by Rebecca Tope
The land does have some trees, but it is very dry and mainly small bushes grow. We saw wild roses, with wonderful scent. The rocks are loose and small, some of them quite pretty. There are white cliffs in the distance, which Fanny said the wagons would have to scale, but of course that’s not true. There are prairie dogs everywhere, funny little things.
My father kinked an eyebrow at all these details, which he said were not the sort of thing he expected to read. But I left them alone, thinking he would soon lose interest in reading my journal again. He only looked at it because it was the first of this next phase of our trek.
Lizzie’s dog had remained undiscovered until the last hour before we stopped for the night. Then it began whining and she had to bring it out of its hiding place and confess what she had done. It had a shaggy black coat, with long ears and a ratty tail. Both our parents chastised her roundly for the theft and the deceit.
‘The Indians eat their dogs,’ I said. ‘So Lizzie has perhaps saved its life.’
‘We can eat it if we finish all our provisions and get lost in the wilderness,’ said Nam.
Lizzie fiercely hugged the animal to her and said that would never happen.
My father’s interest had been snagged by the stones I mentioned in the journal. He said there were agates amongst them and gathered many examples into a cotton bag. They were mostly black in colour and had shapes embedded in them which were plainly tiny shells magically turned to stone. He kept one or two in his pockets and would rub them in an unconscious habit. ‘They can be using for smoothing leather,’ he said. ‘I have seen it done.’ But I think he kept them for their prettiness and the curiosity as to how they had been formed.
That first night out of the fort was a sweet one for our family. We were fresh from the rest, eager to exchange impressions of the past days and hopes for those to come. My mother had colour in her cheeks and a lightness that we seldom saw. Her clothes were clean and tidy, and she wore Indian moccasins which she said were a version of slipper, intended for the evening hours. Fanny also had a pair, but argued that they were made for walking, and used them all day long.
Our oxen had not been eager to resume their labours, which was part of the reason for the small distance covered that day. Without Reuben, it fell to me to take charge of them, which did not please me. They were a source of some worry to me, from that time on. Up to the fort, they had not been shod, since the trail was mainly sandy and well trodden, and their feet were quite able to manage. But now they had metal shoes, for better grip and protection against the stonier ground. It had been a troublesome business, waiting for them to be shod by a blacksmith at the fort. We all lined up and watched as the carefully-shaped metal plates were nailed into place. It was a trickier job than shoeing a horse, with the cloven hooves more sensitive and with a narrower hard area to work on. If a nail went into the wrong part, the animal would become useless to us and our plans would collapse. It was also deeply unpleasant for the beasts, who had to be thrown onto their sides and their feet roped to keep them still. The smith’s assistant spent all day sitting on the necks of scores of oxen, one after another, to prevent them from rising or thrashing about until finished. The oxen then had two days to accustom themselves to the strange heaviness and it was both comical and painful to watch them learning to adjust, with the exaggerated steps they took, lifting their feet high in puzzlement.
We all had an inevitable affection for the beasts, who we had between us named Cloud and Thunder, Dot and Seamus (named after Grandma’s famous leprechaun). We were acutely conscious of how much we relied on them and the very first priority every evening was to find them water and pasture, lifting off the heavy yoke that formed callouses on their necks. They were entirely tame, following where we led them without question. Any hint of lameness or sickness was treated with prompt concern, but up to that point they had all maintained good health. They were slightly leaner after the months of exertion, and well muscled. They had wide horns, which they might toss at any moment, quite careless of whose eye they might catch as they did so. They were like two pairs of twins in size and colour, and remained close together even when turned loose.
When we forded rivers, after that alarming first experience, the oxen showed no hesitation before stepping into the water and dragging the wagon after them. The steadiness with which they pulled was a remarkable thing, as if they never doubted their strength would conquer any impediment. Back in Westport there had been plenty of talk about how horses were of little use on the kind of expedition we planned, and mules were prone to sickness and disobedience and were more demanding in what they ate. An ox would eat anything, we were assured, and never fell ill. Their advocates readily persuaded thousands of migrants, year after year, that the Oregon trail would tolerate no other draught animal.
Abel Tennant had no fewer than twelve oxen under his care, since the family continued with both their wagons, each with three yokes. There were fresh supplies of food filling almost every inch of space inside the vehicles, for all of us, leaving nowhere for anybody to sit and ride. Indeed, all but the most weak or idle chose to walk in preference to riding, in any case. The wagons were painfully jolting and there was nowhere soft to settle inside. Furthermore, there was a silent criticism directed at anyone choosing to ride unless they were ill. So long as there were no blistered feet or injured knees, walking was no hardship. The rhythm was tranquil, the pauses at noon and sunset forming a pattern that we had grown well accustomed to. Our bodies fell into the routine without protest, and there was a sociability to it that we had all come to value.
Abel and I were thrown into each other’s company, thanks to the oxen. We collected them from their pasturing in the morning, yoked them and then unyoked them again, every day. He was helped by his Uncle Barty, since he could not hope to manage two teams alone. I would compete with them, without letting them know I was doing so, losing myself in the work, and striving to present the finest and most biddable beasts. It was a point of honour with me not to apply to my father for assistance, especially as he had little affinity with cattle and would alarm them needlessly. My father had always favoured horses over other animals and quickly lost patience with the slow manners of our draught animals. I took great pleasure in smoothing the soft hide below their necks, down to the place between their forelegs. They would stretch their heads forward, extending the area to be stroked, and making a sound not unlike the purr of a cat. Unlike horses, there was no real need for grooming or currying, but every creature enjoys contact and this slow warm attention each evening was their reward for a day of hard labour. In the early days, when they still had their winter coats, I would brush them simply for the pleasure of it, while Reuben tended to the harness.
Lizzie took to watching me as I worked, and was soon bringing Bathsheba out to the grass, where she would stroke and croon over her dog while I gave a similar time to my oxen. This went on for a week, with every day a slightly harder climb, the land rising slowly but inexorably towards the distant mountains, and the oxen gradually growing thinner.
‘Will Reuben be fighting now?’ my sister asked me, on one of these evenings.
‘Perhaps. But I guess they have to teach him soldiering first.’ I discovered that I had given my brother scarcely a thought for days. His disappearance left all too small a ripple on the surface of my life.
‘He will make a poor student.’
I had never questioned to myself the regard the younger girls had for Reuben, and had no notion of their feelings about him, except for Nam who often demanded he give her rides on his back and would creep up to him for shelter if the wind blew strong on the early days of our trek. ‘No call to worry over him,’ I said.
Lizzie did not respond, and I cared too little to attempt to ascertain her thoughts on the matter. She pulled at small knots in her dog’s coat and I wandered over to a clump of plantain which I gathered for my oxen. When I returned, I said, ‘We shall always remember these months, I suppose. All our lives, this will be
the great adventure that we look back on, as if it were a story.’
‘Is that the reason you write in the journal?’
I paused. ‘Maybe it is. Lest we forget the facts of it all.’ I frowned, thinking I ought to expand on my daily records considerably if I were seriously to rely on them in years to come. ‘We are privileged to be part of this emigration. We owe it to our descendants to remember it all.’
Lizzie shrugged impatiently. ‘I would take no interest in dusty old journals if my ancestor had done what we are doing. We will be recorded as fools, just as likely, moving so slowly along tracks that nobody is certain of. Those men at the fort saw us in that way.’
I had been doing my utmost to forget the scorn that greeted us at the fort, and was shocked that this young sister had taken it to heart. ‘The track is certain enough,’ I corrected her. ‘The South Pass is an easy way through the Divide.’
‘And then?’
‘Then, dear sister, we settle near Oregon City in the fertile valley and become founders of a great civilisation. Our father will be prosperous, as before, manufacturing essential goods. We will find rich and handsome husbands and live long and happy lives in a democratic Garden of Eden.’ I spoke only slightly ironically, quoting the established and universal expectation of every soul in the wagon train. ‘What else?’ I added.
Lizzie was fourteen years old and a serious person - at times. She was also discontented and disinclined to socialise. ‘Rich and handsome husbands,’ she repeated with a wry smile. ‘For Fanny perhaps. She keeps her skin unburnt and her hair thick. Fanny treads lightly, like a fairy. She will sing and dance for the men of Oregon and break a hundred hearts.’
I chuckled. ‘She was born under a laughing star.’
‘And mine was the very opposite,’ said Lizzie, who had heard stories of her miserable infancy many a time.
‘And mine?’ I wondered.
‘You, Charity? You move like a shadow, watching us all and never giving a hint of your thoughts. The men speak to you, and you listen, but they learn nothing of your heart. I have seen them looking after you and scratching their heads. Abel and Henry and even poor Mr Fields – they expect something from you and never receive it.’
I jerked back as if slapped. A tightness like a clenched fist took place in my chest so I could hardly breathe. And yet there had been nothing overtly unkind in Lizzie’s words. It was shock, not pain, and a thread of fear. I could not account for the fear and sought to smother it with a forced croaking laugh.
‘And you are another, then, to be watching me so closely,’ I accused. ‘And drawing your childish conclusions, that are nothing more than fantasy and mistake.’
She lifted one shoulder carelessly. ‘You asked,’ she said.
‘I will take care not to do so again.’
We returned to our tent in a scratchy silence. I deliberately filled my head with matters concerning the oxen, my brother Reuben, my youngest sister’s prattle about a deer she had seen in the distance. I chattered brightly to Fanny and my mother, revisiting the encounter we had had with the Indians at the fort, and the way they had expected us to provide food and drink for them. I strove to insert opinions and observations, as a riposte to Lizzie’s characterisation of me. ‘The Indian men are well made,’ I said firmly. ‘But I thought the women very brainless and savage.’
Nobody took this up, either to agree or disagree. We ate our supper, which was flavoured as always with sage from the surrounding bushes. In those weeks on the plains I believe we all smelled and tasted the dry sweet-sharp sage every moment of the day and night until we ceased to notice it.
During that night there was a commotion from tents at the forefront of the train. A gun was fired and a great animal roar went up immediately afterwards. A roar of pain and rage and fear. The gun fired again and the noise ceased. My father ordered us all to remain in the tent, and he went to investigate. ‘A bear has been killed,’ he said shortly when he came back. There was a hint of sadness in his tone.
The body of the bear was the object of great interest next day. It was not especially large, with dark brown fur and long yellow teeth bared even in death. The thick curved claws were exposed like discarded weapons and the chest spiky with dried blood. There was considerable debate as to whether it was worth skinning and butchering for the hide and meat. So recently supplied by the fort, no-one was low on provisions. Mr Franklin was not the only butcher in the train, but we all looked to him for guidance. He chewed his chequered moustache and wavered. The man who had shot the creature was a well-fed farmer from Missouri, one of a minority who could handle a rifle with confidence. He admitted to never having consumed the meat of a bear and felt disinclined to try it.
Then Mr Fields stepped forward. ‘We cannot waste it,’ he said, quite loudly. ‘The animal has died for no purpose – we owe it a duty to eat it.’
Everybody stared, blinking at the idea he had expressed. One or two muttered about his Indian heritage leaving a legacy of savage notions. ‘The beast was mauling my tent,’ the farmer corrected him. ‘It would most likely have killed the wife and myself if’n I hadn’t shot it.’
Mr Fields shook his head. ‘A clap of your hands would drive it away. ’Tis a young male – no cubs to rear, no reason to be hungry or aggressive. Just curiosity. That’s what killed him.’ He sighed, with the same sadness I had heard in my father’s voice.
With some reluctance, Mr Franklin and another butcher shared the gory business of skinning and dismembering the animal, stacking shapeless chunks of meat in a shady place where it was divided up amongst families willing to use it. My mother took one piece, salting it and pressing it into an earthenware pot, as if it were a ham. It was all done quickly, but our departure that morning was delayed.
I found myself standing next to Mrs Gordon, who was holding her sister’s baby, as usual. We both watched the butchering sideways, flinching at the strenuous slices her brother-in-law was making through the fresh meat, revealing the tightly-packed grey intestines, still steaming with body heat. A great pile of these innards was left at the side of the trail as a feast for crows and other creatures.
I made a low sound of disgust and Mrs Gordon smiled at me. ‘Nasty,’ she agreed.
I had been hoping for a proper talk with her since the trek began and this promised to be my opportunity. Her own child was contentedly playing with his cousins, everything in suspension while we awaited the dismembering of the bear. ‘What is the baby called?’ I asked.
She looked at it as if surprised to find it in her arms. ‘Emily,’ she said. She leaned towards me confidingly. ‘Do you know – I am now feeding her, instead of her mother. I still have some milk, from a little boy I lost a year since, and her own mother’s has gone thin.’
I recoiled slightly, unprepared for such intimate revelations. ‘Oh, my,’ I managed.
She sighed. ‘It is no hardship, to be honest. I am glad to do whatever I can to repay the kindness of Mr Franklin. He truly did rescue me and my little lad. I have no notion what might have befallen us else.’
Her accent was a muddle of Southern States and something I faintly recognised as London English. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked her.
‘I was born in Poplar, beside the great Thames River, but the family all shipped to South Carolina when I was six. I married Tommy’s father when I was sixteen, and he died six months past. Got bitten by a rattlesnake in Kentucky in November. He stepped on it and it bit him three times.’ She shook her head. ‘Took him two hours to die.’
‘Were you there?’
‘Not when it bit, but I found him before he died. Said our goodbyes very nicely we did.’ Her eyes were shiny with tears that suggested a sort of sentimental ecstasy rather than profound grief.
‘There are no snakes in Ireland,’ I said childishly. ‘Saint Patrick drove them all away.’
‘Precious few in London, either. We are living in a wild land here, and like to get a lot wilder.’
Her utterances were of the
sort that gave little opening for sensible responses, I was discovering. Although she looked tired, her hem stiff with dust and mud, her hands red and swollen, there was a spirit to her that I found appealing. ‘Will you miss Allen and Jude?’ I ventured.
‘Of course. Though not so much as their parents will. I can fit no more chores into my day, which is bad news for my sister. I fear she will be forced to collect dung and tend oxen more than she expected.’
‘Is she much senior to you in years?’
‘She is eight-and-twenty, and I am seven years younger.’ She looked over to her little boy. ‘I had another one, just like Tommy. Little Joe, we called him. Six months old he was, when he went. I never knew it was such pain, when a child dies.’ She put a hand to her breast. ‘It’s like a thousand stabs from Mr Franklin’s knife – and yet you never bleed. People cannot see the wounds, and so they cannot understand.’
‘You are a mere year older than I.’ It seemed impossible that she had known such grief and loss in so short a life. I would have guessed her to be twenty-five at the very least.
‘It should be counted in experience, and not the calendar,’ she said, eyeing me appraisingly. ‘You strike me as very young for your age.’
It was said gently, but I felt it as a criticism, for all that. Or perhaps patronage was closer to the truth. It was an attitude I had felt from others in the party, and I wondered whether I was discussed as being immature and slow. The idea annoyed me all the more for knowing there was some truth to it. ‘I dare say I shall catch up before long,’ I snapped.
‘I dare say you will,’ she said mildly. Then she added, ‘Your name is Charity, mine is Hope.’ She laughed. ‘Somewhere in the train, there must be a Faith, don’t you think?’
