The Indifference of Tumbleweed

by Rebecca Tope

  I was hurt and bemused by this speech. ‘Did Abel put these notions into your head?’

  She smiled. ‘Abel is not a man for ideas. Abel scarcely utters a word to me. My ideas are my own, forged and tempered in my own smithy, like the best of swords. I trust them completely.’

  ‘Ideas are powerless if the world is against you.’

  ‘And you take it upon yourself to represent the world.’

  I splashed away from her then, feeling all the previous dark emotions, along with a bunch of new ones. In some way I was guilty, it seemed. Guilty for being older than Fanny, more serious and ‘dry’. Guilty for entertaining even for a moment the idea of revealing her sins to those in power over us both. Guilty of a deficiency in love and charity, as well as understanding. And also perhaps guilty of stupidity – the failing that until then I had imagined to be Reuben’s exclusive territory. Nobody was as stupid as our brother, but perhaps with him gone, someone else was constrained to fill his shoes.

  Nothing had been resolved. We had made vague threats to each other, inspiring fear on both sides. In my darker moments I was glad to have shaken her from the horrible complacency in which she gave the impression that she had found treasure that others were too timid or hidebound to seek. She had never imagined that Abel might be hanged for their sinfulness, evidently. I had been confident of my threat when I made it, but soon I began to doubt whether I had it right. Fornication was a sin more condemned by the church than the state, and I had never heard tell of a man executed for its commission, unless he be a slave forgetting himself with a white girl. But I was glad I had alarmed my sister and I wondered how much she would fight to save his life, or whether all her concern was for herself by association with him.

  I found myself in an even more dark and lonely place after this exchange. I could not look a man in the face without imagining him naked and shuddering as Abel had been. I could not see a baby without also seeing how it had been generated, often by parents who were as plain and undemonstrative as two stones. I assumed that every loud word or laugh in the camp at night was prelude to the dreadful deed I had witnessed. I had been shown a universal fact of nature and found myself appalled.

  It continued to be the case that there was nobody I might share these feelings with. Everyone was either too young or too old, too innocent or too untrustworthy. I could not discern who amongst the party already understood how human beings came together, and who might be as ignorant as myself. Mr Bricewood had daughters, Hannah and Martha, but they were hardly older than Lizzie, and impossible to speak to sensibly. There were young wives – the two Mrs Tennants as well as Mrs Gordon, who would very probably have responded to shy questions as to monthly courses or even the tribulations of childbirth – but they would find it beyond strange if I attempted to consult them about my sister and her behaviour.

  We progressed through South Pass as if we were enjoying a summer walk on a gentle hilltop. The very ease of it made many people delirious, and they ran to and fro, arms outspread, praising God for the provision of this way through the Divide. There was another fort almost within reach, and the people in the wagon train were warm with a sense of accomplishment that the journey was half done so readily. All but myself, it seemed. I dragged myself about, unmoved by the celebrations, which were becoming more numerous as we negotiated one important landmark after another. No doubt there would be singing and partying when we reached Fort Bridger, too. I felt I would for ever, throughout my life, be sickened by that sort of thing, after what had happened at Independence Rock.

  July 17th

  The journey since the South Pass has been through mountainous country, but the way is not hard. There has been rain each night for five days, and it is altogether cooler than before. Nam’s earache is gone, thanks to Grandmother’s ministrations with poultices and good nursing. Bathsheba continues to behave badly. Little Susanna Fields has broken her leg quite badly, from falling under the wagon wheel and being crushed. We hope to achieve one hundred miles each week until late September, when we should find ourselves in Oregon City. The oxen are hale and willing. We reach Fort Bridger tomorrow. Several wagons left us the day after we traversed South Pass, believing there to be a shorter cut-off. Amongst them was Virginia Reed and her family.

  It was more than I could manage to find anything further to say than this. The general buoyancy amongst the migrants only served to depress me further, filling me with a thick soup of anger and guilt and puzzlement. Fanny continued to cast anxious looks my way, as I grew thinner and gloomier with every passing day. Grandma finally took notice, too, and asked me if I had a cough, and whether my stools were normal. ‘You must have worms,’ she said flatly, ‘if it is not the lung disease. A tapeworm, more than likely.’

  I obediently swallowed the mixture she dug out of her trunk, knowing it would do me no good.

  There was a great deal of discussion concerning the decision of a substantial group of parties, including the one led by Mr Donner, to break away and pursue a shorter but uncharted trail. I took little interest in this, trusting my father to do what was best for us. The fact that we had always had Oregon and the Willamette Valley as our destination made it an obvious decision to remain on the tried and tested way. It turned northwards towards Fort Hall, and this was fine with us. Those wishing to settle in California had a more difficult choice, since they were aiming for a point somewhat to the south. To traverse a long loop northwards was regarded as wasteful and foolish. But the scouts spoke up loudly in favour of us all remaining together and they shook their heads reproachfully as the breakaway parties steadfastly turned to the left, as we remained on the wide and easy trail to the right. There were other voices, claiming to know new routes that would save time and deliver the migrants to California with little difficulty. Rumours abounded to this effect, with our scouts suspected of unwarranted pessimism, simply in order to retain as large a train as possible with the payment that would accrue accordingly.

  I was mildly sorry to lose Virginia Reed, who I had quietly hoped might become a friend in the weeks ahead. She would, I had imagined, provide me with a wholesome escape from my seething thoughts, and two or three times I had sought her out, only to find her busy and distracted, with no time for chatter.

  We continued for another few days, not entirely unhappy at the additional pasture available for our stock, thanks to the diminution of the train. The routines were unvaried, with men and beasts proceeding in a quiet orderly fashion along the ground softened by the nightly rains. There were whole days in which nobody spoke of the future, but concentrated on food stores, the quality of water and how it was difficult to wash any garments when they would not dry overnight. A growing pile of soiled clothes lay in a corner of the wagon, the hems caked with dust, armpits stiff with perspiration and a few shameful splashes of blood on skirts and undergarments. I was aware that Fanny had her courses the day we traversed South Pass, which brought a renewed surge of confused feelings. It meant – if my incomplete grasp of the process could be trusted - that she had escaped one particular trouble at least for another month, and also that she had a chance of escaping detection. Part of me was sorry about this and another part was much relieved. Natural justice should ordain that her own behaviour would lead to her downfall, and not a betrayal by me, her sister. But if nature refused to play her part, I remained the prime witness, still no closer to knowing what I ought to do.

  Susanna Fields – or so we called her, even if Mr Fields were not her natural father - was the youngest of the three children, just past four years old. The accident had been largely the fault of her mother, who was directing the oxen from the front board of the wagon while her husband was walking ahead with Mr Franklin. I had been watching the men from a few yards behind them, feeling glad that they were enjoying such an amicable interlude. Mr Franklin was laughing at something the other man said, which I believe concerned a large bird of prey that had been soaring above us for some time. As always, my eyes remained fixed on his great bus
hy upper lip, which sometimes seemed to have an independent existence.

  The first thing we heard was a shout from Mrs Fields and a low cry from one of the draft animals. Looking round, I could at first make out little of what was taking place. The wagon had slipped somewhat to one side, having been dragged out of the usual tracks and mounting one of the hard-baked edges of the rut. Something was amiss with the yoke and harness, so the beasts were further apart than they should have been, pulling awkwardly. One had almost got free from his restraints and was dragging everything sideways in an effort to reach a clump of grass close by. Despite his bellow when Mrs Fields whipped him, he continued on his wayward path. The wagon tipped further, rocking and creaking. The woman climbed down quickly, aware of the danger of the whole outfit tipping over.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted the little Fields boy. ‘Let’s all push it straight!’ And before anyone could move, he and his two small sisters were shouldering the lower wheel in an entirely useless attempt to straighten the heavy wagon.

  ‘No!’ shouted Mr Franklin, first to grasp the danger. He began to run back, followed rather slowly by Mr Fields. Before they could save the situation, the ox had been arrested in his tracks by a jab from a sharp pole which Mrs Fields had extracted from the inside of the wagon. He jumped, and the wagon lurched again, back into its rightful track. Then it rolled perhaps two feet backwards, as it settled.

  The screams were enough to alert every Indian in the country, and send every bird and snake into hiding. The noise took our breath away, so that everything else was silent. Then there was shouting and crying and calling for assistance. Abel Tennant, my father and Mr Fields took their places in a human team led by Mr Franklin and they lifted the wheel clear of the child, while her mother and Hope Gordon lifted her clear. My grandmother elbowed her way through the gathering crowd, only to make a sound of horror and pity that I shall never forget.

  The bone of Susanna’s upper leg was crushed, with shards protruding from the skin. Her face was grey and she sagged lifelessly from her mother’s arms. There was blood on the woman’s dress, and trickling steadily to the dusty ground. The little girl looked like a broken doll, small and insignificant.

  But Grandma was undaunted. Clearing a space, and demanding a clean blanket on which to lay her patient, she knelt over the injury. ‘Bandages, splints, spirits, hot water’ she ordered, and within moments she had what she needed. She stemmed the bleeding and cleaned away the dust and grit. Then she pulled the leg as straight as she could, with the help of my father, and fastened splints on both sides, tying them with strips of cloth, above and below the break. The little foot remained at a strange unnatural angle, even after these attentions, but the leg itself already seemed better.

  ‘It is the best I can do,’ said the old woman. ‘She may not survive, I warn you. ‘Tis a terrible wound, so it is.’

  The Fields family were almost as grey-faced as their child. The little boy was sobbing softly, ignored by his mother. Their stepfather was transfixed by the suddenness of the accident, seemingly unable to speak or think or move. His wife, eventually, began to berate the ox. ‘That cursed animal,’ she raved. ‘This is all his doing.’ She grabbed her pointed pole and started jabbing viciously at the creature’s flank. ‘You killed my baby, you monster,’ she gasped. ‘Now I’ll kill you for it.’

  Mr Franklin swiftly removed the weapon from her hands and pushed her away. The ox had plunged free from his faulty harness and was trotting down the trail, swishing his tail and shaking his head in bewilderment. His partner gave a low groan of sympathy.

  Willing hands captured the abused beast and yoked him securely back into place. His sides were anointed with balm, where long scratches showed. Susanna was moved to one of the Tennant wagons, which had become the occasional sanctuary for anyone ill or hurt, over the past months. Esther, wife of Barty and mother of the noisy twins, took charge of the little patient.

  Most of the train had continued to move forward, trusting that our party could resolve our own difficulties, and catch up by sundown. In varying degrees of upset, we began to straggle on, Mr Bricewood’s wagon leading the way, and the Fields’ coming last. Those parties behind us had been forced to wait for us to get going, since the trail was narrow at that point, with no opportunity to pass. This, of course, partly explained the accident. The children had already been walking dangerously close to the wagon before the trouble began. It had seemed to them a simple, almost natural, act to make an attempt to push it straight.

  I heard Mr Fields trying to persuade the distraught Jimmy of this truth. ‘No blame attaches to you,’ he said. ‘You were aiming to help, after all.’

  ‘But I knew we must not touch the wheels,’ the boy wept. ‘We have been told it many a time.’

  ‘What’s done is done,’ sighed the man. ‘And I wager you won’t do it again.’

  The words sounded callous to my ear, but the boy looked up with something like amusement on his tear-stained face. ‘True, sir,’ he said.

  I lingered close to them, wishing to express my sympathies. Jimmy was sent to watch over his remaining sister and Mr Fields met my eyes. ‘Miss Collins,’ he nodded. ‘We must seem a very ill-fated family to you.’

  ‘The poor child,’ I murmured. ‘Such pain! And so long before she can hope to heal.’

  ‘Indeed. The brightest and healthiest of the bunch, at that. My wife will take it hard.’

  I wanted to say it was all the stupid woman’s fault. She ought to have kept better control of the beasts. She was weak and inattentive and altogether lacking in brains. But I could not criticise her under such circumstances, so kept my counsel.

  He read my thoughts anyway. ‘She is unwell,’ he said, as if in justification. ‘And she has nothing to occupy her hands or thoughts. I fear this migration is sending her a little mad.’

  Mad? I looked at him in surprise. Madness was something as greatly feared as physical hurt. A mad woman might hurt her own child, or herself, or run barefoot into the forest. She might stab at her precious oxen with a sharp stick. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I pray that is not the case.’ My words came pat, bearing little relation to my actual thoughts. If Mrs Fields went mad, she would be worse than useless to her family. She would bring trouble onto everyone around her.

  It would, I could not help thinking, be an interesting diversion from the usual run of things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fort Bridger was a forlorn establishment, compared to Fort Laramie. A huddle of mud-brick shacks, surrounded by Indian dwellings, and thronged with trappers who showed even more contempt for us than those of a month earlier had done. Somehow, in the meantime, all that had been forgotten, and the occupants of the wagon train bounded joyfully up to its walls, expecting to be greeted with approval and interest. Instead we were shown to a wide area set aside for our camp, and told there were only the basics available by way of provisions. There were many single travellers on horseback, with scarcely any possessions, as there had been at Laramie. There were scouts hoping for work, if those who had brought us thus far chose to abandon us and return to Missouri for another group of emigrants heading southwards through Oklahoma, where the trail was easier and the lateness of the summer scarcely a matter of concern.

  Henry Bricewood had been giving me increasingly direct looks over the past week, his head on one side in a plain question. Others too had begun to notice my change in manner and appearance. I saw no reason to conceal my unhappiness and found myself hoping that my father or mother would challenge me directly, and force an explanation from me as to what might be the trouble. My grandmother’s diagnosis of a tapeworm dashed such hope, however. The assumption was made that I had a debilitating parasite that explained my lack of colour and appetite – although Lizzie did say, ‘But I thought a tapeworm made a person more hungry, not less?’

  It was on our first evening at Fort Bridger that Henry approached me. I had let the oxen loose on a patch of good pasture, and was sitting on a small slope aimlessly picking up small
stones and tossing them into the air, waiting for a chance to crawl into the tent and try to sleep. Instead Henry quietly sat down beside me, slightly below me, as if hoping to avoid frightening me away. ‘You are troubled,’ he murmured.

  I was slow to see my chance, but after a silence, I asked him, ‘Would they hang a man for fornication?’

  He breathed out, a long sigh. ‘Ah! Now I understand. You speak of Abel Tennant.’

  My heart filled my breast, preventing me from breathing or speaking. I felt fear and shame and a kind of horror. ‘You know?’ I managed.

  ‘Several of us do,’ he nodded. ‘He has bragged about it.’

  ‘Bragged?’ I could not comprehend how that could be so. ‘And gone unpunished?’

  ‘He is careful who he shares his bragging with. Myself and younger boys.’

  ‘Does he cast calumny onto my sister, then? Does he speak of her as an easy woman?’

  Henry’s face was full of the most painful embarrassment. ‘I cannot say,’ he managed. ‘But I can understand your distress.’ He put a gentle hand on my knee. ‘Indeed I can.’

  His sympathy undid me completely. His knowledge convinced me that I had not dreamed or imagined the affair, while at the same time assuring me that there was nothing straightforward about it.

  ‘What should I do?’ I wept. ‘Tell me what I should do.’

  ‘What is the nature of your dilemma?’

  I blinked at him, and dashed away my tears. ‘Is it not clear that my duty is to do all I can to prevent further sin? I feel sure I ought to tell my father…’ I looked down at his hand still on my leg and sniffed.

  ‘If it were as clear as that, you would surely have taken the step already? When did you become aware of the…facts?’

  ‘At Independence Rock. Eight, nine days…’ I was unsure of the period that had passed. It felt like years to me then.