by Eowyn Ivey
— Well? What did she say? Tillman asked.
— She had a husband once.
— Pretty young thing like that. Doubt any man would give that up. So, what happened to the fellow?
— She killed him, Samuelson said. — Slit his throat as he slept.
It was a surprising answer, but no more so than the rest of the story the trapper told us.
The woman said that two winters ago a stranger came down out of the Wolverine Valley. No one had seen him before, but he was a good hunter & quick on his feet. When he asked her to go back to his home with him, she went along. The two of them traveled up the valley, beyond where she had ever been before, until they came to a creek that ran down out of the mountains. He took her to a den in the rocks. It was cold & damp & stunk of fish. For days on end he left her there with nothing but raw fish to eat. He warned her to never leave the den. She was lonely, so one day she tracked him through the snow. After a short time, his prints turned to otter tracks. She kept on them until she came to a bank den. That’s when she saw her husband in his true form — a river otter, being welcomed by his otter wife.
Tillman was disbelieving. I had heard similar stories among Indians, but not such a firsthand claim.
— They believe it is a thin line separates animal & man, Samuelson said. — They hold that some can walk back & forth over that line, here a man, there a beast.
Tillman sat forward. He reminded me of a small boy listening to a tall tale, begging for what happens next.
— So what happened?
— She went back to their own den to wait for him. When he fell asleep beside her, she cut his throat. In the morning light, she skinned him out. That otter pelt on her shoulders, that there is the skin of her husband.
— Jesus, Tillman said.
— But you don’t believe a word of it, do you? Pruitt said.
Samuelson shrugged.
— What did she say at the last, when she was walking away? Tillman asked.
— She says the Wolverine River is no place for men like us.
The trapper leaned towards the campfire & tucked the spindly rabbit legs into the pot.
Washington, D.C.
September 17, 1884
To Lieutenant -Colonel Allen Forrester:
I am pleased you have come to your senses and will take on this venture. Your initial reticence was unexpected — it has always been my understanding that you were hopeful of an assignment such as this. From your letter, I now better understand your misgivings. I agree that in ways this task might be better suited to a younger man’s energy and robust health, but I have no doubt that the depth of your frontier experience, as well as your level-headed approach to leadership, outweighs any of that. In fact, I very much believe it was the brashness and laziness of our young lieutenants that has kept us from launching a successful expedition up the Wolverine until now. Frankly it is an embarrassment, even if some of our politicians fail to recognize it — nearly 20 years the territory has been in our possession and yet we know almost nothing of its interior.
This all said, I have had grave reservations about your plan to keep the travel party so small. You would be better served with a group of a dozen men or more, including a surgeon and a cartographer. Yet you will have it as you wish, not because I am conceding, but because we have been granted only enough funding for you and two other men.
With such, I must insist on one appointment. Normally I would trust your judgment and allow you your own selection of men. However, I am convinced Sergeant Bradley Tillman will prove invaluable. Do not pay much mind to his records of court-martial– he is rough and tumble, but I can think of no other man I would want covering my back if I were setting out as you are. If it weren’t for his poor education, quick temper, and taste for liquor, I have no doubt he would be a Colonel already. I insist on his appointment, but you will be left to choose the other member of your party.
I cannot impress upon you too strongly my desire that all of your party’s communications with the natives of this land be friendly. You have shown yourself to be even-tempered and fair in your dealings with the tribes, and I believe it could be crucial to the success of this endeavor. I am not sure how much credence to give to the Russian reports. However, if at any point you cannot proceed without provoking hostility, then you must turn back. As much as I am anxious for this expedition to be successful, we do not need another Indian War on our hands.
You know the conflicting dispatches which have been received in regard to this reconnaissance, and the difficulties the adjutant-general of the department has encountered. Despite that, the paymaster has been instructed to transfer to you $2,000 as an advance to pay yourself and the members of your detachment. I trust that you will now be with ample provisions to ensure safety, comfort, and success.
I understand from General Haywood that you are recently married. Congratulations, Colonel. I surmise that may be the root of some of your reticence in leaving on such an expedition, but you can happily retire to domestic married life upon your return.
With sincere wishes for your safe return,
JAMES KEIRN
Major-General, U.S. Army
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
January 14, 1885
I am still not recovered from last night’s celebration. Allen is entirely correct — enlisted men do put on the most entertaining affairs that, in comparison, make officers’ balls seem stuffy and contrived. Fiddle, banjo, accordion. And never would I have dreamed that my staid husband could dance the polka! All the laughter and merriment. There is something truly wondrous about such a gala, with its lights and music spilling out into the dark forest.
Many toasts were made in honor of the expedition, more often than not led by the boisterous Mr Tillman, and all the night people clamored to ask Allen and his men about their plans. When it was discovered that I will go as far north as Sitka, I, too, became a subject of interest. It is a position to which I am unaccustomed, and I do not enjoy. Thank heavens for the few times Allen swept me away to dance. Too often, though, he was drawn into conversations, and I was left to fend my way through the many people.
Miss Evelyn was unusually dull, as she was distracted by all the handsomely dressed men in attendance and not particularly interested in conversing with me except to ask the name and marital status of this or that gentleman. I was of little assistance, and she quickly abandoned me. Mr Tillman proceeded to spend the rest of the evening trying to woo her, and while I am certain she has her sights set far higher than an Army sergeant, she seemed dangerously enamored. I doubt General Haywood would approve of such a match for his niece.
Perhaps the most perplexing, and troubling, part of the evening, however, was my exchange with Mr Pruitt. He is quite different than I expected — severe and brooding, and he managed to offend me in several instances.
Since that day at the stable, I have been eager to ask him about his camera, so when I found myself near him in the crowd, I mentioned to him my interest in photography. What could he tell me of the process?
“It is much too complicated for idle chit-chat,” he said.
Everything in his tone was dismissive and unfriendly, and I would have excused myself, but the jostling crowd would not allow an easy escape. He and I stood for some time before the silence between us became unbearably awkward.
“I understand you have known my husband for many years,” I ventured.
“I met him at Fort Bowie, ma’am. Nearly nine years ago.”
“Yes, he has told me something of his time there. He very much enjoyed becoming acquainted with you.”
Mr Pruitt looked at me sharply, as if I said something deceitful or quarrelsome. After a long pause, he turned his eyes away and said with grave conviction, “It has been my greatest honor to serve with him.”
Perhaps I had found an agreeable subject for Mr Pruitt. I told him I would be most int
erested to hear what it is like to have Allen as commander.
With some encouragement on my part, he described how Allen arrived at Fort Bowie and set to asking so many questions, about the terrain and water sources, the nearby tribes, everything down to the types of grasses that grew there, that the men began to joke that he would next ask about the traits of the dust on the bottom of their boots. All this time he gave no inkling as to what he intended to do with the information.
I laughed, and said that Allen is true to form — he keeps his thoughts to himself, and it is only once he has quietly determined his course that he reveals his plans to those around him, soldier or wife. Yet it filled me with pride to see how much this young man admires him. He said Allen always expects the best of his men and never sets them to a task he would not do himself.
“I’ve seen him more than once help to dig a well,” Mr Pruitt said.
“But my husband must have some flaw?” I inquired.
“I have seen his temper, ma’am,” he said.
This was unexpected, for Allen has never displayed to me any fury or undue impatience. When I asked Mr Pruitt to explain, he recalled an incident when Allen received an unwelcomed telegram from a general in Washington, D.C., and he marched into the adobe telegraph office at the fort, seized the machine from the desk, and threw it out the door and into the dusty yard. Mr Pruitt said he and the machine’s operator were dumbfounded.
“Your Colonel smoothed down the front of his uniform, apologized for the disruption, and left, stepping over the machine on his way.” Fortunately, Mr Pruitt said, it was repairable, for during the next days Allen sent many telegrams of his own, but it seemed his commander was unmoved in his decision.
I believe Mr Pruitt thought this story would amuse me, and I smiled and shook my head at Allen’s bad humor, but I was left to speculate about what could anger him so. And how is it that he never told me of it? It did not, however, seem appropriate to discuss such matters with one of his men, and I endeavored to change the subject yet again.
“Allen tells me that you have seen the condor. Is it true?”
He gave me that same look of surprise and doubt, as if I could not truly be interested in such matters. Yes, he said — it was a giant, with a wingspan of nearly ten feet and a bald head of many colors.
How I would love to see such an amazing creature! I described some of the less exotic birds I have observed near the barracks and asked him what species we might hope to see during our journey to Alaska. Just as Mr Pruitt seemed to show some sign of enthusiasm for our conversation, however, we were interrupted by one of Mr Tillman’s passionate but brief toasts: “To Alaska!” to which the crowd cheered, “To Alaska!”
As the roar settled, Mr Pruitt leaned closer to me, his eyes on Mr Tillman, and said, “Do you know, Mrs Forrester, that your husband is the only military man I have ever known who is always sober, dutiful, and faithful.”
How could I respond to such a pronouncement?
“Yes, well, it is a lovely evening!” I offered. “So many beautiful gowns, and the music! Allen told me I would enjoy this dance more than most, and he was absolutely correct.”
Any bit of interest or liveliness on his part seemed to wane and he only stared blankly over the crowd. I was preparing to excuse myself, when he said something unexpected.
“You are fortunate, Mrs Forrester.”
What on earth could he mean?
“You still believe everything is golden, all dances and fine stitches and silk,” he said, and here he looked over my gown, which made me quite self-conscious. “But this is all just an illusion, a dream,” he went on. “You have been spared truth. Your Colonel and I, we know. Once seen, it cannot be unseen.”
And then Mr Pruitt urged me to leave him, to dance and enjoy myself rather than have my evening darkened by his mood, and I was all too happy to oblige.
I know Allen says he is an intelligent and hardworking officer and that he is glad to have him on the expedition, but Mr Pruitt seems to me to be an unhappy young man.
All in all, the evening quite wore me out with all the noise and discourse. It must account for this ill feeling that has plagued me all day.
January 15
What a dreadful morning! I never imagined it would cause a row between us, and I hate that Allen went off for the day without our making amends. I meant no cruelty or provocation — I only wanted to know how he could be so angry at a commanding officer as to throw about a telegraph machine.
I have long suspected that Allen shields me. When he reads to me from his desert journals, I notice that he skips entire pages. He will begin to tell of a courageous lieutenant he once knew in the war or of an encounter with the wild Apache, and he will pause thoughtfully and then turn the conversation with grace, like he spins me on the dance floor, and when I realize what has happened, it will be too late and I will be talking of some poem I read or piece of art we admired in San Francisco. And these past weeks, all that he has told me of his coming expedition, yet never did he mention the Indians’ massacre of the Russians
I know we have been married only months, but I would know him more fully, and not just the buttoned, ironed, and mannerly husband who takes me dancing and presents me with gifts. What of the man who has lived for weeks, months even, without bath or civilized meal, who has seen the deaths of enemy and friend alike? What of that medal that sits upon his bureau? I can see for myself that it is a commendation of great significance, but he will only say that he was a young lieutenant and it was a long time ago.
It is something more, too. I feel a bit as if I’ve been put in my place. Just because I appeared before Mr Pruitt as a well-married woman in a fine gown (borrowed at that), who is he to assume that I have therefore led a charmed and unmarred life, that I am ignorant of suffering?
Worst yet, is it possible that Allen in some way shares this opinion? If he conceals a part of himself out of a misguided desire to protect me, it would sadden me terribly, for it would mean that neither of us knows the other as intimately as marriage would presume. And here is my most callow admission — it wounds my pride to think Allen’s men know him better than I might ever hope to.
Ah, and this is the trouble with a diary. We are allowed to stand too long before its mirror and gaze at ourselves, where we unavoidably find vanity and fault.
I should keep to the field sparrow in flight. The cedar waxwings in the ash tree. Make note of their plumage and bills. Observe the habitats they frequent, the seeds that they pluck. Keep my pencil to wing shape and migration patterns, for these are the more sublime and worthy observations.
Sophie Ada Swanson
Medal of Honor
Forrester, Allen B.
Rank and organization: Second Lieutenant, 8th U.S. Cavalry
*
Place and date: At San Carlos, Arizona, 30 May 1868
*
Date of issue: 4 August 1868
*
Citation: While leading a detachment to persuade an Apache band to surrender, Lieutenant Forrester and 12 men were surrounded by hostiles. The Lieutenant’s horse was shot out from under him, so that he engaged in savage hand-to-hand fighting. Under a most galling fire, he assisted three of his wounded soldiers to safety before returning to the fight. He and his eight remaining soldiers were able to hold the 50 Indians at bay until reinforcements arrived.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
March 27, 1885
We have struck ice so will abandon the row boats.
Aided by the tide, at dawn we rowed to one of the mouths of the Wolverine River. Gone from Vancouver Barracks since the 1st of February, we are nearly a month behind schedule. Yet I am glad to see this rugged scene at last — the west bank stacked with heaps of ice, some blocks as thick as four feet. We rowed upriver through a dreary sleet for most of the day along a clear main channel, but at times were forced to halt our progress as slabs of ice floated past. As one large berg scraped against our boat, I felt the deep ch
ill it casts off.
When we fatigued from rowing into the current, we attempted to walk the boats upriver by cordelle — one man pulling the boat along the shore by rope tied to the bow, another keeping the stern into the current with the aid of an oar. It was impractical. The ice along shore required us to climb uneven ground. At times we were forced to wade streams. Pruitt stepped from a bank ledge only to sink to his chin in icy water, but still he managed to hold to his bow line. In other circumstances, it would have been amusing, but we know too well the deathly threat of it. All of us are left cold & wet.
Where we ran aground of ice, we climbed ashore to start a fire. Conditions were not favorable, our hands numb & useless. While our matches were kept dry in canisters, they fizzled in the wet wind. Samuelson managed with a bit of bark & clump of winterkilled grass to light the flames.
Once we have dried our boots, we will unload the supplies. Samuelson says there is a nearby village where we can employ Indians to assist in carrying supplies upriver. All food, ammunition, equipment will have to be hauled by sled or pack. We will require at least four strong men.
We are out of the weather. For that I should be glad. Instead I want for fresh air, room to stretch my legs. More than two dozen Indians, three dogs, and the four of us, packed into a hovel the size of a small woodshed. In the center, a greasy fire sends more smoke into our faces than out the hole above. I envy Samuelson, who snores beside me. I too would like to sleep off this day.
Earlier we cached the supplies in a stand of willows near the row boats. As we carried crates ashore, Lieut. Pruitt spotted the old Eyak coming across the snow towards us. He moved slowly, elbows & knees askew, clothes flapping in sleety wind. At his pace, the journey was sure to take him hours, yet too quickly he was beside us.
When I had Samuelson ask him if he knows where we can find this village, the old man shook his head & poked about in the crates.
— He’s lying, Pruitt said.
