The Indifference of Tumbleweed (15 page)

Laramie - or Fort John, as it was known at the time - continued to fascinate us all. The Indians alone were amusement enough. They seemed to be in some ways the aristocracy of the whole camp, in a bizarre equality with the French-Canadians who were in charge. The two sets of people could not have been more different, but neither had any regard for ‘the families' as they termed us. The Indians, we learned, had arrived in large numbers, barely an hour ahead of us, specifically to get what they could from us. Our camp was a short distance from the fort itself, and on the eve of the second day, in the midst of our despondency over the imminent loss of my brother, a large party of savages paid us a visit. We had been warned to expect this, but it was still extremely strange. The purpose of the visit was to receive food, and rows of them sat down and waited for coffee and cookies. We stared at them and they stared at us, with minimal levels of mutual understanding. Many of the women and children brought dogs with them, including young puppies. Our Melchior and a few others from the wagons took exception to this, and a great dog fight suddenly erupted, causing screams from both humans and animals. Men on both sides were slow to intervene, grinning with excitement at the violence and noise, but some women took courage and pulled the slavering creatures apart. Not before poor Melchior had lost half an ear, however, and suffered a long gash on his shoulder. Mrs Bricewood, who had never showed any particular fondness for him, cradled him tearfully and said some harsh things to the Indians, her tone unmistakable, even if the words were not understood. For a moment there was a crackling tension, in which breath was held and men made fists, or fingered knives in their belts. There was no actual violence, but the
party declined into a scrappy grabbing of food by the Indians and an abandonment of any attempt to be hospitable on our part.

There were two storeys to the main fort building, the upper one with balconies overlooking the courtyard. The ground floor was divided into innumerable small dwellings, full of families that mostly comprised a European man with an Indian wife and many half-breed children. We migrants were consumed with curiosity about how everything was arranged and who all these people might be. The French-Canadians were rough bearded men, speaking in a language as strange to us as the Indians'. And amongst all this confusion was a tall English-speaking man who strode to and fro, speaking mainly with the senior Indian men, and often pausing to write something in a leather-bound notebook rather similar to my journal. He held the travelling families in transparent disdain and did his best to avoid us. We discovered that he lived in one of the most handsome rooms on the upper floor of the fort, with two other men, both Canadian. We none of us knew what to make of him, since he was so much more civilised than anyone else we saw. ‘An explorer,' said Henry, who had been following the man with interest. ‘And a writer.' When we saw the man ride away over the hills with two Indians, Henry guessed that he was being invited to visit the native villages that lay a few miles away, and was plainly envious.

‘We are like gypsies to him,' sighed Henry bitterly. ‘A motley crowd of ignorant emigrants.'

Indeed we had been forced to see ourselves through other eyes, as we tried to barter for goods or glean information. The land we were in, with the absence of trees and endless views of low scrub and distant misty hills, was strange to all of us. Many of the people in the wagon train had been farmers in Missouri or Illinois or Indiana, where mankind had established a degree of dominion over nature, with orchards, gardens, diverted waterways, and fences on all sides. The rest were even more disoriented, coming from towns and cities with newspapers, grocery stores, factories and schools. Out here there was nothing familiar to soothe the eye or the spirit, and I began to notice the perpetual expression of bewilderment on almost every face. Only the very small children took each day as just another collection of experiences, no more strange than those of the day before.

We had imagined ourselves to be valued, as part of the movement west that the government very much desired. While doing good to ourselves, we were also obeying a universal imperative to colonise the lands in the western half of the continent. But
here at the fort, there was no suggestion of this. We were seen as pathetic in our worn clothes and sunburned skin. I saw the French-Canadians openly sneering at one group of women, which included Mrs Fields and my own grandmother. When our boys were whirled away to a war they barely understood, none of the fort people showed any sign of sympathy.

Henry was one of the first to recognise all this. In his efforts to avoid notice by the recruitment officers, he had taken himself for walks, still behaving like a young boy, plodding along the muddy edges of the river or getting as close as he dared to the numerous lodges made of hides supported by long poles that had been erected by the Indians near the fort. In the process he had overheard conversations that taught him a great deal.

‘I learned French with my tutor,' he told me. ‘So I understand much of what these men say. 'Tis an uncouth dialect, I can tell you, but somehow that makes it easier to follow. They use very simple grammar.'

‘French, philosophy, science – what else did you learn?' I asked, thinking that the Bricewoods were of a different class to us, favouring education so much over everything else.

‘Mathematics, syntax, Latin, Greek – nothing out of the ordinary.'

‘You are certainly the most intellectual man in the entire caravan,' I told him.

He laughed. ‘I should hazard there are a dozen or more who are greatly superior to me in that respect. We are no band of peasants, whatever they might think of us. Remember it takes substantial funds to assemble the equipment for a migration such as this. These families are people of means. There are very few who cannot read at least a little and write their names. The fort officers, by contrast, have no letters at all. I saw one of them holding a paper the wrong way up, making no sense of it whatsoever.'

‘I wager they can calculate well enough, and handle a rifle,' I said. ‘And perhaps those are matters more suited to this world.'

‘They are ruffians.' His eyes shifted, both in direction and expression. He was looking over towards the tepee village with a gleam of animation. ‘Does it not intrigue you, knowing there is such a large and alien population living here in this wilderness? They have lived here for a thousand years and more, without making more than the slightest mark on the land. And now we have come and nothing can ever be the same for them again. Why do they not kill us all?'

‘Because they have learned that more and more will come until we conquer them.'

‘I believe it is something else. A fatalism, perhaps, and a failure of imagination. And they are curious about us, and what we might bring them.'

‘Smallpox,' I said, thinking of Mr Fields' scarred face.

‘Indeed. And other diseases, as well as guns and all the killing that the white man knows so well how to do. And whisky, in some places. Even gambling.'

I was silent, unable to properly follow his thinking. We had all been so afraid of the Plains Indians before we began the migration, and now here we were surrounded by them, and nothing more than a dog's torn ear to worry about.

‘There are wars between the different tribes, of course,' mused Henry. ‘Bitter wars, with terrible slaughter. I have seen scalps hanging on walls inside the fort. The Dakota are entirely savage and bloodthirsty, as well as the Blackfeet, Snakes and Crow. That tall man who lives in the fort is trying to learn all about them. There has recently been a fierce war between the Dakota and the Snake Indians, for example.'

‘Have you spoken with him?'

Henry looked embarrassed. ‘I have, a few times now. He was reluctant to engage with me, until I spoke to one of his comrades in French, and learned that the third in their group is a medical man. I persuaded him that I am thoroughly interested in the Indians and their ways, and have little in common with the other emigrants. He told me of the Ogillallah and how they eat their dogs, as we would eat lambs or hogs. He told me a number of things, and gave me a few warnings.'

‘Warnings?'

‘The migrants must learn, he said, how to behave towards the Indians. We must stare them down when they show insolence, without mocking or sneering at them. As you would face a wolf or a bear – make yourself large and show no fear.' Here he looked down as his own small self and smiled ruefully. ‘There must be an underlying respect for their humanity, because he says they have pride and an age-old system of morality that demands honouring an agreement and behaving with decency towards the women.'

‘Really?' I was sceptical, having witnessed some roughness towards the Indian women on the part of the men. There were also multitudes of tales of Indian stealing horses and other livestock from wagon trains.

‘They have a form of marriage, which carries many of the same duties and obligations as we know in our own society.'

I had no reply to that, and was only passingly interested. ‘The man – what is his name?'

‘Parkman. Francis Parkman. He is shortly to leave to take up residence in an Indian village, in order to record as much as possible of their ways.' Henry's face was wistful. ‘Such determination and courage greatly impressed me.'

‘Will he be safe?'

‘He expects to survive, which is all anyone can hope for.'

‘He seems young when viewed at closer quarters.'

‘He graduated two years since, from Harvard. He has worked on his grandfather's farm in New England and his father is a Minister of religion.'

‘He disclosed so much as that to you? When, may I ask?'

This question was rightly deemed of no significance and Henry showed signs of impatience to be on his way. He was consumed with fascination for a man who had successfully adopted a life that Henry himself would have enjoyed. Here was a model for himself, I concluded, and I was glad for him, that such a model had been encountered in all its solid reality.

‘Was this our appointed talk, then?' I asked. ‘To be had now, after a mere week, rather than in a month's time?'

He blinked in puzzlement. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘We were talking about the nature of mankind, only a week since, and you said I would come to agree with your opinions and we should speak of it again.'

‘Ah!' He smacked his own head lightly. ‘Of course. Perhaps we might regard this as an interim assessment. Well?'

I breathed a
huff
of exasperation. ‘The question is too large,' I objected. ‘From experience, I cannot say that people have shown any worse inclinations than before. You tell me the Indians make barbaric wars between themselves, but I see no evidence of it. The families in our party have continued to help each other when required.' I faced him squarely. ‘All in all, Henry Bricewood, the only sign I see of human frailty is your successful avoidance of the recruiting officers.'

‘So I am a coward,' he said with mock sadness.

‘Some might think so.'

‘If war is virtuous, then I must be vicious. The logic is manifest.'

‘You think yourself too good to die by a Mexican musket,' I accused.

He smiled wanly. ‘I am guilty as charged,' he said. ‘I cannot lie to you. I believe there are others far better suited than I to the task of subduing our southern neighbours – who have a claim to the land that I find to be of some substance. We are all colonists, it's true. But the Spanish, and therefore the people of Mexico by and large, have had a foothold in these western lands very much longer than anybody else.'

I glanced around, fearful that he was uttering thoughts that would raise great anger. Innocent as I was of the protocols of warfare, it was plainly ill-advised to speak tolerantly of one's enemy. ‘Hush!' I hissed at him.

We separated then, and I cast his ideas from my mind. Henry Bricewood was beginning to feel like a dangerous friend to have. Just as Abel Tennant and Moses Fields were dangerous, in their very different ways.

Mr Fields, in contrast to Henry, gave every impression of wishing to avoid Indians as much as possible. He remained inside the family's wagon for almost a whole day on the pretext of rearranging their goods and assessing their supplies. That was an aimless day for me, with few chores and a restlessness that sent me roaming around the camp from wagon to wagon in search of amusement. We would be setting out again in two sleeps' time, the scouts busy with all the usual forward arrangements for our overnighting. The last day promised to be chaotic and unpleasant. But this third morning was quiet, which found me feeling oddly apprehensive.

I capitalised on Mrs Fields' abiding amiability towards me, and approached their wagon. The children were sitting dejectedly on the ground, appearing to be even less occupied than I was myself. ‘Good morning,' I said loudly, hoping to draw the attention of their parents.

I was rewarded by two faces emerging from the back, where the wagon's cover hung raggedly down. This was not how it was intended to be – the Tennants and the Franklins both had carefully fitted covers, fluted neatly around the rear hoop, so a kind of window was provided for anybody lucky enough to ride in the wagon. In the case of the Fields, there was no semblance of neatness. We had heard arguments over the past days, with the woman's familiar whining complaints the primary element. We gathered that she was demanding to ride in the wagon constantly from that point on, because walking made her ill. Her husband was of the opinion that there was insufficient space for this, unless she sat perched on the front board, which was far from comfortable and not entirely secure. A sudden lurch over a rock or into a rut might send a person tumbling if they were not holding on tightly.

‘Miss Collins,' said the man. ‘Is there something I can do for you?'