by Eowyn Ivey
I asked no more. The trapper may be right on one count. Despite government treatise, this frozen Wolverine River Valley yet belongs to the Indians, as they are the only ones who claim it. That will change if white men find use for it.
As for the Old Man, I give no credence to the idea he is anything but a thieving rascal with tricks up his sleeve. I will admit this, though — the memory of him crouched in the top of that tree in the black of night stays with me.
April 6
The weather has turned more disagreeable. A storm pounds us with heavy snow, blown into our faces so that we barely make our way along the river ice. Travel is slow at best. The dog is the only member of the party that remains undaunted. It disappeared early in the day so that I suspected it had slunk away to join a pack of wolves, pannier still strapped to its back, but upriver we found it curled in a drift of snow. As we neared, it hopped to its feet, shook off the snow, vanished ahead into the storm. This happened through the day. Even the Indian girl cannot keep up with the animal’s pace, so has fallen back to travel with the others. How the dog predicts our route, I do not know, except that we follow the river.
We camp the nights damp & cold with none of us sleeping soundly. Without tents, we rely all the more on our sailcloth bags as our only shelter. Once inside, I pull my poncho overhead to make a small tent beneath which I can eat, read, write somewhat protected from the storm.
Lieut. Pruitt’s efforts to take celestial observations are frustrated by the weather.
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
January 31, 1885
Allen is gone. I must accept it. Last night I could make do with the thought that he was just at the wharf in Portland, sleeping aboard the docked steamer, and that by some chance I might see him one last time. Tonight is different. The sun has set, the barracks fallen quiet, and I am alone in this house. The ship was to depart this morning at daybreak, bound for Puget Sound. By this late hour, could they near British Columbia? Will it truly be months, even a year before I hear word of him again?
I am feeling sorry for myself, and it is senseless. Of course this day would come.
I wonder, if I had stood on the river shore this morning and waved goodbye as the ship left for the coast, if we had a grand farewell and watched the distance between us grow, if I had witnessed his leaving, would I then be more settled with it? Would his absence be more real to me? Instead, my thoughts play tricks on me. Maybe the ship was delayed for some reason, or at the last minute Allen decided he could not leave me behind after all, and I will soon hear him in the hall, bumping his loud boots against the bench, and then his call, “Sophie love, I’m home.”
Everything became a mad rush in the end, with word that the steamer was in the harbor days earlier than expected and set to leave immediately. There were crates to be sealed, lists to check, messages to send.
When I suggested I go to Portland to see him off, he said there was no sense to it. They would board the ship at night and leave at daybreak. There would be no time to visit or say farewell. I suspect he also worried for my health, even traveling those few hours by carriage and ferry.
At least I sent him with my letter. I had little time to compose it, but may my words remind him of my love and allow him to feel the touch of home.
And we did have yesterday morning. Oh, but that it could have lasted forever. The joy of waking to the scent of warm, fresh popovers. (How did he ever convince the barracks cook to bake them? And with blackberry jam and butter! By chance, Allen discovered the antidote to my queasiness.) As the first rays of morning came through our little kitchen window, it was as if we had all the time in the world, and when he laughed and held my hands, I felt as if the sunlight poured through me.
The silver comb is beautiful. It is his birthday present to me, as he will not be with me in April. I wear it in my hair now as I write. The engravings of the fern fronds are so delicate, so lifelike. It is evidence that Allen knows my preferences well. He must have planned this for some time. Did he purchase it in San Francisco on our travel to the barracks, and then keep it hidden away these past months? Surely he couldn’t have found such a fine piece in Vancouver.
Oh, Allen, still you are a surprise to me. Soldier, fearless adventurer — yet your heart is gentle. I will wear the comb in my hair every day, so as to feel as if you are always near.
February 2
I am expecting a young woman named Charlotte this afternoon — she is to move into the small bedroom and tend to chores here each afternoon. It seems the Connors have enough help that they are willing to part with her a few hours each day, if we take on the girl’s room and board. I have not yet met her, but I’m told her father is an enlisted man and her mother a washerwoman at the barracks.
Allen made the arrangements before he left. I resisted when we first came to Vancouver and he wanted to hire help — it is one thing to send out the laundry, I reasoned, but I am perfectly capable of cooking meals and keeping a house. (What would Mother think, to know that even with no husband or children to care for, I am being afforded a housemaid!) But now that my tasks are restricted, and I no longer have Allen’s assistance, I suppose it is unavoidable.
Allen would have preferred that I move into one of the newer homes down the lane. A room with, say, the Whithers or the Connors would be more economical, and even more luxurious; their houses are equipped with piped-water baths and beautiful parlors. This old staff cabin was never meant for an officer or his family, he said, and in fact, the General intends to raze it next year to make room for a new officer house. It was to be only our temporary quarters until Allen left on his expedition and I returned to the East.
Yet I abhor the thought of taking a room and living under someone else’s thumb, and so we came to our compromise — I will keep my own house, but with assistance, and I am glad for it. This log cabin is tucked in among the fir trees so that it feels more of the forest than of the barracks. It is drafty and sagging, it is true, but it is humble and private and suits me well.
February 9
The girl is younger than I had imagined, perhaps only ten or eleven, and when Mrs Connor described her family, I somehow pictured a strapping, boisterous girl. This one is instead quiet and waifish. I have hardly been able to pry two words from her, but I am hopeful we will grow accustomed to one another.
Evelyn came to visit yesterday and was baffled to catch me trying to sweep and straighten before Charlotte’s daily arrival. “You are an odd card, Sophie Forrester. Dusting when you have a hired girl coming to do it.”
My efforts did not deter her company, however. She reclined on the sofa in a beautiful new gown and told me all about the monsieur who designed it. (Her talk of Europe’s salons causes me to feel shabby and provincial in one minute and shocked and amused the next.)
It is, however, one of the benefits of her friendship, if I am prepared to call it that — it requires very little of me. All I must do is nod now and then, and she will continue on like a well-cranked musical box.
I learned that her ailing father has sent her West, and to her aunt and uncle’s stern oversight, in hopes of removing her from the temptations of the cities and finding her a suitable mate among the officers. They want her married and settled down. From everything I observe of her nature, this seems highly unlikely.
At one point as she sipped her tea and fiddled with the beads on her gown and chattered on, she appeared an exact mimic of the cedar waxwings that come to the ash tree — splendid in painted feathers, hopping from branch to branch among the red berries, beautiful and flighty. I found myself smiling against my will, then trying to hide it in a cough that turned into an unfortunate snort.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked. She was, however, too enthralled with her own conversation to take notice for long.
Later it seemed she had guessed my secret. I had sat down in a chair, and without thought, rested a hand on my abdomen. I should have been listening, ye
t I daydreamed — what would the quickening feel like? Would I recognize it when it happened?
Evelyn ceased talking and stared at me.
“Will you have children someday, Sophie?” she asked archly.
“Perhaps . . .”
However, this subject did not hold her attention either. She asked if I had gone to tea with the other wives last week, if I had enjoyed it, and then went on without pause.
“Boring old biddies, aren’t they? And they don’t know what to think of you, Mrs Forrester. Mrs Connor says it is unseemly the way you wander about the woods by yourself.”
When I protested, she cut me off again, this time to praise me with backhanded compliments, calling me “diverting” and going on for some time about my queer nature, staring at little birds for hours on end. “With field glasses, and those clothes! You look positively the vagrant in that floppy hat. Where on earth do you traipse off to? Even in the rain and wind! And now to catch you sweeping before the help comes. At least you aren’t like the others. So dreadfully predictable! It is what they want of us, though, isn’t it? A good woman is predictable, and seeks out a predictable life. They would have us kept safe and quiet and insipid.”
This last bit was a pleasant surprise — a glint of an independent, thinking spirit! I decided I would be candid. I told her of the surgeon’s refusing to lend me a book.
Instantly, and for the first time that I can recall, I had her complete attention. Not lend a book! The pompous old so-and-so. She would complain to her aunt and uncle on my behalf . . . but no, they would likely side with the doctor. There’s a book shop in Portland — they have very little on their shelves, but perhaps they might order it from San Francisco. It could take weeks, months even!
“What is the topic of the book?” she thought to ask, then without a breath, “But no, it doesn’t matter, does it? Would he deny the same to a man? I should think not!”
And here she stood up dramatically and raised a finger in the air. “We should take it!”
Steal from the barracks hospital?
“Oh, steal! I only mean for you to borrow it for a few days. That old clod — he’ll never notice one missing book.”
It’s madness clearly. I suspect Evelyn is not solely motivated by the injustice, but also entertained at the thought of goading me into mischief.
However, I think she is right that no one would notice a book’s absence right away. Even just an afternoon alone with it.
February 13
Evelyn Haywood, you are a devilish friend!
Just now a boy came to the house with a message — Miss Evelyn says you should know the post surgeon is seeing to the General at two o’clock and will likely stay for some time, so if you were wanting to see Dr Randall, you won’t find him at the hospital then.
And so it seems this afternoon is my chance.
We could not stop laughing, so that still my cheeks hurt. Evelyn ran into the house just as I was pulling the book out from beneath my coat, and I held it up over my head like a prized trophy, and we began to laugh until we couldn’t speak. It took me some time to tell her of my adventure.
I had waited until a little after two, and then walked the short distance to the hospital. Just as Evelyn said, his assistant informed me that the surgeon was out and not expected to return before the end of the day. Unless it was dire, he said, I should come back tomorrow. I said I was fine, but could I please sit in his office for a moment to rest?
When the assistant left me to return to the main hospital room, I quickly studied the various titles on the shelf. On Deafness and Noises in the Ear. Disorders of Digestion. Treatise on Gunshot Wounds and Other Injuries of the Chest. I was sure that on my earlier visits I had seen at least two or three books on maternity. And then at last, “A Manual of Obstetrics.” I heard footsteps approaching the door, so sat quickly down in a chair with as much nonchalance as I could muster. The assistant passed by without looking in on me. I quickly grabbed the book off the shelf and shoved it beneath my coat.
It was only as I neared the outside hospital door that I thought to look again. “A Practical Treatise on the Most Obvious Diseases Peculiar to Horses”! I had taken the wrong book.
As I turned back into the hospital, I ran nearly headlong into the assistant.
“Are you well, Mrs Forrester?” he asked with genuine concern. He noticed the way I clutched my abdomen as I tried to hide the book beneath my coat.
“Yes, yes, just a bit tired. Might I sit down one last time? You don’t need to trouble yourself — I can find my way back to Dr Randall’s office.”
In such a way, I was able to borrow the correct book and depart again without notice.
“Well, let me see what all the trouble is about,” Evelyn said when I had finished my story. “Oh, Sophie. Are you?” So I told her my news and begged her confidence.
As I write this, however, I am anxious about it all. I do hope I remembered to rearrange the books on the shelf as I should have, or the empty space is sure to be noticed.
February 15
From “A Manual of Obstetrics,” Philadelphia, 1884
Third Month. — Foetus grows to length of 2, 2½, and by the end of month to 3 or even 3½ inches. Fingers and toes formed, but are webbed. Head large compared with body. Eyes prominent, lids joined together.
Fourth month — Sex distinguishable. Nails begin to appear.
Fifth month — Weight increases to 6 or 10 ounces. Head one-third the length of whole foetus. Hair and nails visible.
Fingers and toes webbed like a waterfowl — how extraordinary! Dr Randall estimates that I am at least four months into my maternity. Any day now, according to this book, I should feel the quickening.
I tried this afternoon to lie flat on our bed perfectly still for a long time, in hopes of feeling some flutter or twinge. Instead, I fell asleep without ever sensing any movement. I do begin to feel a new weight in my belly, however, as if I have swallowed a small sack of grain.
Oregon Post
NEWS FROM ALASKA
April 10, 1885 — The following news from Alaska has been received via Port Townsend: Commander Daley of the USS Pinta reports an Indian uprising on Perkins Island off the southern coast of Alaska.
On the night of April 2, the Indians of the village, under the influence of a new batch of "hoochenoo," attacked the Alaska Commercial Co. trading store operated by Mr. Wesley Jenson. When Mr. Jenson attempted to beat back the attack, an Indian bludgeoned him with a club. In defense, the trader shot down the Indian. During the rest of the night, the hostile Indians rampaged through the village.
A visit from the fourth-rate man-of-war Pinta, even with her small armament, had a quieting effect upon the malcontents, said Lieut.-Commander Daley. The recent shelling of a nearby village by the US Revenue Cutter Thomas Corwin certainly served as deterrent to the Perkins Island Indians. By all accounts, these Indians respect force, and, when ruled with a firm but just hand, behave well.
According to the trader Mr. Jenson: "They are learning to respect our authority, and as long as false sentimentality is not allowed to rule, their respect will increase."
When the surgeon from the Pinta went ashore to care for the wounded, he found black measles and scarlet fever raging fearfully among the half-breed children on the island. The surgeon has since been kept steadily occupied.
Attention Mr. Josh Sloan
Alpine Historical Museum
Alpine, Alaska
Mr. Sloan,
I don’t have an email. Or a computer for that matter. I’m not too fond of chatting on the telephone either. I’m afraid we will have to rely on the United States Postal Service.
I am glad to know it all arrived safe and sound. Those pages have meant a great deal to me. I used to hide away in the attic when I was a boy and read through the letters and journals. It took me some time to make out the Colonel’s writing, what with his shorthand, but I felt like I was breaking a secret
code and it only added to my fun.
You’ll see I took care in how I packed them all inside grocery bags, then wrapped them in newspaper, taped them all up, and packed them in the boxes with old magazines. I wanted to be sure that they’d arrive up there in one piece, and I sure wasn’t going to give my right arm so the shippers could do their ridiculous work. Nothing I hate worse than those foam peanuts. I had 70 years of National Geographics and Billings Gazettes around the house here. Seems they finally proved useful.
Now to your first point — I thought about getting hold of a university or the history museum there in Anchorage. It seems to me, though, that the closest these papers have to a home, outside of the Forrester family, is the Wolverine River. I did my research. The woman down at the library looked it up on her computer for me. She said your museum and your town of Alpine are located on the banks of the Wolverine and that you curate collections about everything from Native people to mining history in that area. Now that I know you have your own deep roots in the place, I’m all the more sure about my decision.
Now to the other matter. Pansy politicians. They have no trouble filling up their jet planes or writing checks for their own salaries, do they? But they can’t see fit to care for our very history. It’s a shame.
All that said, it can’t cost much to find a place to store these boxes. Put them on your lists or whatever you’ve got there, so people know you have them. Keep them safe. I can’t tell you how many times I read over these papers, first as a small boy stirred up by the adventure, then as a man trying to understand a man’s concerns. Of course I never did meet the Colonel and Sophie, but I feel like I know them all the same.
I always thought I’d come up your way and see Alaska for myself. A lot of shoulda, woulda, couldas. When a man gets to be 70-some years old, there is no time left for sniveling. But I do have a favor to ask of you. Do you think you could send me a photograph or two, just stick a camera out your window there at the museum, so I can have a look at the river? Maybe a few words, so I can picture it all.
