Now, all the bad feeling against the Germans, that had caused our party to leave Cincinnati in the first place, came bubbling back to the surface. I heard all kinds of whispers to the effect that the Germans had killed one of their own for his money, for Mr. Wolfinger was thought to have been carrying a great deal of gold concealed somewhere in his wagon.
It must have been clear to all that we had no part in this. We were in camp with the rest when Mr. Spitzer and Mr. Reinhardt came in with the news. But it didn’t stop folks from saying that Mr. Keseberg had killed one person already who was a nuisance to him, Mr. Hardkoop; and got rid of Mr. Reed, another; that he was known to be a violent man, and that Mr. Spitzer and Mr. Reinhardt might have committed the murder, but Mr. Keseberg had planned it.
In this way Mr. Keseberg’s character was blackened still further, for no reason other than his choice of friends, and his manner of speech. And I had no doubt that Mr. Eddy had held a long spoon in his hand to stir up this particular pot of gossip.
A few days after Mr. Wolfinger’s death, yet another raiding party of Indians came down the hills behind us. The Eddys were to the back of the train, and it was they who suffered the most.
They came into camp that evening and settled down at our fire, and this was when we heard the tale of their suffering. Mr. Eddy told us how his beeves were slaughtered, and he and his wife had to abandon their wagon and run for their lives, barefoot, carrying Margaret and little James, and with nothing to sustain them but a bit of lump sugar that Mr. Eddy had in his pocket.
He told this tale with tears standing in his eyes, and a choke in his voice at the telling. It was a terrible story, to be sure, and our hearts went out to him; but on reflection it proved, like everything else he said, to be as full of holes as a bad-knitted sock.
The Indians’ crime was to kill his beeves, not steal his boots. Even at the telling of the story he had his boots on his feet. Two of the Breen boys were walking along of him, and they had managed to load themselves up with provisions, sacks and barrels and boxes of goods. Of course, Mr. Eddy had done the same, for I saw him with my own eyes with his goods strung about his neck.
He said they’d walked for the rest of the day carrying the children, crying from thirst. They’d caught up with the Breens, and Mr. Eddy had applied to them for water, for his children if not for himself. Mr. Breen had refused him, or so Mr. Eddy said, saying that he had scarce enough water for his own family; and Mr. Eddy had replied that he had helped them fetch water the very day before, so he knew that this was a lie, and had threatened to shoot Mr. Breen if he did not hand the water over.
On the next telling of the tale I heard that he had also applied to Mrs. Graves and Mrs. Breen both, for a handful of food, and again been refused.
I would believe it of Mrs. Graves.
From the moment she had joined us, why, a harder and more selfish woman I never did see. In our mad rush to leave Pilot Peak, folks had thrown out or lost items that they then discovered they needed. Not a day went past but there was a hunt for someone to lend out a shovel or for the use of a good sharp knife. But Mrs. Graves turned a deaf ear to such requests, with a stony countenance and the words, “Never a borrower nor a lender be,” and that was the end of it.
So yes, I could believe it of the Graveses. Family first and second, and that was the end of it. But I could not believe it of Mr. and Mrs. Breen. Mrs. Breen was known to be the very soul of kindness. And Mr. Breen would no more refuse water to a thirsty child than sprout wings and swoop about in the air above our heads.
* * *
It was several days later when I heard the end to this story. It was told me by, of all people, Virginia Reed.
With the loss of her wagons, all her possessions, and finally her husband, Mrs. Reed had come down from her high place with an almighty crash. She had no choice but to depend on other folks’ charity. I guess it had been a hard lesson, and she had gentled somewhat as a result; and Virginia the same. Perhaps she was lonely.
The Graves girls were not much company, for they spent as much time squabbling as they did gossiping. More than once I had seen Virginia cast a longing look in the direction of my little band of friends, swelled now by the addition of Landrum and Lemuel Murphy and the two older Breen boys. Whatever the reason, Virginia had made some efforts to be nicer toward me: a smile here and there at least. I did not think we ever would be close friends, for the hurt of her actions still twitched within me if I let it, but I bore no grudge toward her.
One afternoon, a little while after Mr. Eddy had sat by our fireside and told us his dreadful tale, Virginia and I found ourselves walking close together, she with her little sister and me with Ada. The two little girls had their heads together over their dolls and Virginia came beside me, and told me the end of Mr. Eddy’s tale.
He gave out to Mrs. Reed that he had gone hunting and killed so many geese that he could hardly walk for the weight of them. Mr. Eddy said that he had given some to the Breens and some to the Graveses and some to us, though I never saw beak nor feather.
Virginia was right aggravated by this tale and needed someone to hear her thoughts. She said just what I thought myself. Why tell this smiling tale of such generosity to a woman who had nothing of her own, and hungry children to feed? And it would take more Christian forgiveness than I could imagine, to give food to those who had refused it to a hungry child. If any part of his story was true, it made Mr. Breen look a villain and Mr. Eddy a saint. I did not believe a word of it.
Mr. Eddy and his stories! Oh, he was a gifted teller of tall tales all right, and later still he told a story of killing a bear that made me laugh aloud at the telling.
Even now when I think of it, I have to laugh again. I clap my hand over my mouth with the shame of it. I do not want to think kind thoughts of Mr. Eddy. For I do have charitable moments, when, despite myself, I think that perhaps he was not evil. Perhaps he was nothing worse than a fool, and should be pitied and not condemned for it. He came to suffer along with the rest of us, as time wore on and we became more and more wretched and frightened, with death our constant companion. He loved his family right well, and his wife and children loved him back. And it was true that his tales made folks laugh a little here and there, when we were all glad to think of things other than death, and the ever-present cry, “Oh! when will rescue come?”
22
The mild, rainy days of March give way to an unseasonably warm April, so that by the middle of the month most of the farmers have completed their planting, and the children can be let go to return to school. The weather continues so good that by the beginning of June my early tomatoes have ripened and are already close to falling off the vine and I can see bushels of green ones coming up behind them.
Martha and I cook them every which way we know, until the children groan at the sight of them on their plates, and even Jacob begs me to desist.
We have another new arrival in town, an Indian gentleman called Mr. Sahid. Not an Indian such as we know, but arrived from the country of India, far away across the ocean. Next thing we know we have a new store open up, much to the clear disapproval of Mr. Peabody.
A little after Mr. Sahid sets up, I go in to visit, taking Meggie with me. Mr. Sahid has a whole area of books to one side, and some chairs, and he encourages folks to sit and read right there in the store, which is a novelty to all. His aim is to set up a lending library. For the payment of a dime, I can take home a book, and when I bring it back in good condition I’ll get a half dime returned to me. He has novels published in England, and some of our own American authors as well, and books for cookery, educational books, and books about explorers who have traveled to far distant lands.
I came late to reading, but now it is one of my greatest pleasures. I am like a greedy child, pulling one book after another from the shelves and reading pages at random, until I settle on a book called Jane Eyre, written by a Mr. Bell, and another which is a memoir by a lady who has traveled in the country of Africa, as a mission
ary to teach the Christian faith to the natives there.
This lending library is a most clever idea, for I can see that each time someone comes into the store to return a book, they will be tempted to purchase goods as well.
Mr. Sahid has a whole selection of embroidery silks, the finest I have ever seen, in the most beautiful of colors, and skeins of colored wools for knitting. Draped over the counter are some shawls, soft and rich to the touch, and there are bales of patterned cottons, brighter by far than the earth-colored homespuns that Mr. Peabody stocks in the mercantile. Meggie takes but one look at them and turns to me with a face of such yearning that I cannot refuse her.
Meggie is already turning into a beauty. We seem to have more than the usual number of slouching boys walking out our way in the evenings, and Meggie is often to be found down at the gate, laughing with them.
On those occasions Jacob has taken to sitting out on the porch to smoke his pipe, which seems to make him cough much more, and much more loudly, than previously. Perhaps I should be concerned at the extent of the coughing, but I am not. I take him out a cup of coffee to drink while he admires the view, and ask him in a concerned voice if he needs a linctus for his throat, or should I prepare a liniment for his chest; and he has the good grace to laugh along with me.
Meggie longs to be out of pinafores and spends a deal of time in front of the looking-glass trying ways of pinning up her hair. I cannot agree to the pinned-up hair nor yet the loss of the pinafore, but perhaps a new dress will serve as a compromise for us both, on her promise to make it up herself and ask Mrs. McGillivray for help when she needs it.
After much deliberation, we choose a design of posies of tiny blue and purple flowers on a paler blue ground, just the color to set off her eyes. My own eyes are a shade of green which I guess is pretty enough, and Jacob, like so many of German stock, has fair skin and eyes the pale blue of a winter sky. But Meggie’s eyes are the deep color of heart’s-ease, or the evening summer sky when the first stars begin to shine.
Jacob often remarks that she is the very likeness of his sister at the same age, back home in the Old Country. This cannot be true—as much as anything because Jacob has not seen his sister for these thirty years or more and she was but a baby when he left, so he can have no idea of how she looked at Meggie’s age. But it is a nice thing to say, and Meggie likes to hear his stories of his childhood, his mother and father and his little brothers and sisters so very far away.
I buy a length of fabric for myself, as well. The pattern is a teardrop shape with a little twist, something like a leaf, in white and black and orange, set on a gray ground. Mr. Sahid tells me it is a traditional pattern back in his native land, and is named after a fruit called an ambi. He does not know the name of the fruit in English, and I cannot understand his description, so it remains a mystery.
I think it will make me a fine gown to wear for the town celebrations to mark California Day in September—though my earlier suspicions about my condition are realized, and Mrs. McGillivray will need to cut the pattern something more generous than usual. Once the patterns have been cut, there will be good scraps left over. Of course, most of those I shall keep to use myself, but I attend the ladies’ quilting bee, where we trade scraps and ideas for quilt patterns. It gives me a deal of satisfaction to imagine the envious look in my friends’ eyes when I produce my colorful pieces.
The thing that most attracts my attention, though, is the smell of the store. It has such a fragrance, of something that catches at the back of my nose, musty and spicy, and I ask Mr. Sahid about it. He points to the jars that he is setting out on shelves behind him. These are filled with powders, dark yellows and reddish-browns, and little seeds and roots and dried leaves. They are spices, he says. Not just cinnamon sticks and nutmeg, which I have seen before, and chilies and the other sorts of peppers that the Mexicos use to flavor their foods, but cumin and cardamom, cloves, curry leaf, and a whole host of others.
He takes down one jar after another, and lets me sniff at the different fragrances. Some make my eyes water, and some make me sneeze. I quiz him about how they are used. Are they for medicine, perhaps, or are they for preserving food?
“Preserving, yes, most certainly,” he says, “but mostly they are flavorings, and will make your dull food as exciting as you can ever imagine!”
My mind flies to my tomatoes. I ask him, does he have any suggestions what I might do with them? He takes a spoonful of one thing and a pinch of something else, and hands them to me wrapped up in little twists of paper.
“Fry over some onion in good butter, until very soft,” he tells me, “and then stir in all these spices I have given you, and cook until you have a smooth paste. Add your tomatoes and mush down, and you can add some other vegetables, if you have any, or fruit.”
“Will apples do?”
When Meggie was born, Jacob planted an apple tree for her, and it produces in abundance. I have more than I know what to do with, put by in sacking, and the trees are already showing signs of a substantial crop again this year.
“Yes, apples are good. Then pack into jars, and you have a delicious sauce, what you can call a chutney. It will go with anything, yes, indeed, meat or fish or cheese, and will keep for several months.”
Meggie rushes me home, determined to get on with her dressmaking, and I take no persuading. I wish to get into my kitchen and get out my preserving pan, and set to on those unappreciated tomatoes that are falling off the vine.
What with my chutney-making, and the dressmaking, and Martha getting herself betrothed, with her wedding planned for next spring, my journal is put aside for a while.
Right glad I am of it, too. The further along my journey I travel in my mind, the closer I come to writing of such sadness and misery that I can hardly bear to think of it.
At first I wished I had not started writing my story at all. Then I thought to stop, but even my most determined efforts are denied.
My pen has come to have such power over me that I have no choice but to bow before it. The evenings when Jacob is traveled away on business and the children are in bed, I sit in the parlor with a novel from Mr. Sahid’s lending library to one side of me. I have my work basket, with the little soft knitting I am engaged upon—the new baby will be with us come Christmas—and perhaps some socks that need darning.
But I cannot settle to anything. The minutes tick by, and I take up my book and put it down again, and find I am sitting staring at nothing, with my darning abandoned in my lap.
Eventually—reluctantly—I fetch my journal and set it open on the table in front of me. Then the time flies away, and I write until the first few drowsy notes of birdsong start up to mark the dawn.
My eyes blur with weariness, and my hand cramps. But my mind will not be still. It pours out memory like a never-ending stream of water that cannot be contained.
My respite from my journal-writing does not last long. Toward the end of the month something happens that makes my fingers yearn for the pen once more.
Minnie calls by one afternoon to bring some periodicals that were sent to her some weeks previous by her sister. Minnie’s family is from Philadelphia, and she has three brothers there; but her sister married into a big Southern family, and lives down in Virginia.
Minnie has read these periodicals already and passed them round our little circle of acquaintance. News from back East is rare and precious and we devour every little scrap of it that comes our way. By the time she brings them back to me once more, they have been read so much that I am surprised the print hasn’t faded to nothing, and they are marked with fingerprints and folded-down corners of pages.
She has brought them as a gift for the children. My three girls are following the last fashion for scrapbooking, but Minnie has four giant boys who follow the fashion for punching one another at any opportunity, and rolling around together on the floor like dogs.
There is a copy of Godey’s Lady’s Magazine. I have already read it cover to cover, and copied
down a recipe or two and some ideas for my garden, but over a cup of coffee Minnie and I marvel again at the fashion plates. There are skirts three times as wide as those we wear here, with fantastical trimmings of fringes and frills. These are not held out by layer upon layer of petticoats but are set over a new invention called a crinoline, a great hoop of wire with a stiffened petticoat of tarlatan set over it.
Minnie and I each choose an outfit from the illustration. Mine is a color given as chartreuse, which I have to look up in the dictionary—it is a shade of yellow-green—and is trimmed every which way with flounces and puffs in wine-color. Minnie picks out a gown described as being ashes of roses, which we think sounds a most romantic shade. It has a mass of lilac-colored embroidery over the bodice and little pearl buttons all down the front. We imagine ourselves sashaying down Main Street together, and the envious looks we would get from our neighbors.
There is also a fashion plate of something called a Bloomers Suit. This is a set of ankle-length pantalettes and a short gown over, reaching just to the knees. All in white, it is trimmed with frills at wrist and ankle.
We shriek with laughter at the sight of it, and its description, “A convenient costume for practical wear,” sets us off again.
Those folks in the cities back East haven’t any idea of what practical wear means. Why, we have women here who think nothing of wearing men’s pants to go out after cattle. New arrivals might raise their eyebrows, but they pretty soon come to realize that fancy gowns are all very well if you have a lady’s maid for the three or four hours a day spent mending and pressing and starching; and if you spend exhausting mornings visiting in order to show off your gown, and exhausted afternoons languishing on a daybed with a dime novel in your hand.
When Winter Comes Page 14
