“I believe the poor boy had some bad clams,” Mr. Swan said.
I had seen enough sick men in my time with Papa to know that this young man was not going to be helping with the harvest. “We need another man,” I said.
“Get Jehu,” Keer-ukso suggested.
I found Jehu scrubbing his shirt in the stream by the Chinook village. It was in very poor condition, with a terrible tear on the sleeve. He was the only one of the men who didn’t ask me to wash and mend his clothes.
“Can I take you up on your offer to help bring in the oysters for Mr. Swan and me?” I asked.
He looked up. “Sure.”
“Aren’t you even going to ask what I’m paying?”
“What are you paying?”
I told him.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We went down to the bay and set out in our canoes for the oyster beds. A cool wind swept across the water, carrying with it a faintly fishy smell. I sat in Jehu’s canoe and watched as he helped paddle us out to the beds.
It was low tide, so the oysters were easy to gather. The men simply stepped in the water and gathered them by hand into baskets, and then emptied the baskets in the canoe. As the day went on and the tide came in, we used long tongs to tug the oysters free.
Jehu and I worked companionably side by side. I held the basket while he fished out the oysters.
“What are you gonna do with your oyster money?” he asked, dropping an oyster into the basket.
“Buy new bedding for the cabin. Now that the men are gone, I’m going to burn every blanket in sight and finally rid the place of fleas.”
“Better not let Brandywine in the cabin,” he said, chuckling.
“Or Mr. Russell,” I muttered under my breath.
“Look at this,” Jehu said, opening an oyster that was already partially exposed.
He dug out something small with his knife and wiped it on his shirt. It was a small, if rather lopsided, pearl. But it was a lovely color, creamy as the ivory silk of a wedding dress.
“Here,” he said, placing the small treasure in my hand, and closing my fingers over it.
“Oh,” I said, reddening. It was all I could think of to say.
Time passed quickly, and the canoes soon groaned from the weight of the harvest. A great cheer went up at the end of the day when the last oysters were loaded onto the waiting schooner. Red Charley counted out the gold into my hand, minus his fee, and when he insisted on my shaking his hand, I did so before he could spit.
“Capital!” Mr. Swan said, as he and I and Jehu stood on the beach watching the schooner disappear with the setting sun. We were all alone, the men having gone back to their lodges. All at once a wave of exhaustion washed over me.
“You go home and have supper,” Mr. Swan said solicitously. “I’ll pay the men.”
I agreed gratefully and pressed the gold into his hands.
“Come on, Jane,” Jehu said. “I’ll walk you back.”
As we walked through the darkening woods to the cabin, I stumbled on a jutting root. A strong arm caught me by the elbow, and there was Jehu, looking down at me.
“You’re not gonna puke on my boots, are you?” he asked with a wink.
I gave a little laugh, remembering how on the voyage from Philadelphia I had been terribly seasick all over his boots.
“No,” I promised him. “Not this time, at least.”
We continued on in silence, his hand on my elbow guiding me carefully. It was so comfortable simply to be with him and not have to speak.
When we reached the cabin, we lingered on the porch, stretching the moment out.
Finally, I said, “Well, I should certainly be able to afford some new bedding.”
His eyes crinkled. “Bedding? You could buy a whole new bedroom with that money.”
I sighed. “That would be something. I would love a bedroom of my own. No,” I corrected myself, “I would love a house of my own. Some place where I wouldn’t have to worry about strange men tramping through.”
“What? You don’t like Mr. Swan snoring in your ear every night?” he teased.
“Jehu.”
“You should be proud of yourself,” he said, pushing a curl off my forehead.
“For what?” I whispered unsteadily.
“For staying,” he said simply.
As I fell asleep that night, I dreamed of all the things I would buy with my hard-earned funds—and also about a quiet sailor from Boston who let me puke on his boots.
The next morning when I woke up, Mr. Swan was not in the cabin. Indeed, it appeared his bunk had not even been slept in. It didn’t take me long to discover where he had obviously spent the night: the grassy field by the Chinook lodges. Keer-ukso and Jehu were already there, standing over Mr. Swan. Someone had tossed a bucket of water on him. He was white-faced and wore a glazed expression.
“It seems that Mr. Swan got himself drunk and gambled away all your money,” Jehu said in a disgusted voice.
“Mr. Swan—you didn’t!” I gasped.
He looked shamefaced. “No,” he clarified. “I gambled away all the money, and then got drunk.”
“But we owe money to all those men!”
Mr. Swan shrugged helplessly. “I thought with all that money and a little luck, I could more than double our funds, but …” And here his voice trailed off.
“What are we to do? I don’t have enough money left to pay them all. I invested nearly everything I had in hiring that second canoe. I can pay half of them, but what about the rest? All I have to my name is a bolt of fabric!” I shouted.
Jehu looked thoughtful, and then finally said, “I sure could use a new shirt.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can pay me with a shirt. And I reckon the other men would appreciate a shirt, too.”
“Do you think so?”
“Can’t hurt to ask.”
Keer-ukso explained the situation to the men we had hired. A hush fell over the group as they stared at us, annoyance plain on their faces. I couldn’t bring myself to blame them. Finally, a young man called Kape stepped forward.
“Pie.”
“Did he say pie?” I asked Keer-ukso quizzically.
Keer-ukso conferred with the young man and nodded. “One shirt and one pie each.”
“But that’s four shirts and four pies!”
Keer-ukso nodded ruefully.
“Seems word of your pies has spread,” Jehu said with a wry smile.
It seemed it had.
CHAPTER FIVE
or,
A Lady at Last
November had arrived on the bay, bringing rain and a crisp wind, but I had barely noticed. I had spent the past week sewing and baking, and Jehu joked that my hair smelled like pie. I was still quite furious with Mr. Swan, though he went to great lengths to be solicitous to me. Our reputation in the oyster business was in ruins; I didn’t know how we would ever hire help again.
One cool morning after finishing the final sleeve of the final shirt, I contemplated my blighted existence. I was full of frustration at the disagreeable men of Shoalwater Bay—Mr. Swan chief among them—and in that moment I resolved that I would have one small comfort for myself.
I would have a hot bath—or die trying.
I had not bathed in warm water since leaving Philadelphia almost a year ago, making do with sticky saltwater baths on the sea voyage, and then bathing in a freezing cold stream since arriving here.
After scouring the settlement high and low, I found a large empty wooden cask that had been sawn in half on the beach near where the schooners brought on fresh water. I dragged it around to the side of the cabin and rigged several blankets around it. Then I began the laborious process of heating water over the fire. Pot after pot of steaming water I brought carefully out of the cabin to fill the cask. Finally, when I was satisfied that the cask was full, I dashed back into the cabin in search of a clean towel and the small bar of lavender soap I had been hoarding.
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As I rounded the corner, towel in hand, I heard the sound of men talking excitedly. I yanked back the blanket screen to see several bare-chested men huddled around the cask.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
One of the men blushed slightly. “Our laundry, a course.”
I ran over to the cask and peered inside. Filthy shirts swam in the now gray murky water.
“That was my bath!”
The men looked a little puzzled. One of them spoke up. “Since you said you wouldn’t do our laundry no more, ma’am, we jest figured we’d have to do it ourselves. The water was jest sitting here, wasting away.”
“It was not wasting away!”
I heard the familiar sound of spitting.
“Gal,” Mr. Russell said, milking bucket in one hand and stool in the other. “Ya got to start milking Burton.”
“These men just stole my bathwater!” I exploded at him. “And now you want me to milk your cow?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the thieving men slink away.
Mr. Russell ignored my remark completely. “Gal, I can’t be here all the time. If I go away, someone’s got to take care of Burton.”
I put my hands on my hips. While I had certainly performed more disgusting chores than milking a cow, I despised the beast almost as much as the man. Burton the cow had been responsible for eating my entire wardrobe when I’d first arrived on the bay.
I heard the cow mooing loudly in the distance, and Mr. Russell crooked his finger for me to follow him.
The cow was situated in a roofed stall not far from the cabin. The beast snapped her tail, as if she were as irritated as I at the thought of my milking her.
Mr. Russell patted the cow’s rump gently, murmuring soothing words. “Now, gal, pull firmly, but go nice and easy. Bertie’s real sensitive.”
I stared at the cow dubiously.
“All right then, ya take a go at it, gal,” Mr. Russell said. “Ain’t nothing to be afeared of.”
I drew myself up. “I am most certainly not afraid of a cow.”
“Then go on.”
His challenge hung on the air. I was Miss Jane Peck of Philadelphia. I was a proper young lady. I could organize a party for fifty. I could certainly milk a cow.
I sat down on the stool and gingerly positioned the bucket. The cow swung her head around and glared at me. I took a deep breath and then I grabbed the teat firmly.
The cow bellowed and a spray of milk rained on my bosom. I let go of the teat and in the next moment I felt a distinct, sharp pain in my elbow as the cow kicked outward. The beast lunged at my head, snagging a swath of my hair in her teeth and tugging hard.
“Oww!”
I smacked the cow furiously and scrambled away, cradling my injured arm.
“Ya durn gal! I told ya to go nice and gentle!” Mr. Russell grizzled, hovering over the agitated cow.
“You told me to pull firmly!”
“Ya stupid useless gal! Ya scared my Bertie!”
The cow let out an indignant bellow.
“That beast tried to kill me!” I shot back. I held up my throbbing elbow.
I felt the swish of skirts brush against my back and looked up, startled.
A rosy-cheeked feminine face stared down at me with bemusement, dark tendrils escaping from a smooth bonnet. She looked to be about twenty, or perhaps twenty-one, and was as pretty as one of the drawings in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Mr. Swan was standing next to the woman, his flushed cheeks glowing with pleasure.
“This is Mrs. Frink, Jane. She and her husband have only just arrived, and so I brought her straight here. They traveled overland all the way from Ohio,” Mr. Swan said, as if bestowing a present.
“How do you do, Miss Peck,” the young woman said in a cultivated voice. She was tidily outfitted in a neat dress of yellow calico, a matching bonnet, and cream leather gloves. Although her clothes were not fancy dress, they were certainly of a nice cut. I was abruptly, painfully, aware that my skirts were covered with mud, my bodice soaked with cow’s milk, and my hair tumbled down around my shoulders in a tangled heap.
“My, what unusual grass,” she said, raising a curious arched eyebrow. “Is it peculiar to the region?”
“Grass?” Mr. Swan asked, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
We followed her line of vision and saw the cow was chomping on something long and red, a baleful expression on her face.
I put a tentative hand up to my head.
And felt a patch of skin where hair should have been!
Mr. Russell snorted.
Mr. and Mrs. Frink had been married a little over a year. They had traveled in a wagon train, she informed me. She was eager to tell me about their travels.
Her husband had heard from a cousin that the area was booming, and as they had missed the gold rush, he was very eager that they try their luck on the bay. He had grand ideas of opening a hotel. Mrs. Frink was very fond of Mr. Frink, but men for all their good intentions were not as sensible as women, were they? After all, she had been the one to round up their horses when they’d spooked in Illinois, and it had been her negotiations with that disreputable ferryman that had gotten them across the river in Missouri, and then, of course, it had been her good suggestion to use the metal bits from the pickle barrel to mend the spare wheel when it had broken near the Snake River.
I learned all this as I changed into clean clothes behind the shabby blanket screen that served as a dressing area of sorts. Mrs. Frink had barely ceased speaking since entering the cabin. Mr. Swan had left her with me to provide a lady’s hospitality while he went off to show her husband our burgeoning settlement, but Mrs. Frink had done most of the entertaining so far. I tried to attend her but was distracted by thoughts of how I must appear next to this new arrival. While my dresses were of serviceable calico, they were not as fashionable as Mrs. Frink’s. I didn’t even own a pair of gloves anymore, and my bonnet was quite sad-looking. Not to mention my shoes were ill-fitting boys’ boots. I felt the same way I used to feel when Sally Biddle walked into a room.
Really, it all went back to Sally Biddle.
Picture a perfect girl with golden curls, a tiny waist, and all the best connections. Add to that an uncanny ability to make one cry with a single word, and that is Sally Biddle. Just thinking about her made all the misery come rushing back. How she used to say that my hair resembled a squirrel’s nest, and whisper that I was plump, and belittle our house on Walnut Street, saying that it looked like a stable.
Perhaps the lone advantage of Shoalwater Bay was that it was situated a continent away from Sally Biddle in Philadelphia.
Mrs. Frink continued chatting from the other side of the curtain. “‘But Mr. Frink,’ I said, ‘I can’t imagine that there will be much call for a hotel here on the frontier.’”
I fingered the newly bald patch on the side of my head. It was the size of a silver dollar. Blasted cow. There was no helping it. I tugged on my worn bonnet and came around the curtain in a determined fashion. I was not about to let this woman intimidate me the way Sally Biddle had in the past.
“What a charming dress!” Mrs. Frink exclaimed. “Such a lovely print.”
“Thank you,” I said cautiously. “I sewed it myself.”
“How perfectly clever of you! Perhaps you would consider sewing a dress for me?”
I looked blankly at her immaculate dress.
“Oh,” she said with a self-conscious laugh. “This is the only decent dress I have left. The rest were all quite ruined on the trail. This only survived because I packed it away.”
I smiled at her. “I’d be happy to.” I felt something tight in my chest loosen. She wasn’t like Sally Biddle at all. She was more like what I imagined an older sister would be.
I poured her a cup of coffee and brought the sugar and milk to the table. It reminded me of Miss Hepplewhite’s, the soothing ritual of pouring tea.
She clapped her hands happily. “You use tin, too, I see.”
“Ti
n?”
“Tin cups, my dear. They’re ever so practical.” She lowered her voice. “I used our good china on the first week of the journey, but I grew so worried about breaking something that I packed it away and adopted the pioneer method of using tin plates and cups. It’s ever so much more practical.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “And then, of course, our box of china fell out of our wagon during a stampede of buffalo somewhere back along the Platte River, so I have little choice now. I jumped out of the wagon after it and tried to shoo away the dratted animals with a broom, but I declare that they are the stupidest animals that ever lived, and the china was all smashed to bits except for the butter dish, which somehow lodged itself in a buffalo chip.”
The image of proper Mrs. Frink brandishing a broom at stampeding buffalo in order to rescue her china was too much. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I think I had not laughed since receiving word of Papa’s death, and it felt so good, like a sneeze after being tickled.
Mrs. Frink looked affronted for a brief moment then giggled herself. “Mr. Frink was very vexed with me for jumping off the wagon,” she confided. “‘But Mr. Frink,’ I said, ‘good china is worth being trampled over!’”
“At least you rescued the butter dish,” I said, wiping a tear away.
She nodded seriously and giggled again, “Yes, although I must confess, I have no desire to use it. I cannot seem to rid myself of the sight of it lodged in manure.”
After we had finished our coffee, I offered to give Mrs. Frink a tour. At last, another lady! I had so many questions for her.
“It is so wonderful to be back in civilization!” Mrs. Frink declared happily.
I bit my tongue. The settlement was hardly civilization, unless you considered a pack of unwashed men who debated the finer points of chewing tobacco good company.
She turned to me. “I should very much like to meet the other ladies.”
“Well,” I hedged, as we stood on the porch surveying the cabins and tents that dotted the landscape. “I’m rather afraid that I am the only young lady present.”
Wilderness Days Page 4
