The Indifference of Tumbleweed (18 page)

I wanted to explain some of this to Mr and Mrs Fields, hoping to reduce their distress. Some eight days after leaving the fort, I visited their wagon to enquire after the children and invite suggestions as to how best to prepare the bear meat. When I made some reference to the ‘French Indians' Mr Fields took me up, with a frown. ‘They are no Indians,' he protested. ‘They are traders and trappers who have moved from Canada.'

His wife shuddered. ‘Rough uncivilised creatures they are, too,' she added.

‘They showed no liking for us,' I said.

‘We are usurping their lands, bringing laws and decent families to replace their uncivilised ways,' he explained. ‘They regard us in much the same way as the Blackfeet and Dakota do. Which could be,' he mused, ‘why they are known as Indians amongst the emigrants.'

Mrs Fields and I both regarded the scar-faced half-breed somewhat askance. It would have been all too easy to cast slurs on his mother's race, without an understanding of how he would react. Did he perhaps blame the smallpox on the white settlers? There had been tales of deliberate infection as a means of reducing Indian numbers. Had the disease killed his mother? It irked me that I had not yet found answers to such questions after so long a time in each other's company. And I inwardly chastised myself for finding him unprepossessing. Beneath the scars he had a fine face, with long cheeks and a high brow. His thin nose curved slightly, lending him an air of strangeness, as if he might claim relationship to an eagle.

‘There is another fort ahead, is there not?' I asked, still uncertain of the exact route we were following and what might be the sequence of landmarks. ‘Will we find more of these uncouth men?'

‘There is nothing between here and the South Pass but a long climb,' he said. ‘We should achieve it within the week.'

I had heard this claim already, on all sides, and indeed after eight days of steady journeying we could plainly see the change to a more mountainous region. The month was July and the heat of the day had become unpleasant for us all. The level of water in the rivers was perceptibly lower, but the pasture we found each evening remained lush and wholesome for our beasts.

‘South Pass,' I repeated with a smile. ‘So soon!'

The couple showed signs of impatience with me, and I faltered. I had no clear idea of why I had stopped by, except for a sense that they were being unfairly outcast and were in need of my allegiance. I noted that an attempt had been made to improve the appearance of their wagon, with a large patch extending the cover at the rear, so that it was more securely attached to its hoops and much less ragged. But their oxen looked weary and in low spirits, and the pale children were still not quite recovered from their poisoning.

‘We rest tomorrow,' Mrs Fields reminded me, observing my appraisals. ‘Our animals will feel the benefit of that, 'tis sure.'

We had left the fort on a Saturday, and therefore not taken our normal Sabbath rest the following day. It was true that both men and beasts would be glad of a pause, having travelled a hundred miles at least without a break. Fanny had learned the folly of wearing moccasins to walk in and was nursing a bruised foot in consequence. My grandmother felt the change in air quality, or so she claimed, saying the breath inside her was not adequate for her needs, which was a well-known fact about the atmosphere in mountain territory. She panted after an hour's walking, and fell back.

Melchior's wounds had scabbed over, although he scratched stupidly at the stump of his ear and made fresh blood flow. Henry applied hot pitch to it after a few days, which was a drastic measure that made an unsightly black lump where there had once been a fine pricked-up ear. It also made the dog howl with pain, and brought protests from all sides. ‘It has to be cauterised,' said Henry in his own defence.

‘That was only the case when the injury first took place,' I argued. ‘He is in no danger of bleeding to death now.'

‘It will hasten the healing,' Henry insisted.

But it did little good that I could see.

The heat made it difficult to keep meat from going bad, and the skin of the killed bear could not be properly tanned until dried out with ashes and thoroughly scraped. The man who shot it laid claim to the pelt, but had insufficient time to spare for the task of curing it. It therefore very quickly became powerfully malodorous, with waves of stink emanating from the wagon, which was not very far ahead of us. Four days after the killing, it was ordained by a rare show of authority from the leader of that party that it must be discarded. Birds and wild animals would consume it, we thought, despite the wood ash that thinly covered parts of it.

The first day of rest, eight days into this second phase of the journey was a hot still Sabbath, where clothes chafed and water was all anyone wished for. The Sweetwater River was another day's walk ahead of us, which meant we could do very little washing. My sisters and I used this as an excuse to remove as many garments as we dared, claiming they should be aired in order to remain as fresh as possible. The morning service was conducted as always by the Reverend Timmins, from the Headley party, and as always my father grumbled at its plainness. When we had revealed our Catholicism at the establishment of the wagon train in Westport, we had been told there would be Sunday services for all, and we would be expected to conform. My father professed himself in agreement with this edict, fully aware of the
prevalence of Protestantism in America, and only glad that they was no sign of an even more Puritanical leaning. His religious faith went deep to his bones, but he had no great adherence to one church over another. His early life had been blighted, he said, by the mean ways of the Irish Brothers and one particularly unpleasant priest. Only his mother and a pair of nuns who were his aunts had kept him in the faith at all, once he was recovered from his ambition to become a priest himself. The decision to marry instead had seen him reject a good deal of the trappings of the Catholic Church.

Nonetheless, the extreme simplicity of the wagon train worship gave him pause. Privately, at the close of each day, he would softly recite his catechism and offer prayers to the Virgin and the Saints for our safekeeping.

Monday 6
^th
July

Early tomorrow we expect to reach the Independence Rock, which they call the Register of the Desert, because migrants have scratched their names thereon. Many of the leaders are disconsolate because we failed to reach it by the 4
^th
July, for which it was named. Father says two days late is of no significance and that the summer stretches before us yet.

Today we again have clean water, cold from the mountainsides, and good pasture. We have seen many buffalo and some have been shot for meat. They are huge but handsome creatures and many suffer badly before they die of the wounds.

Melchior is well enough to run alongside the wagons again, but is a much reduced character. Lizzie encourages Bathsheba to play with him, but he seems afraid of her, perhaps because she is an Indian dog, like those which attacked him.

The sight of Independence Rock brought some celebratory whooping, mainly from the young boys amongst us. They swarmed to the summit in a disorganised contest, whilst their parents remained below, all carving their names onto whatever spaces they could find. This was a habit begun years earlier, no doubt with little idea of making a perpetual record. When we came there, however, it was an expected ritual that all should make their mark who could, as well as the date. From what I could see from the earlier names, it was almost always during the month of July that the Rock was encountered.

‘This is half our journey done,' announced my father with a satisfied sigh. We all fell silent, thinking of how little hardship we had suffered and how well we had
planned and executed our migration. I looked around at the bright eyes of my sisters, and the improved colour in my mother's cheeks, and found nothing whatever to complain of.

There were some hours of partying around the great rock, with a pretence that it was the 4
^th
of July after all. Many people drank beer that had been brewing in casks in several wagons scattered along the train. I saw Abel Tennant stumbling towards Henry, brandishing a pewter schooner, and Henry ducking away behind a group of men. I saw my sister Fanny giving an impromptu performance of her favourite songs, with an admiring group around her. I saw Mr Fields dressed in a clean blue shirt staring westwards with a dreamy look. The parties merged and mingled, as they had done at the fort, and to some degree ever since, so that we made new friends and learned more from each other than we had done thus far. I found myself sitting on a small rock beside a girl about the age of my sister Lizzie, named Virginia Reed, from a party going by the label of Donner, and somehow we discovered that we both kept journals. I had been aware of this very large party overflowing with young children. A grandmother had died in the early weeks and been buried beside the trail. Virginia was watching Melchior and Bathsheba with a smile on her face. ‘I
adore
all the creatures,' she gushed. ‘The oxen especially.'

‘They are easy to love,' I agreed.

‘Is this not the greatest possible adventure?' she went on. ‘I am almost sorry we have completed a half of it so soon.'

‘Do you keep your journal daily?' I enquired.

‘Very nearly. I describe the landscape as if painting a picture, and anything that strikes me. And you? Is it the same?'

I gave this some thought. ‘I think not. Description does not come readily to my pen. I record distance travelled and landmarks reached. I mention the dogs rather frequently.'

She laughed. ‘And I have said never a word concerning a dog. I shall do so henceforth.'

‘In Oregon I imagine we will keep a whole pack of dogs, if my sister has her way.'

‘Oregon? You are resolved on settling there, then?' She gave me a probing look that made her seem much older than her years. ‘My father and Mr Donner have heard that California is considerably to be preferred.'

I had no sense of confusion or premonition at these words. ‘The trail leads to Oregon,' I said simply. ‘My father has his sights set firmly on the rich lands near Oregon City. Have you not joined the wrong train for California?'

She smiled. ‘Perhaps so. I confess to a hazy grasp of geographical details. It comes of listening to the men more than I should. They disagree amongst themselves so much that it becomes impossible to gain a true picture.'

‘California is to the south,' I said with confidence. ‘And has a population of Mexicans and Spaniards. Oregon is empty by comparison.'

‘It all sounds quite wonderful,' she sighed. She waved an all-embracing arm towards the mountains rising not so far away in the west. ‘Such beautiful land just waiting for us. It seems like a dream.'

Her enthusiasm was contagious and I parted from her with a warm feeling of general wellbeing. I was hungry and went towards our wagon thinking that my mother or grandmother might have begun a meal already. When I saw them both in the company of other women, close to Mr Franklin's wagon, I paused, before continuing on my way to search out a piece of jerky or dried apple.

Our wagon had been pulled up close to a shallow concavity in which sagebrush grew. As always, from ingrained habit, the wagons of our party were arranged in a rough circle, with the fires and tents in the middle. Although fear of Indian attack had faded away, there was still great advantage in this system. Wild animals and strong winds were all kept at bay by the large white-topped wagons, which must surely have loomed alarmingly in the sight of wolves, bears and clumsy elk with their great heavy heads. And if a rogue band of Indians did decide to advance on us, they would have difficulty threading their way over the towing bars and scattered belongings that made an effective barrier.

I strolled to the rear of our wagon, trying to recall where I had last seen the box containing dried fruit. Behind me there was still all the noise created by drinking and singing. I would return to the festivities, I promised myself, once I had found a snack.

I threaded my way between the wagon and the hollow, meaning to climb over the backboard where there was a convenient step. I heard no sound, but a movement caught my eye, and I looked idly down at the ground beside me. Half concealed by sage were two pairs of naked legs oddly entwined. The sight meant nothing to my conscious mind, but already something deep inside me understood. I jumped down on top of the limbs and quickly discovered the identities of the couple. ‘No!' I screamed,
slapping blindly at any piece of flesh I could reach. ‘Stop!' And then, quite without any deliberate intention, I shouted ‘He's
mine!'

My sister Fanny's flushed face reared up, like a mermaid from the sea, one hand pushing aside the person on top of her. ‘Charity?' she said.

Abel was slow to withdraw, and when he did so it was with shocking lack of modesty; he made no attempt to cover his nakedness. His face was averted, but I could see a slackness to his jaw that showed he was as shocked in his way as I was myself. The sight of his red member still engorged like that of a bull almost brought me to a faint. My body hummed and throbbed a hundred times more strongly than it had done before. From my nipples to my knees, I was ablaze with an emotion I could not name. Fanny, incredibly, seized the great thing and worked her hand along it, until seconds later a silvery jet fountained over her rumpled frock and Abel groaned.

‘There!' said Fanny with a smirk. ‘All done.'

Horror consumed me. I thought I could only be dreaming, and would shortly wake to the sound of my own shameful moans ringing in my ears. Only a few paces distant were our parents, small children, men of religion and trusting mothers. Such scandalous activity would bring down punishment we could scarcely dream of. And yet Fanny gave no sign of shame or fear. The single thought that had been pushing forward in my mind was that this was not a new situation; it had happened before. Abel had not been forcing her – indeed she appeared to be the one in control. She knew what was happening, and what to expect. Fanny was sixteen years in age and had always seemed to me a girl incapable of secrets. My mind struggled to grasp when and how there might have been previous opportunities for such goings-on. I had never once missed the two, never had the slightest suspicion that they might be away in hiding together, as the daylight faded and the migrants all settled into their tents or spent a final hour conversing around the ashes of the cooking fire.