by Rebecca Tope
The mud was a nasty surprise. Where before we had known a few stretches of marshy ground, on the whole our journey had been over dry ground. Many people had walked barefoot at times, or with light footwear. Now we needed boots again, as we had in those first weeks, and they quickly became clagged and heavy with sticky mud. The many teams of oxen treading over the same narrow track, despite the layers of timber and brush that had been put down, turned it into a slough of deep mud. Previously we had been able to form loops on either side, finding harder ground, but on this road there was nowhere to go but straight along the newly-made track, with great trees and rocks pressing in on both sides. We lost sight of Mount Hood behind the trees and in the dim light caused by the rain. With the poor forage, and the constant miring of the wagon in the mud, the oxen were in a bad way.
‘The darkest hour is just before dawn,’ said my father, hoping to raise our spirits. ‘Fifty miles ahead there is our new life. A new dawn for us all.’ But nobody could raise an answering smile. Mother had begun to worry afresh about Reuben, and how in the world he might find us, even if he did escape the fighting unharmed. Mr Fields was plainly almost desperate to know how he might feed his family and beasts, with no more than half a sack of flour remaining.
‘Is it really only fifty more miles?’ I asked Henry.
‘Near enough. The White River is not far off. We must cross it, I believe, and then the road goes a little to the north, in the foothills of the great mountain, and finally westwards to the settlement. We might easily do it in five days.’
‘Five days!’ The idea stunned me, although I was quite capable of making the calculation myself. From the Dalles to Oregon City, even with the loop taking us south and then northwards again, could be scarcely one hundred miles. A man on horseback could comfortably make the ride to Oregon City in a day and a half. ‘Then we are practically there.’
‘Before the snow starts falling on us,’ he nodded. ‘It is all just as it was planned from the outset.’
I sighed. ‘That is not altogether true, Henry. We have had losses and setbacks that we could never have envisaged.’
‘You mean the lads that were recruited to be soldiers?’
‘In part.’ I yearned to tell him about Fanny and how alien she had become to me, but my tongue would not form the words. ‘And I am still sorrowful at leaving our good oxen behind at Fort Nez Percé. I cannot feel the same for the new ones.’
He smiled patronisingly. ‘The original teams could never have got us so far,’ he said.
‘I understand that. It makes no difference to my feelings.’
‘As I see it, we should heartily congratulate ourselves for our triumphs. There has been little or no falling-out, scarcely any illness, and much less jettisoning of our goods than might have been. Mr Tennant retains his big chair, and your grandmother still has her spinning wheel. And the coming day will see us at the road’s end, where there will perhaps be fresh supplies of food.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘That will save the Fields family, at least.’
‘We would not let them starve,’ he said with a hint of reproach. ‘After so many months together, they are as close as relatives. Mr Tennant is quite aware that Mr Fields carries no money. He accordingly decided to pay the toll for the party without discrimination.’
‘A noble sentiment,’ I approved, thinking it would not harm Mr Tennant to have every family slightly in his debt. ‘But perhaps a trifle overdone. The toll for Mr Fields is considerably lower than for your family, or ours.’
‘My father would agree with you. He was considering making them same gesture, but was too slow to voice it.’
I blinked. Five months together, and I knew Mr Bricewood so little that he could still surprise me. The man was hearty, bluff, optimistic, much like my own father, but not conspicuously generous. Mr Franklin was more inclined to gloom, but had many useful talents. Mr Tennant was an autocrat, maintaining his calm authority regardless of his injured foot. The three of them formed a solidly reliable backdrop to our party, clear-sighted and good-natured. My father fitted in easily, and Mr Fields did not. Now that our goal was within our grasp, I wondered whether they would all begin to reveal other traits, such as competitiveness and assertion of status.
The moments when we all came most close together were often unexpected. I recalled an afternoon shortly after the crossing of the South Pass when Mr Bricewood had suddenly begun to sing and cavort as he walked beside his oxen. It was as if a fit seized him, so sudden was the display. Gradually others had joined in, holding hands and weaving along the trail, in bright warm sunshine. Skirts had swirled and hats were thrown into the air. It had been an hour of madness which left everyone feeling happy and sociable. The cooking pots that evening had been clustered more closely together and the party exchanged dishes as if at a city buffet dinner.
More organised celebrations such as that at Independence Rock had not been so successful at linking us together. Regardless of my own distressing discovery, the general merrymaking had felt slightly forced and lacking spontaneity. At least that was my impression as I looked back, months afterwards.
Generally we were amply provided with fuel, but there was seldom any success in locating a patch of pasture. The beasts grew thinner, day by day. I dreamed of a golden city in the far distance, surrounding by lush grassland, beckoning us on, across great gulfs full of rocks and rushing rivers, our oxen helpless to get us across.
It was only on an evening when Abel brought us a trug full of wood chippings that I realised the situation. I looked around for Fanny, assuming she would wish to greet him, but she was nowhere in sight. ‘Shall I call my sister?’ I asked him.
His eyes widened and he dropped the fuel. ‘Oh, no,’ he stammered. ‘She will not thank you if you do.’
For the hundredth time, his presence agitated my blood and set my heart thumping. The shame that ought to be his had long ago transferred itself to me, and I could never shake free of it. He met my eyes, even though I did my best to keep them averted, and smiled awkwardly. ‘Fanny has a new plan for her life – have you not heard it?’
‘A new plan?’ I repeated blankly.
‘Ask her. She will lay the blame on me, if blame it is. She claims that she is destined for great riches while my family and I remain peasants all our lives.’
I stared. The Tennants never had been and never would be peasants. Neither, come to that, would the Collinses. ‘Ask her,’ Abel said again, and walked away.
That evening, I did exactly as he advised. ‘I spoke with Abel today,’ I began. ‘Has he offended you in some way?’
Fanny smiled broadly, showing no hint of a broken heart or even a morsel of offence. ‘Not a bit,’ she laughed. ‘He is well aware of the impossible wife I should make. He is glad of his escape.’
‘And yet he feared your anger if you and he met,’ I argued.
‘Anger? No, you’re wrong there, Charity. It is merely that we have agreed to no longer waste one another’s time.’
There was so much time available that I was at a loss to see how some wastage of it could matter. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Abel has taught me all he can. He has opened my eyes, for which I shall always be grateful. I know now where my destiny lies, and I am fully occupied in laying my plans.’ She twirled a loose curl around a finger as if to demonstrate something. My blank face plainly irritated her. ‘You are a goose, Charity. I never knew a person more like a goose, and that’s the truth.’
‘Then enlighten me,’ I invited, keeping my temper with difficulty.
‘You will hiss and flap and run squawking to Mother if I do.’
‘I shall not.’
‘You promise?’
I nodded impatiently.
‘I cannot say much now. I am biding my time until we reach Oregon City, but I can assure you, sister, that it is a solid scheme, for which I am handsomely fitted. I confess there is still much to learn and discover, but the basic facts are clear. We have travell
ed in this train with families, and perhaps it is your impression that all the settlers in the Willamette and California are like us. But they are not, Charity. Not at all. There are thousands of single men, travelling by horseback or riverboat, or sailing up the coast from Panama. San Francisco is full of them. Understand this – there are almost no women. The trappers never have wives, unless they take Indian women. I have thought about this for weeks, and can see precisely what I must do. It will make me rich, and if I am careful, it will make me happy, too.’
I do not believe I had ever heard the word ‘prostitute’ at that point in my life. I did not know what men craved above all else. I could see nothing of Fanny’s sparkling vision, not so much as a faint shadow of what she meant. ‘You plan to marry a rich man in San Francisco?’ I asked, knowing I had it wrong, but clutching at a simple explanation for fear of my own ignorance.
‘No, Charity. I plan to pleasure the men of San Francisco, with soft beds and sweet scents and kind words. Or maybe there will be no need to go so far. I fancy there will be business enough in Oregon City, for a start.’ She tossed her head in a gesture of exhilaration, which reminded me of the revelations she had made as we stood in the river, far back before the South Pass. ‘I have seen the truth of life. Abel has shown it to me. Conventions, hypocrisy, pretence, modesty – it is all a great swindle, designed to conceal the truth. The only real thing is bodies, you see. If a man is content inside his body, he will bloom and prosper and flourish…’ She waved an airy hand, as if speaking to a large crowd.
‘Wait,’ I begged her. ‘Surely all that’s needed for this glorious state is a wife? Look at Father, and all the other men in the party. They are flourishing and contented because they have wives.’ Except for poor Mr Fields, I silently added.
‘Perhaps so, but you have not been listening. There are too few women for so many men. A wife will be a luxury available to very few for years ahead. The rigours of the trail will not bring single women in large numbers.’
I tried to think. Were we not a party containing a dozen single women, albeit some of them still young girls? They would grow soon enough into possible wives. ‘I believe it will be a very temporary difficulty,’ I said. ‘Besides…’ My objections were still too cloudy for a proper articulation.
She gave me a warning look. ‘No mealy-mouthed scruples, please. I have no wish to hear about ungodliness or breaking my mother’s heart. She has daughters to spare, and if I am as successful as I expect to be, she shall have no grounds for complaint.’
All my assumed values turned topsy-turvy, as they had been doing for months already, thanks to my sister. ‘Depravity!’ I gasped. ‘You should be locked up.’
‘Be quiet, you fool.’ She looked around, where there were people on all sides. Cooking, tidying, talking, playing – men, women and children in their family groups, living ordinary domestic lives even out here on the trail. None of them displayed interest in myself and Fanny, even though we must have been obviously in an intense discussion.
Her trepidation was oddly reassuring. She accepted, then, that my reaction was much as everyone else’s would be. ‘You know this would make you an outcast,’ I said. ‘A fallen woman.’ It was a phrase I had heard back in polite eastern circles, once or twice, without fully understanding what it meant. I had an idea it involved babies, as a rule.
‘I pity you your ignorance,’ she said, with a look that did contain real compassion, mixed with impatience and defiance. ‘There is a world just there for the taking, which you wilfully refuse to see.’
‘You said that before,’ I replied stiffly. ‘I have world enough, thank you. I am quite contented, Miss Wickedness.’ It was true, I realised, up to a point. And the source of any lingering unhappiness or confusion I might be feeling lay in this very sister and her boldness.
‘Oh, please.’ She turned away, leaving me struggling with bewilderment.
‘How does Abel know so much about this glittering world, anyway?’ I called after her.
Again she looked around, and flapped a hand for my silence. ‘He speaks with other men,’ she hissed. ‘Men together reveal more than you could ever dream.’
‘And he has disclosed to you their male secrets.’ I lifted my chin. ‘Perhaps they would be best kept private, if this is the consequence of revealing them.’
‘Don’t be so prim.’ This time she really did walk away, having had the final word and left me with my feelings all stirred up again, as they had been before.
Who, who, could I confide in? The need was more urgent than ever, while being even more difficult to satisfy. Henry Bricewood had soothed me once before with his assurances that no real harm would result from Fanny’s wanton behaviour. But Henry was never going to accept this bizarre new idea, the nature of which I still could not properly grasp. I could never convey it to him in terms that would make sense. I was inclined to challenge Abel and demand to know what in the world he had told my young sister. But again, there could not be words adequate to the task. What could I say? What could he say? Could I even begin to betray my sister by sharing my discoveries? Or should I assume the whole thing was a dream, a fantastic castle in the air built by a bored young girl who was briefly rebelling against her destiny as a settler’s wife?
At least, I noted, a little while later, I was now guilty of ignorance, rather than a lack of charity, in my sister’s eyes. It was a blunter judgement, I felt; a less painful jibe.
4th October
We have continued to crawl along the new road, achieving six or seven miles each day, with the nights cold and snow coming closer down the sides of the mountains. Rhododendron is still two days distant. Some trees have autumn tints to them already, and we know the summer is finished. We have had two days of rain, giving rise to considerable mud, which explains our slow progress. The toll we pay is to be $5 for the wagon, plus ten cents for each animal. Mr Tennant says will act for the whole party, with no obligation to repay him. We are all very weary. Supplies are running low and there are few good pairs of boots to be seen.
We have a great tragedy in our midst. Mrs Fields has died, almost within sight of our final destination. She simply ceased to breathe somewhere in the night just passed, and was cold and stiff by morning.
The death of Mrs Fields stunned us all. Even my grandmother had held to the belief that her sickness was perhaps serious, but certainly not mortal. She was quick to defend herself, as if expecting some blame to be laid at her feet. ‘It was a malady I have no knowledge of,’ she said. ‘A pneumonia would have killed her more quickly and the lung disease more slowly. There must have been some other trouble, that gave no sign.’ She went to help the bereaved husband wrap the body in a length of coarse cotton that was, although never openly admitted, kept for this very purpose. Every wagon had something of the sort tucked away.
It was sunrise, and the unexpected death had delayed the preparations for the day’s journeying, which we hoped would see us at the end of the new road well before nightfall. The children watched the procedure of shrouding their mother in silence, flashing bewildered glances between themselves and eyeing their stepfather uncertainly. He had belonged to their family for only a year – perhaps they thought he would disappear and leave them to a fate they could not imagine. I considered the possibility of trying to offer them sympathy and consolation, but I could not bring myself to the point. The boy was distant and unfriendly. Ellie was sweeter and smaller, but even she did not readily invite an embrace.
And then to my great surprise, two people detached themselves from the hovering group and approached the orphans. Henry Bricewood and my sister Fanny, side by side, knelt down and began to speak gently, he to the boy and she to the girl. I heard Henry say, ‘Come and see if we can find a sugar cake for you. I believe my mother has been baking them with the last of the flour.’ Scornfully I waited for the children to dismiss this piece of irrelevance, but instead they stumbled to their feet and went with him, Jimmy amazingly holding onto Henry’s hand. Fanny and Elli
e followed as if drawn by a magnet.
Resentment flared within me, although I could not understand why at first. Then I realised that again, in some way, Fanny was usurping a place I believed was mine. I had been attempting to overcome my reluctance to approach the children and would have done so, given time. Instead, my impetuous sister had rushed in and ousted me.
I followed them, vaguely hoping to restore my own image as a helpful loving mother substitute. I had a special accord with Mr Fields, which went back to the first days of the journey. He had singled me out, and I liked him. I had never seen Fanny exchange more than the briefest words with him, so what did she think she was doing now? And how had Henry so astoundingly turned into a benevolent father figure?
It was a further surprise when the children were escorted to the Tennant wagon, rather than to that of the Bricewoods. Our leader was sitting in his chair, puffing his pipe and resting his bad foot on a low stool. Ellie and Jimmy stood before him, waiting for a word, as if this was what they had expected all along.
‘My condolences on your loss,’ said Mr Tennant gravely. ‘It is a grievous thing to lose your mother so young, especially after the sad death of your little sister.’ He waved towards his grandson, who was whittling tent pegs and paying scant attention. ‘I have instructed Abel here to do all he can to cheer you. And Miss Fanny, it seems, has already seen where the real need lies.’ He looked over their heads at me, hovering uncertainly a few yards away. ‘And Miss Charity Collins too, perhaps?’ There was a knowing twinkle in his eye that discomfited me. There had been moments when I had become aware of him watching me, with an impression that he could read my mind. Perhaps this was why he had been elected as our leader – a wisdom hidden beneath a bluff façade, from which no secrets could be kept. That he knew what had been going on between his son and my sister seemed inevitable. The mystery lay in what he thought of it and what he planned to do about it, if anything.
