He didn’t remember a whit of it, so taken with her as he had been, and when he had inspected the Evers cattle with her, he had bumbled his way through the transaction, peeking at her in a way that made him feel like a schoolchild.

  So, here she was again. And her earnest expression made him turn away, to hide the blushing he felt.

  When he regained his composure, he looked up and saw Winfield glaring impatiently at him.

  “Captain Pickett, thank you for receiving us,” Winfield began. “I have been told you know about what has happened to our family. We need your help. I want you to dispatch a contingent of soldiers, perhaps an expedition, to hunt down the brutal savages who kidnapped my nephew and killed my brother in the prime of his life, a man who contributed greatly to the safety and prosperity of so many in this region.”

  Pickett listened but did not respond. Despite his habit of maintaining his imperturbability during heated discussions, he feared that his expression likely conveyed annoyance at Winfield’s irksome insistence. As he listened, he watched Emmy, hoping she wouldn’t notice his momentary loss of disciplined behavior. What would she need? What could he possibly do to help her?

  Winfield, reading Pickett’s resistant expression, went on, tears welling up in his eyes, “Surely the military has some leeway in matters like this. This was not a common infraction or a random act of violence. This was a vicious attack—and this was my brother. He was a heroic man, and society is in debt to him and his memory. This was cold-blooded murder. It was an insult to the order that you are here to preserve, Captain. They decapitated him! We had to bury him in that condition. We have heard they have been parading his head all up the coast for the past two weeks. And who knows what has become of my nephew. We have modest means and do not have the wherewithal to establish rescue and retribution. But you do.”

  Pickett calmly measured his response, “Mr. Evers, I am, of course, very sad about the tragic events that have befallen your family. I share your concern about the safety of our citizens. Unfortunately, I am under orders to quickly establish fortifications on San Juan and will be unable to provid
e any of our resources. Perhaps in the spring we can discuss this again.”

  Winfield persisted. “You do not understand, Captain. This act, if it is allowed to go unpunished, will be seen as weakness on our part to citizens and heathens alike. That will, in turn, certainly provoke additional violence. The military has a chance to do something heroic and greatly symbolic. Acting now will convey a stern message to all the aborigines and reassure all loyal whites.”

  Pickett simply shook his head and smiled. “You have my answer, Mr. Evers.”

  Winfield could not contain himself. He stood up, his fists balled before him. “Captain, were I but a single man without family obligations, I would venture forth myself and take on these heathens. I would bring them to justice. This is a sad disappointment, and I shall bring this matter directly to Governor Stevens for help, to overturn your decision here.”

  He turned, pushed open the door, and walked out, slamming the door behind him and storming past Sarah who stood outside in the hallway, leaving Emmy and Pickett in the room.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Emmy looked at Pickett, who seemed to be chagrinned, perhaps embarrassed for her as well as for himself. She maintained her composure, however.

  “Captain, Winfield is highly educated and likes to show that off, but he also has always been a tempestuous man who seldom thinks before he speaks, although that was better than most of the exchanges I have witnessed over the years.”

  She forced a small smile, cracking past a stern sadness. She paused, then continued, “This is no small request, I understand. My son is missing, and we believe we still may have the opportunity for rescue. We have been informed that this event was likely the work of a well-known renegade band of Haida. They winter up north, on the mainland across the strait from the Queen Charlotte Islands. I am told there are neutral trading camps up there too, with the Bella Bella and Tsimshian. We could send emissaries offering a bounty. I have a small amount of gold I have gathered that would likely be more than enough to establish a fair trade for my son. If it were possible to retrieve the rest of Isaac’s remains, his head, I would bring that back, too, so it could be put to rest . . . where it belongs. But Jacob—he is only six.”

  She saw that Pickett listened to her carefully measured but passionate request. He sighed deeply, and a sadness seemed to come over him that told Emmy the answer. He stood and moved over to Emmy before he spoke.

  “Mrs. Evers—Emmy—I am so very sorry. There is no way that I can help you at this moment. We are told by reliable sources that the British plan to send several companies of marines to fortify their claim on San Juan Island over an incident that recently occurred. I have to get there first and hold that ground. I have no choice in this matter. I cannot spare a single man.”

  Emmy studied him for several moments and then stood. He was telling her the truth.

  “Thank you, Captain. I am disappointed, but I understand.” After a pause, she said, “I shall book a passage and will go to Fort Simpson and to the Tsimpsian winter camps myself then. Without the help of this government. As you know, I am capable, and I negotiate quite well.”

  Emmy turned, but as she started to leave, she saw Pickett’s stunned expression at the directness of her pronouncement.

  “I am not afraid,” she said.

  She found Sarah sitting outside the door, took her hand, and made her way to their quarters.

  As she did so, Emmy shuddered, and an intense anger swept over her. She knew the captain was duty bound and had accepted that before she had even asked for his improbable assistance; still, she had had to make an attempt lest the dutiful but insane course she planned be criticized. She had rehearsed the request as well as the response upon being denied assistance.

  She would not play upon Pickett’s emotions as she knew some might. She had wanted to say to him, “Jacob is my little boy,” but she prevented herself from making that final wrenching appeal. She knew she would keep that phrase to herself and she would be repeating it over and over again privately as she had for the past several weeks. It would guide her and drive her.

  And now she had many things to do.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  That evening Pickett couldn’t sleep. He thought about Emmy making her way far northeast into the aborigine winter encampments and the grim likelihood of her finding nothing but suffering and disappointment at best and, at worst, savage and brutal treatment and a painful death. He had failed to extend anything that might bring her some hope or intervene to dissuade her from this madness.

  He thought of himself making the same effort. Wondered if he would ever have the temerity to overcome the inertia of doing so, letting go of the security that even the rudimentary civilization of this region provided.

  Could he, would he, ever take on such an arduous task for anyone he loved? Of course he could, he thought. But in his entire life, he could not think of one instance in which he had done so—put himself in harm’s way for someone he had loved. He had risked his life for glory, certainly, and for orders, but he had no recollection of tempestuous acts for the love of woman or child.

  Did that make him bad, practical, or just selfish?

  He wondered what it was about love that could compel someone to such actions. He had conceived a child, a boy, with Morning Mist. He was fond of the child but felt no pride or devotion to him. He wondered if that feeling would have been different had the boy not been a half-breed.

  He thought about whether he had ever understood or accepted the weakness of his feelings, instead of containing them as dangerous out-of-control calamities waiting to uncoil themselves, snakes in a box with its latch broken. He had seen men withered and besot in a drunken, shrunken state in the aftermath of what they called love.

  He had detested it when he let himself go like that, had fought and always defeated that weakness, and thus wondered whether he had ever really been truly in love in the way that seemed to drive so many. He had been in sadness, certainly.

  He recalled that he had been head over heels enraptured by Morning Mist and had wept when she had died. But was that what they called love? Or was it rather an infatuation followed by the profound loneliness that comes with deprivation and self-pity?

  Had he ever been so compelled by his feelings for her, or for his first wife, that he allowed himself to defy logic or counter reasonable orders? If being enraptured was the same as being in love, he did not know how far he could trust those wondrous, terrifying feelings—of letting go.

  He felt so much comfort in the presence of order, determined by a rational set of calculations, grounded in a mathematical precision that pushed aside emotion. He thought love was the antithesis of order and the settling peace that accompanied it.

  But Emmy’s determination drew him to think of her, and he could not put that out of his mind as he slept restlessly.

  What did she need? Did he, by oath of his station and office, have a responsibility to her as a citizen, one that superseded his responsibility to follow his orders?

  Did he, drawn as he was to her by his admiration for her qualities and equanimity, need to preserve her for his own peace of mind or, for that matter, some future opportunity?

  Did he, from his notions of chivalrous behavior, have a sacred duty to protect her as a vulnerable woman? Could he extend his best efforts so that she might not suffer in her insane quest? How could she, the very epitome of order and control, framed in a wondrous sturdy and symmetrical visage, risk herself so?

  By morning he still had not answered his many questions and self-doubts, but he took it upon himself to seek out Emmy with what he had concluded.

  When he found her in the trading post that afternoon having a calm yet intense discussion with the provision merchant, he was again struck by her dignified demeanor and beauty.

  He waited for her to finish her bargaining and then stepped forward, doffing his hat and e
xtending a flourished but gentle bow. “Madame Evers. May I speak with you a moment?”

  Emmy turned to him and, with a glance, dismissed the storekeeper.

  She nodded to Pickett and stepped to the corner near the dry goods section, then turned back to face him, waiting.

  “I know you will not be dissuaded, Emmy. I respect that. One part of me wants to defy my own orders and go there with you myself. But I cannot do such a thing. You know that. Another part of me wishes to extend a protecting wing over you. But I believe I know you would not accept that from me, or anyone. I have little to give to you other than a recommendation for a guide and this.”

  He handed her an ornately carved and inlaid box. “Please take it with you. It has proven to be reliable.”

  Emmy opened the box. Inside was Pickett’s pepperbox pistol, a Belgian-made six-barrel Mariette, and a note with an aborigine’s name on the envelope. She looked at Pickett and nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Best of luck to you also.”

  Pickett watched her leave and carried to bed with him that night the image of her fierce resolve pushing her forward into dark winds. He did not believe in prayer, but he would pray for her, nonetheless.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Emmy

  In the port, Emmy booked a passage the next day on the Pietrevos, a Russian trading ship bound for Japan but scheduled to stop in Fort Simpson to drop off supplies and pick up whatever furs were still being harvested in the region.

  The large, clumsy vessel had ample room for extra passengers. Its captain, Vladimir Varienko, a swarthy, tub-bellied lout with a greedy, incisor-dominant, salivating smile that immediately made her feel unsafe and uncomfortable, was more than willing to accommodate her.

  She had purchased supplies and chests of trading goods to buy her way into the Tsimshian tribe’s winter camp, which served as a neutral trading place used by all the neighboring tribes to exchange supplies. She also carried with her a small box of gold coins minted in Philadelphia, a small diamond, and several semiprecious stones that would be part of the final exchange with the Northerners, should she be given the opportunity.