Boston Jane (12 page)

“Trade?” Suis repeated.

“No, thank you,” I said in a polite but firm voice.

Disappointment flashed across Suis’s face. She grabbed the young girl and shoved her forward. “Dolly, take Dolly!”

The poor girl staggered to a stop in front of me, her eyes full of fear, her limbs shaking.

“What?”

“I trade Dolly for colset. She is good slave, Dolly!” Suis insisted.

“She’s a slave?”

“I have many slaves. Very rich,” she said, touching her chest proudly.

I was appalled. Indians owned slaves, too! Papa had very firm ideas about slavery. He was completely opposed to the practice and had raised me to believe the same. “It’s indecent to own another human being, Janey,” he always said.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t,” I said.

Suis flushed red and then proceeded to yell at me in Chinook, no doubt something very disagreeable. Then she yelled at Dolly and stomped off in a huff, leaving the two of us to stare at her departing furious figure.

“Perhaps I should have given her the corset,” I whispered.

Dolly said nothing, but her eyes seemed to agree with me.

By the time the sun was sinking over the mountains, my spirits were much improved.

I had bathed. I had brushed and pinned up my hair. I had
secured sleeping accommodations. Best of all, I had washed all my dresses and hung them to dry on the laundry line behind Mr. Russell’s cabin. I would be able to put on a clean dress in the morning. I could hardly wait.

Now all I needed to do was find William.

Mr. Swan, Mr. Russell, Jehu, Captain Johnson, Father Joseph, and I gathered in the horrible little cabin at the rickety sawbuck table for supper. There was a bright fire in the hearth, and its warmth spread through my muscles, relaxing me. Mr. Swan ladled out a stew prepared by Mr. Russell. The stew contained potatoes, onions, and some sort of fish, and it was surprisingly agreeable. Then again, after the long weeks at sea, anything not full of weevils would have tasted agreeable to me.

Brandywine circled the table, wagging his tail and whining piteously for food. The wretched hound was not any kind of guard dog. By the sag of his plump belly, it was clear that he preferred eating to any kind of patrolling. “Here, beast,” Mr. Russell said, tossing Brandywine a scrap.

Mr. Swan smiled fondly at the hound. “Brandywine feels obliged to eat as often as possible. He was the only survivor of the sloop
Brandywine
. She wrecked off the coast. We found him wandering the beach, thin and hungry.”

“Life is short. Eat whenever you can, I always say,” Jehu said. “There’s nothing worse than an empty belly.”

“We eat well here, my good man,” Mr. Swan said. “The Chinooks are great traders and often trade with us for all manner of foodstuffs.”

I remembered Dolly.

“Mr. Swan,” I asked. “These Indians trade slaves?”

“Oh yes, indeed. Although
dentalia
is the principal currency.”

“
Dentalia?
“I asked, trying the word out on my tongue.

“Shells. They use them in necklaces and such. The Chinooks call them
hiqua
.” I recalled Suis’s necklace.

“They enslave their own people?” Father Joseph asked in a shocked-sounding voice.

“No, my good man. They trade with other Indians along the coast. And of course they take slaves in battle or as blood prices for slain family members. Wealth is a sign of status, so owning slaves is a very serious business. The
tyee
is generally the wealthiest one in a particular village and so often owns the most slaves. The slaves are the ones with the round heads. The Chinooks have the flattened heads. You see—”

I was starting to think that Mr. Swan had flattened his head, the way he yammered on forever.

“Mr. Swan,” I interrupted. “Where is William? I still don’t understand why he isn’t here.”

“William is presently on a mission for Governor Stevens. He is involved in negotiating land treaties with the Indians of the territory.”

“Territory?”

“Yes, my dear. We are our own territory now. The land north of the Columbia River has been declared the great Washington Territory.”

“I see. But why is William involved with the Indians?” I
asked. “He wrote me that he had secured land here in Shoalwater Bay. I understood he was endeavoring to start a timber business?”

Mr. Swan sighed and removed his spectacles. He started to clean them with a grubby square of cloth that I supposed was his pocket-handkerchief. “Well, William had a bit of a problem with his claim.”

“A problem?”

“I’m not exactly sure of the details. In any event William sought the advice of Governor Stevens, and the governor took a shine to your betrothed and hired him. The governor is trying to broker an agreement with the various tribes. A tricky proposition.”

“Do you know where William is right now?”

“Generally, yes.” He blinked owlishly at me.

“Where?”

“Somewhere to the north, I believe.” A pause. “Or perhaps it was somewhere in the east? I’m afraid I don’t quite remember,” Mr. Swan said with an apologetic smile. “Have no fear. He’ll turn up eventually. Everyone,” he said expansively, “turns up eventually.”

Captain Johnson belched loudly, interrupting. “Speaking of Indians, can I hire them on to help with the timber?”

Mr. Swan took a long draught of whiskey. “Oh yes, my good man. You’ll have to stake a claim, of course.”

That gave me an idea.

“Excuse me, Mr. Swan, about William—” But he was deep in conversation with Captain Johnson about hiring Indians to fell trees.

It was most frustrating. These men were clearly not used to the presence of a young lady. They could have all stood to read Rules of Conversation (Chapter Two), not to mention Deportment at the Dinner Table (Chapter Seven). Mr. Russell, in particular, was using his knife to pick his teeth in a most disgusting way and kept flicking little bits of food across the table.

“Yes, Miss Peck?” Mr. Swan said at last.

I leaned forward excitedly. “Would it be possible to hire an Indian, a messenger, to go and find William?”

He scratched his beard. “I suppose that would be possible.”

“Do you think it would be expensive?” I had some money with me. Ten silver dollars. Papa had deposited funds for me at a bank in San Francisco, but it would not be easy to obtain access to it out here in the wilderness.

“The Chinooks live to trade, my dear, so I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Swan.” I smiled at him in relief. There. It wasn’t so terrible. I would simply send word to William that I was here, and he would return. Everything was going to work out in the end.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. I gazed across the table, studying Jehu. He had a habit, I’d noticed, of crinkling his forehead when he was deep in thought.

“Capital meal, Mr. Russell.” Mr. Swan added to this compliment a small burp and patted his round, full belly.

“Yes, that was very nice,” I said, remembering my manners. “The fish stew was delicious.”

“Wasn’t fish,” Mr. Russell said, continuing to pick his teeth with his knife.

“It wasn’t? Then what was it?”

“Gull.”

I swallowed hard. Surely I’d misheard him. “Gull?”

Mr. Russell glared at me. “Tasted good, dinnit?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Then what ya complainin’ about?”

Need I say how difficult it is to fall asleep when you have gull in your stomach?

Furthermore there was nothing soothing about the strange hoots and shrieks that echoed outside my tent. It was altogether different from the slapping sound of waves and creaking of the ship that had accompanied the nights at sea.

Something howled in the distance. I peered out the tent flaps. What if there was a beast like the one that had been hanging from the rafters of Mr. Russell’s cabin waiting out there, ready to make a meal of a young girl?

I lay awake for what seemed a very great while, and I had just finally drifted off when I heard Brandywine barking wildly. After a moment, a loud shot rang through the night.

Someone was shooting right over my tent!

I cowered, frightened. Were we under attack by Indians? Was I going to be scalped after all?

Jehu’s face appeared between the tent flaps.

“Jane, are you all right?”

I had never been so happy to see that scarred cheek.

“Yes,” I whispered shakily, crawling out on hands and knees to see Handsome Jim aiming at the air above my tent with a rifle.

“
Memelose! Memelose!
” Handsome Jim shouted, pointing with the rifle to the air above the tent. Mr. Swan was staring at Handsome Jim, a bemused expression on his face.

“Mr. Swan, what is going on?” I demanded.

Mr. Swan chortled and swayed a little. Clearly the man had been drinking.

“Mr. Swan!”

He burst out laughing, and then tried to control himself.

Handsome Jim narrowed his eyes at Mr. Swan.

Mr. Swan wiped a tear of laughter from his cheek. “I’m afraid Handsome Jim is very superstitious. And, you see, my dear, I’ve been winding him up all night about
memeloses
. When Brandywine began barking outside, at our resident raccoon no doubt, I told Jim here that there was a
memelose
above your tent.”

“Not funny, Swan,” Handsome Jim growled, lowering his gun.

“I agree completely,” I said, my eyes meeting Handsome Jim’s.

Mr. Swan tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, my dear. But we have so few amusements.”

Handsome Jim glared at Mr. Swan and stalked off.

“It is hardly amusing. And if there
were
any spirits, they have most certainly been scared away on account of the racket,” I muttered peevishly.

“D’urn gal, I can’t speak for the spooks but you’d scare me
straight to blazes and I ain’t even daid,” Mr. Russell snorted, whiskers twitching.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Mr. Russell,” I said stiffly, putting a hand up to my unruly hair.

“The backs of the leaves are showing, gal,” Mr. Russell declared cryptically. “You best come in the cabin now and not later.”

I had no intention of listening to this overbearing, arrogant man. Miss Hepplewhite used to say that the only way to deal with men like him was to ignore them, and I intended to do just that.

“Mr. Russell, I stated very plainly that I would not be sleeping in that cabin. Now good night, sir.”

“The cabin will—”

I pulled my tent flap shut with a firm snap. “Good night, Mr. Russell!”

Mr. Russell grumbled some more, and the men’s voices drifted away.

Finally I would get some sleep after this long, dreadful day, I thought. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and, curling into a ball, fell asleep.

Next thing I knew, I was on the
Lady Luck
.

I was in our tiny cabin, and Mary’s bunk was empty, the bedding neatly made up. All was quiet and still, except for the rhythmic slap of the waves.

Out of the stillness came a familiar scurrying sound. Hordes of rats began pouring into the room, leaping onto my bunk and
biting me viciously. I screamed and screamed, but then the dream shifted, and all of a sudden I was on deck in the middle of a storm.

Massive waves slammed against the ship, rain pelted down in sheets, and I struggled to hold on to the rail. A flash of lightning crackled through the night, illuminating the inky ocean for one long heartbeat. And then I saw her.

Mary was standing on the deck, beneath the mainmast, still as a statue, her back to me, her black hair flowing like a waterfall.

“Mary!” I called.

But she didn’t hear me. She just stood there, her pale skin glowing in the dark night.

I rushed across the deck, shouting her name over the wind. Then lightning struck the mainmast with a loud crack, and I watched in horror as the mast started to fall.

“Mary!” I screamed.

She turned around slowly and stared at me.

With dark, dead eyes.

I woke with a start, my heart pounding.

A crash of thunder rang through the night, and rain began pelting the tent.

“It was just a bad dream,” I whispered to myself again and again.

The rain slapped noisily on the tent, and I wished with all my might that I was back in my four-poster bed on Walnut Street. Had I made a horrible mistake coming to this desolate place? Had I traded Papa and Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie for a wilderness
full of filthy men? Then I remembered William’s beautiful eyes and lovely smile and knew that he was worth all these inconveniences. I would send a messenger for him first thing tomorrow, I promised myself. As soon as he found out I was in the territory, he would come for me directly, and all would be well.

I felt a stinging rush of cold water under my back side and looked down in alarm.

“Oh blast,” I whispered softly.

Before I could move, a great wind came up, flapping the tent wildly. In the next moment the tent was gone, and I was left crouching over a small stream of water.

Entirely discouraged, I heaved up the sodden skirt of my woolen nightgown and made a dash for the dreaded cabin. I entertained little hope that anyone would be up, but when I opened the door a cheery fire was blazing and the men were sitting around drinking whiskey and laughing. They were all snug and dry. Brandywine was curled up in front of the fire. Even the sorry hound had known enough to get in from the storm.

Mr. Russell took in my wet nightdress and cackled. “Backs of the leaves, gal.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The backs of the leaves show when it’s gonna rain, gal,” Mr. Russell said, puffing on his pipe.

“You
knew
it was going to rain?” I asked incredulously.

“Could be I did.”

“You—you—”

“You’re most welcome to stay here, Miss Peck,” Mr. Swan
interrupted, stepping between me and Mr. Russell and proffering a grimy wool blanket.

I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I snatched the blanket and stalked over to the fire with as much dignity as I could muster. Every bunk contained a lumpy man, so I swiftly stripped out of my soggy night dress under the blanket and bundled on the dirt floor next to the warm flames. The wool blanket smelled as if it had been used to clean a horse. I was utterly humiliated.