by Eowyn Ivey
In Dr Randall’s defense, Allen says he is an old battlefield surgeon, more comfortable sawing off limbs and digging out lead balls. Female patients must put him ill at ease.
Be that as it may, how could his discomfort compare to mine? To be poked and prodded in such a way! To be coldly questioned about the most intimate concerns! He presumed I understood nothing of reproduction because I hadn’t recognized my state sooner. I had to explain the irregularity of my cycle, that I have often gone months with its absence, so thought nothing of it when it occurred this time. He only sighed as if this were yet another inconvenience and went back to his books, with no word of reassurance or gesture toward kindness.
It is agreed, though — we must obey the surgeon’s orders. It would not do to risk our child only so that I might have a bit of adventure. It seems impossible to hope, but maybe someday I will be afforded another opportunity to go to Alaska.
January 26
Everything has turned topsy-turvy, and at times I cannot remember which dream greets me when I wake. For a moment I nearly forget, but then it returns with a jolt — I will not go to Alaska, yet a child comes to life within me! Even when I give it no thought at all, its tiny heart beats. It can be no bigger than a finger. What does it have for eyes and limbs and sense? (Oh that I could read something on the subject!)
Only a few times in my life have I had such intensity of emotion as to feel as if the moment were not entirely real, and I was overcome in such a way just this morning. It rained throughout the night, but with dawn, the clouds lifted and the sun made a rare appearance. I went to the porch in hopes that the fresh air would dispel my queasiness, and standing there it occurred to me that my entire self is being altered, steadily and dramatically, and that something tremendous has begun. As I thought on it, the morning seemed to break into a million shards of light and color, and I saw and felt and heard everything at once — the water droplets that dotted the porch rail in a perfect glittering line, the chill river air that entered me and left with my breath, the sunlit fog that rose from the river valley. I heard the far off whinny of a horse, and when I looked down the hill toward the stables, I saw that the rain drops gathered and glistened on every surface, every bare tree branch and stone and blade of grass, and the sharp brilliance of it all nearly brought me to tears.
How is it that my maternity, such an ordinary, everyday occurrence of humankind, can feel utterly singular and overwhelming to me?
Allen, too, is affected in ways I did not expect. Though I show no outward signs of maternity, he falls over himself to help me to my feet when I leave a chair, and even while he is working at the desk, his eyes are often upon me, as if he is in awe of something I have done.
“Are you really sure?” he said last evening as he watched me in such a way. I was undressing in our bedroom and preparing to put on my nightgown. “The doctor is absolutely certain?”
Isn’t he happy for the news?
“God yes!” he said. “It just doesn’t seem real somehow. That it should happen to us, that we will have a baby together, and just as I’m leaving you. Everything at once. And here I thought I’d die an old bachelor.”
Allen reached out as if to touch me, but then he hesitated, as if he feared he could hurt me in some way. I took his hand with my own and held it firmly against my bare belly, and we were both still and quiet, standing together beside our bed, as if we might either of us see or feel some sign.
“I don’t like to leave you this way,” he said, with his hand still rested there.
Of course he will go, and I will manage best I can. I am still the same woman he married, I remind him — no more or less competent. Yet there is something quite tender, even vulnerable, about this new side of Allen.
January 27
It occurred to me last night as I drifted to sleep — am I also forbidden to travel by train East? These past days, we assumed I would go home to Mother while Allen is gone, but then I recalled the surgeon’s warnings.
When I went to the hospital this afternoon, Dr Randall was mending the broken foot of a young soldier (run over by an ammunition wagon, I have since learned) and even with all the man’s cursing and howling, it was clear the surgeon preferred that patient over me. “Take her to my office to wait,” he told his assistant, granting not a word or look in my direction.
When at last he came to see me, I apologized for bothering him but said I must clarify his orders.
And it is so. I will not go to Vermont, but instead must remain here until the baby is born. I do not know what to make of this. I never imagined I would stay in Vancouver alone without Allen.
Also during my visit, I made the mistake of asking the doctor if I could please borrow one of his books on midwifery or obstetrics, as I wish to learn more about the physiology. What does the fetus look like? What anatomical features has it developed? He has several books on his shelves that I am sure could satisfy some of my curiosity.
I might as well have thrown a dishpan of dirty water over his head. For a moment he was speechless, and then at last sputtered that it was not “suitable reading.”
I told him I only wish to know more about the process, that I possess a rudimentary knowledge of the sciences and have even assisted in birthing. (I saw no need to mention that such midwifery on my part involved a barn cat when I was a young girl.)
Dr Randall could not be swayed. He said his books are completely inappropriate for women and laymen, and that the reading would bewilder me.
If he were to refuse me one of his books because it was precious or necessary to him, that I could forgive easily enough, but to do so out of some paternal censorship or doubt of my intellect — it is entirely displeasing!
I cannot say I am used to such restrictions (and I know my fortune in that). We might not have been able to afford many books in our house, or even in Mother’s schoolroom, yet all were open to me, and it was much the same at normal school. What I wouldn’t do to have the Sommerton library here with me now!
January 28
Allen has written letters to everyone near and far, sharing our news, but I wish us to wait just a while longer before sending them. Especially to Mother. She will fill my head with worries and dangers. Even before we were married, she warned that my irregular cycles predicted a difficulty in carrying a child. I will allow this maternity to settle upon me more firmly before I engage with her pessimism.
I am ashamed to admit it, but as lonely as it might be here in Vancouver without Allen, I am glad to not be returning to stay with Mother. There is a great deal I admire in her, and I am grateful for everything she has taught me, yet there is so little pleasure in her presence. All is devoted to labor before God, and always she is casting her eye for any aberrance or wasteful delight. I often wonder how much of it is Father’s influence — she strained to counterweight his reckless nature by imposing order and frugality in our household, and now that he’s gone, she is set in those rigid ways.
I can recall the exact day when I chose a different life for myself. It was at Sommerton Normal School, and I was walking to the dormitory on a bright autumn afternoon and fairly skipping through the fallen leaves. It occurred to me that if I wanted to miss my supper and spend the entire night reading page after page of poetry, there was no one to tell me that I was ruining my eyes and any chances at a good marriage. If I chose to ignore my studies and sneak tea cakes back into my room and nibble on them beneath the covers, once again I answered to no one but the monitor if I did not sweep up my crumbs.
I experienced such complete gladness, and I told myself I would never take it for granted — the freedom to choose my own dress, to plan my days, to walk where I desired and see what I would.
There is, of course, some irony to my circumstances: here I set out on my own path, only to discover that it has brought me to confinement and restriction after all, this time by orders of a doctor rather than Mother.
January 29
Why is it that ou
r disappointments are so often magnified by the reaction of others?
So you won’t go to Alaska after all! Did you lose your nerve? Good heavens, it is all for the best. Wouldn’t you have had a miserable time? Did the General forbid you? They probably thought you’d be a nuisance or suffer horribly from seasickness.
All in all, afternoon tea was even more unbearable than normal. Since I do not yet feel free to share the true reason for my staying behind, I endured their remarks without retort. Sarah Whithers, bless her, seemed genuinely disappointed, as if she too were being denied the journey, but Mrs Connor gloated, as if she had known all along it wasn’t to be.
Ordinary causes of abortions are such as weakness or corruption of the womb, or by outward force such as falls, blows, wrath, madness, fear, running, leaping, cutting of wood, and immoderate exercise.
By way of caution: avoid the presence of ravens and other carrion eaters, for they are Death’s envoys, tasked to deliver souls from this world unto the next. If such bad omen visits upon you and signs of abortion appear, the usual way is to lay toast sopt in Muskadel to your navel. This is good medicine.
But to take the womb of a hare beaten to powder, half a dram, in Malmsey each morning is far better.”
— From Midwifery: A Pocket-Companion for Women in
Their Conception, Benjamin Fielding, student in physic
and astrology, London, 1743
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
March 30, 1885
Rain has softened the snow in the river valley to such a degree that we wallow in our snowshoes, the sleds are useless. We set out each day as soon as there is light enough in order to travel quickly while the snow is still crusted from night’s cold. Before long, though, the morning warms to rain. We attempt to tow four sleds, including two made from sawing an Indian canoe in half. The loads, several hundred pounds each, cause us to flounder no matter how many of us throw our shoulders into the work.
The Indians resist leaving the campfire each morning. This morning if Pruitt had not knocked down their lean-tos & forcibly dragged them to their feet, we’d be there still. The woman refuses to assist in pulling, but instead straps a large load of supplies to her back, a small pannier to the dog, & the two head upriver each morning without a glance in our direction.
— She doesn’t follow orders, Pruitt complained.
For myself, I did not count on her assistance, so it is of no matter to me where she goes each day.
This stretch of land is dreary, flat, gray, without the beauty of the island coast. We are near enough the sea that precipitation never halts, only changes from rain to snow then back again. Water runs atop the river ice so that we are soaked from ground & sky as we wade through knee-deep slush. More than once we plunged to our necks as we tried to ford open water. Evening campfires do not dry our clothes. However, the sleeping bags of linen sailcloth, waterproofed with linseed oil & beeswax, are proving most valuable.
Tonight I miss my Sophie dearly.
April 2
We have abandoned the tents & half our ammunition, food, clothing, etc., all cached in tall cottonwood trees. If our travel improves, we will send Indians to retrieve as much as possible.
Our stores are reduced to 100 pounds each flour & beans, 40 of rice, but now the sleds can reasonably be towed through slush. Lieut. Pruitt carries little food to make room for scientific equipment, including camera & dry plates. We have kept also some bacon, extract of beef, tea, deviled ham, what chocolate the old man did not pocket. Luxuries, but they earn their weight in morale.
We now travel more quickly & with Godspeed we will make it to the canyon before the river ice gives way. The decision did not come easily, particularly to have Pruitt’s load contain so little food. Tillman argued against it.
— We’ll go hungry, for pretty pictures!
Pruitt insisted the photographs are invaluable, began to berate Tillman for his ignorance. Here I cut them off to avoid a scuffle. I reminded Tillman that we expected to subsist off the wilds during the journey. In truth I had hoped to make it farther upriver with more supplies, but I did not say this.
Tillman filled his own sled with such a heavy load of food that I had to give a push from behind to get the sled moving. The sergeant is a strapping fellow but will not be able to pull that load for long.
The supplies we carry will not last us but a month. We will supplement with game & edible plants. The Indians express doubt. The tall one, called Skilly, said until the salmon return in summer, the Wolverine River is the ‘place where men starve.’
— What of these river tribes, said to be so fierce? They must eat something, even in the winter months, I asserted.
Several of the Indians responded, but the trapper seemed reluctant to translate, only did so after I prodded.
— They claim the Midnooskies above the canyon survive only by relying on human flesh.
As for the woman, she is silent, but clearly has thoughts of her own.
April 3
This morning at breakfast, Sgt. Tillman sat beside me with his tin cup of coffee, inquired about my family in Boston. He knows of my father & his respectable career in the Army. We talked some of our childhoods. Tillman is the son of a coal miner, from a rough life I suspect.
After some time, he asked me about Sophie.
— You’ve been married for some time? he asked.
I answered that it had been not yet a year.
— You must have had another wife before this. Did she die?
The question surprised me. — No, I said, — I have never been married before.
— You seem like the marrying type. No spring chicken, either. What took you so long?
I have grown accustomed to Tillman’s blunt ways, so took no offense. I explained that until Sophie, I had never met a woman that held my interest.
— You & I must not run in the same circles. I find girls aplenty.
Yes, I am sure he does. Yet I speculated that many of them are silly, or if they are quick-witted, they are worldly & cynical.
In reply, Tillman gave a devious grin.
— Ah! But that’s how I love them best. Both at once. Silly & worldly!
It made me uneasy. I have no desire to bring Sophie into such low talk. How could I tell of her intelligence, her humor, her gentleness, to a man like this? She is too good for his ears.
I said nothing more on the subject but instead asked Pruitt if he has a sweetheart. The lieutenant shook his head without looking up from his diary.
Sophie is right that Pruitt is different than I remember him. When we went up against Apache in the desert, even after long days of riding, he was rarely silent. — Did you know, Colonel . . . he would always begin, then rattle off one interesting fact or another. A species of plant with gastric juices & a giant flower for eating insects. A cave in North Carolina that breathes like an animal, blowing out air in the summer, sucking in air in the winter. Lantern-like creatures in the depths of the ocean; the speed of a comet through the heavens. Other times he would recite bits of poetry that to this day stay with me: ‘Soldier rest! Thy warfare o’er, sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; dream of battled fields no more.’
We fought Indians in savage country. He proved himself to be both tough & astute, as young as he was. I was certain those traits could serve us well on this journey. Now I find him quiet, somber, on edge. He is prone to sitting alone, sketching in his notebook. Does my memory fail me, or have these short years changed him?
April 5
Some good to report — the trapper Samuelson will continue with us, although not of his choice. He expected by now to have word from his business partner, who in the autumn traveled up the Wolverine River to scout trapping & mining prospects. Samuelson heard rumors from Indians earlier in the winter that Boyd had built a cabin some 40 miles from here. Since then there has been no sign of him.
— I’d like to find him whole & alive, Sa
muelson said. — We had plans.
— Not an overly sentimental fellow, Tillman said in aside to me. I admit it caused me a chuckle.
Sentimental or no, the trapper is great help. Steadfast. Capable. I did not look forward to being without his expertise. I suspect he knows far more than he lets on, not that he is secretive, but instead simply a man of few words.
At mid-day we rested on a cottonwood log to eat cold biscuits. I asked Samuelson about the old Eyak we had left behind. He remains something of an irritation to me. Would he go back to Perkins Island?
— Eyak? Samuelson said. — He’s no Eyak.
I asked who the old fellow’s people are then.
Samuelson said no one claims him. — He’s just always about, sometimes wanted, sometimes not.
— What language does he speak?
— He likes to toy with me, he does. He’ll start out in Eyak, then as soon as I catch my rhythm, he’ll go to Midnoosky, then he’ll change again. All along, he knows our English well enough, I reckon.
It seems that each in their own tongue, the natives call him the Man Who Flies on Black Wings.
— He is something of an odd bird, isn’t he? I said with amusement.
— Not just an odd bird.
Samuelson says the natives believe the Old Man can change the weather, make people sick or cure them, as suits his mood. Years ago, they say, he stole an Eyak’s wife & the husband shot him. The Old Man just coughed up the bullet, spat it on the ground, & went on unharmed.
Most of all, he says, the Old Man is unpredictable. Today he’ll rob you blind, but tomorrow he might give you a warm blanket when you need it most.
— He’s a devil & angel in one, he said. — Nothing to depend on, except that he’s always looking for something to eat, & he’s always looking for mischief.
It seems impossible that the Indians should truly believe he can fly or spit out bullets that have struck him. I asked the trapper what he made of such nonsense. All humor left him.
— Doesn’t matter a God d —— d what I think. Or you for that matter. Have no doubt, Colonel, we are traveling through their world, not our own. Whatever the Russians & politicians say.
