by Rebecca Tope
At first, neither girl recognised her. Gaunt and bowed, she walked with short shuffling steps, a hand held hard against her belly. But her eyes were sharp and she immediately noticed Carola’s shape. The warm weather made it impossible to conceal with layers and shawls as women often sought to do. A growing baby was held to be an immodest thing, even for a wife with every reason to be proud.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ said the visitor.
Fanny was the first to know her. ‘Marybelle!’ she cried. ‘We have been thinking of you constantly. Where—? What—?’ Her questions died on her lips as she assessed Marybelle’s condition. She was plainly very ill and in considerable pain.
‘Could you provide me with a little cold water? Then perhaps I can give you an account of myself.’
Settled in the softest chair with a drink and full attention, the woman slowly described the intervening months since her last visit. ‘I took a riverboat voyage into the Rockies, a little way, thinking to find myself a place to settle down and make a little garden. It gave me time to think. And the more thinking I did, the more I saw myself as scarcely free at all.’
‘But why?’ Fanny demanded.
‘There are few ways out of Oregon,’ was the startling reply. ‘You may take a horse and ride down to California, or maybe let yourself be taken by river some part of the way. Or go by ship along the coast. And there is little else for a woman such as I. There is a great range of mountains between here and the rest of America. We are scarcely America at all, in reality. California is not yet recognised as a state of the union, and Oregon is nowhere close to it. I have spent some time in Oregon City, and find it not to my liking. And so I returned to Chemeketa, as the place where I feel the most comfortable. The land is level, the people are tranquil, and there is everything a body needs in the way of sustenance.’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘And I am well aware that there is little time left to me on this earth. If I can sit quietly in the sunshine and drink the good water, I shall be content.’
Neither girl could find a word to say. Marybelle smiled. ‘And perhaps I can provide some small assistance to you. When is the little one due?’
‘Four months away, at least,’ said Carola. ‘It is big already.’
‘And will get a good deal bigger. God grant that I live to see its little face. I am soft-hearted over babies.’
‘We have been hard pressed to know how to accommodate it,’ said Fanny. ‘That is, how to continue as we are, once there is a little one to manage.’
Marybelle nodded as if there was no need to explain further. ‘We all fear the same dilemmas,’ she said. ‘And we each find a way through.’
‘We might find a good family to adopt it,’ Fanny went on, without looking at Carola. ‘There are sure to be people in town who would welcome a new child.’
Marybelle shook her head. ‘If you elect to go that way, then it must be people from far beyond the confines of this town. You would be constantly on the lookout, trying to watch the child’s progress, and hoping somehow to be acknowledged as its mother. The wound of separation would never heal.’
‘Wound of separation,’ Carola repeated softly. ‘That sounds horrid.’
‘It is a great agony to most women. A few dismiss it quite lightly, but I fancy you are not one of them.’
‘Then I shall keep it by me. If we only had a little more space, there would be less of a difficulty. I shall be forced to return to the work as soon as possible. Without work, we will starve. As it is, Fanny is shouldering the bulk of it.’
‘A man from the goldfields gave me fifty dollars last night,’ said Fanny. ‘That will provide for us for a month or more, with plenty to spare for new rugs and a bigger cistern for the water. And I dare say there are more where he came from, willing to throw his gold around.’
‘There is certainly a deal of new money,’ nodded Marybelle. ‘And a pair of clever girls such as you will be in high demand. I am glad to see you in such excellent health, and fair spirits.’ She looked around the room. ‘Though I might venture to remark that there is dust in your corners.’ She laughed to modify the criticism. ‘A maidservant would not come amiss.’
‘There is nowhere for such a person to sleep,’ Fanny pointed out. ‘Though we have no argument with the idea. Another person would improve the situation considerably.’
‘I would offer myself,’ said Marybelle haltingly. ‘But I fear I should be more of a liability than a help, the way I am.’
‘We would not dream of taking you on,’ Fanny protested. ‘We were thinking of a young girl, perhaps, from a poor family. Although…’ she sighed. ‘We are unsure as to quite what is to come next. Nothing is easy to foresee, the way things are. Gold fever, a baby coming, the new settlers and much more – it all makes our lives uncertain.’
‘Indians, missionaries, politics,’ Marybelle added. ‘Nothing here can be depended upon. We live in a time of change. Yet you are both adventurers by nature, or you would not be out here in the west at all.’
‘I had no choice in the matter. My father decided it for us all,’ said Fanny.
‘But I made the choice for myself,’ Carola said. ‘I, then, am the adventurous one.’ She patted her belly. ‘And here is yet another hazard for me to face. By comparison, the endless mountains and rivers of the Oregon Trail seems a mild venture.’
‘You came by wagon train?’
‘We both did,’ Carola nodded. ‘True pioneers, the pair of us.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Fanny broke in. ‘Is anyone taking care of you?’
‘A boarding house, newly built, to the south. There is a Miss Myers, sister of a missionary who moved on and left her here; she is a remarkably kind woman. She has adopted me as a cause. We say prayers.’ Marybelle rolled her eyes. ‘Constantly.’
Fanny giggled. ‘A fair price to pay, I trust?’
‘Indeed. But not the only price. I have given her a deal of money for her little school for Indians. She is clinging to the notion that the children will carry the Word of God to their elders. A forlorn endeavour, as most realise by this time.’
Again, the girls found nothing to say. A sweet-sour smell was rising from their visitor, as she sat there. The smell of decay, which Carola was finding difficult to ignore. Fanny watched her turn away her head, and pass a finger beneath her nose. Marybelle too was acutely aware of this.
‘I must leave,’ she said, placing a bony hand on the arm of the chair. ‘I am offensive to polite company, I fear. In a different way from before, but none the less apparent. And yet,’ she added wistfully, ‘I find it so pleasant here, it grieves me to leave you.’
Fanny reached out, but did not quite touch. ‘No – stay,’ she said. ‘We have so much to ask you.’ And so little time, added a warning voice in her head.
‘Indeed?’
‘Should we move south, where there is so much gold to be earned? Are we wasting ourselves here where so few return with their purses full? From what we hear, San Francisco will remain a city of men for a considerable time yet. The craving for female company can only increase.’
Marybelle slowly shook her head. ‘It would be a poor place for a child,’ she said. ‘With the growing numbers of foreign prospectors, and little or no rule of law, every life stands endangered. And there are the tremors to consider.’
Both girls stared at her. ‘Tremors?’ echoed Fanny.
‘The ground is unstable. Amongst my acquaintance was an Indian woman, who I counted as my greatest friend not so long ago. She described to me a time, ten or twelve years since, where the earth shook with a terrifying violence, twice over a period of a few years. Now that a city is taking shape on that very same land, who can say what the consequences might be? It could all sink into the ocean, perhaps.’ She shuddered. ‘I believe the place to be damned. It came to me in a dream that I should get away while I still had my health – and that I did.’
‘A dream!’ Carola’s tone held a thread of mockery.
Fanny threw her an angry look. ‘W
hat happened in the dream?’ she asked Marybelle.
‘Demons came up from the bowels of the earth, carrying great chests full of gold and treasure.’ She shivered. ‘I can remember it now, as vividly as ever. They were swarming down the rivers and into the mining camps and snatching away all the ore that the men had found. They piled every scrap into their chests, and returned to their underground world with it. In the dream, I could feel the earth heaving and rippling with their movements, like a great nest of disturbed ants. They had ghastly faces, part gargoyle, part ape. I took it as a warning, and from what I have heard, I was right to do so.’
‘Gargoyle?’ frowned Fanny.
Marybelle smiled. ‘It is a carving from ancient times, on the corners of church roofs. I never saw one in reality, but as a child I owned a book with pictures of them, from the city of Oxford in England. It terrified me, and yet I often looked at it. The images must be lodged inside my brain to this day.’
‘You are American born, then?’ asked Carola.
‘Murfreesboro, Tennessee,’ she answered. ‘Where James Polk himself attended college. My father tutored him, and I recall he came to dine with us more than once, when I was a young girl.’ She laughed. ‘If I had been just a few years older, I might have had a singularly different life. I might have been the First Lady of the United States.’
‘So – how did you find yourself in California?’ Fanny pressed.
‘A long story, my dear. But I will give you a summary. My father died, I married a worthless cheat, who escaped debtors by fleeing westwards. I went with him, fool that I was. He is dead now. I saw no alternative but to make my way with the few assets I possessed.’
Fanny could see that their guest was almost spent. Her breathing had grown laboured, and the pain was clear on her face. ‘Can we bring you something to eat?’ she asked, desperate to help, but unable to think of a way.
‘Oh, no. I eat very little now. I shall leave you for today. Perhaps, if I have the strength, I can call again one day? It would be such a kindness if you were to permit me.’
When she had gone, dragging her feet like a woman twice her age, Carola began to flap a length of stiff brocade around, hoping to shift the stagnant air. ‘Phew, what stink!’ She complained. ‘We cannot have her here again, Fanny. The woman is half dead already.’
Fanny pushed the door as far open as it would go, and watched Marybelle slowly disappear down the street. ‘Have you no pity? What became of your bump of benevolence?’
‘It was only ever a figment of that man’s nonsensical science. I do pity her, of course. But I cannot abide the stench of her. It disgusts me. How could you keep her talking, after she resolved to leave?’
‘She interests me.’
‘She can be of no value to us. I am just thankful that she has found a good nurse, so that you do not feel yourself compelled to take her on. I could see on your face the idea that you might.’
‘You see wrong. We could not possibly have her here. And yet — I wish we had known her sooner. I wish we had taken the trouble to seek her out, while she was still well enough to spend more time with us. She has so much wisdom to impart. Do you not see that?’
‘I see she has a sharp eye.’ Carola pulled the thin fabric of her dress against her belly. ‘I am really not so large yet, with four months and more still to go. But she noticed immediately.’
‘I fancy she has seen the same thing many times. It is perhaps also the way you move that betrays you. The man Job, remember – he too saw it.’
‘He told me he had a wife and five little ones, when he was young. He is quite familiar with the process.’
Fanny’s heart thumped. ‘And where are they now?’
‘One son and one daughter survive. The rest succumbed to smallpox, years ago. He has not seen them for a long time.’
‘It is hard to maintain family ties in this great land,’ Fanny said, with a wave of sadness. ‘Such great distances and so many dangers. And it will be even worse in future, with the gold fever enticing the fathers and husbands away to risk themselves. Even here, in this quiet place, the men have run off to seek their fortunes.’
‘All the easier for us to forego such ordinary lives,’ snapped Carola. ‘We bade farewell to all that, remember? Why else am I here with no husband, facing a cruel future, whether or not I choose to keep my own child with me?’
Fanny opened her mouth to speak, but could find no fitting words. The cruel future had not made itself plain to her at all. Muddled, worrying, perhaps – but cruel? That was far from her own expectations.
‘You are still warm from the fifty dollars,’ Carola accused. ‘You are thinking, where one man might act so generously, there will be others. You are thinking this is the first of our spoils, thanks to the goldfields.’
‘In part,’ Fanny agreed. ‘I have been calculating, and it seems to me we might be able to add another room or two onto the back, with what we have already put away.’
‘Oh? And then?’
‘There would be a room for a maidservant, and one for the child. A maidservant who took her duties as nurse and cook, too. We would pay her well.’
‘And where is such a paragon who would demean herself to far as to work for two common whores?’
The word had never once been uttered between them. Fanny was shocked to her toes by it. They had cheerfully used such labels as ‘ladies of pleasure’ or even ‘ladies of easy virtue’ but the actual word for what they did had remained a taboo.
‘Carrie!’ She heard herself pleading. ‘What has come over you? What is it?’
Carola looked away, not soon enough to prevent Fanny from glimpsing the tears sparkling in her eyes. ‘My spirits are all a-jangled by that woman,’ she said thickly. ‘What is there to save us from both finishing up the way she has done? Disease, loneliness, shame… what has her life been? I regret being unkind towards her, but she gave me a feeling of dread, merely to look at her.’
‘You are wrong,’ Fanny said firmly. ‘The people here have accepted us. I am confident there is a girl somewhere who would come to us each day to help keep house. She might not wish to remain during our working hours, perhaps – that is no obstacle to the plan. We must remain optimistic, Carrie. The alternative is not to be contemplated.’
‘I must give the child away,’ whispered Carola. ‘That is what it comes to. Without the child there is hope, perhaps. We might acquire money enough to support a life after this one, when we are too old and tired to continue. With a child, we shall be seen to lose what fragile respectability we might have now. The goodwives will judge us harshly. They will interfere and claim that we are corrupting influences on a young mind. The child itself, if a girl, will be at risk of male attentions at too young an age. It cannot be.’ She broke into open sobs. ‘And yet I cannot bear it, Fanny. How would it be possible to hand my own flesh and blood to a strange woman, who could never begin to love it as her own?’
Again, Fanny was lost for words. The day was becoming gruelling beyond endurance, with a growing mound of painful emotions forcing themselves in on her. It was as if everything they had failed to confront or discuss for the past many months had all come tumbling out of the closet in one great avalanche.
‘Many women love their adopted children as warmly as they love their own,’ she said, confident that this at least was solid ground. ‘My own mother never made any distinction between those who were hers, and those who were not. Why, Charity and I scarcely credited we were not full sisters, when our father told us quite carelessly one day. And Charity now has two stepchildren, as well as her baby Walter. She is a fine mother to them. You saw that for yourself.’
‘Perhaps.’ Carola wiped her face, and sniffed. ‘Enough of this. The day is well nigh over, and we have done nothing but slouch around the place upsetting ourselves.’
‘It is too hot to do anything but talk. I suggest, however, that we find a lighter topic for our conversations in future. We can make no firm decisions today. My father always adv
ised us to defer worries as long as possible, because mostly they fade away of their own accord.’
‘And my father anticipated every kind of trouble long before anyone else could see it. His slaves would rise against him, the cotton would rot on the stem, the carriage would overturn or the pox destroy everyone he loved. There was always something of the sort.’
‘There is every chance all will be well,’ Fanny insisted. ‘The world is full of gold, remember. Some of it must fall to us.’
Chapter Seventeen
A few more weeks rolled on, the weather hotter each day and the town almost paralysed by it. The people moved slowly, keeping to the shade wherever possible. Water was carted from the river so regularly that the level fell away and the tracks of the laden carts were carved deep into the track. Fanny was reminded of the river crossings the wagon train had made and the grooves they had left, especially on the slope down to the Snake River. That particular waterway had been their companion for week after week, from Fort Hall to Fort Boise, on the hill where they saw the range of mountains that marked the final stage of the migration. Flashes of recall still came to her frequently, prompted unexpectedly by some image or other. The long walk would remain with her all her life, she supposed, as something that might find its way into history as worthy of remark. She had used her own legs to travel two thousand miles, as had many now living in Oregon. As a proportion of all the people in the world, these thousands of emigrants were a tiny group. How many of those millions across the globe could make the same claim? She would think of this at times, enjoying the sense of importance it gave her. She was a pioneer, and as such was particularly blessed.
The sense of surviving whatever might come her way remained strong, as Carola’s belly swelled and the fifty dollars shrank to thirty and then twenty. She purchased a large cistern and had it securely installed on the roof, with improved pipework to bring water into the house. When the rain came, it would quickly fill. Others were taking the same precautions to ensure a good supply without the need to either buy it from carriers or take their own buckets and barrels down to the river. Water was a prime topic of conversation around town, with a few predicting that an uncontrolled expansion of human settlement, especially further south, would come to grief from lack of the most basic essential of life. Others mocked this concern, pointing to the almost incessant rainfall during the winter months. Fanny and Carola repeated to each other the strange remarks Marybelle had made about tremors and unstable ground. Would San Francisco disappear like a cataclysm in an ancient legend? Like Sodom and Gomorrah? Would all the mining for gold further disturb the ground, breaking through fragile supports that were not understood? The Indians would know – but would they tell? They might stand by, observing with amusement the self-destructive activities of the white men. Would the settlers even listen, if warnings were made?
