The Indifference of Tumbleweed (33 page)

If the oxen had not been fresh and rested, they could never have managed this gruelling final stretch. Their metal shoes were a hindrance at times, sliding on the smooth black stones and the green sappy tree trunks that lined the road. There never seemed to be a level way for more than half a day at a time. We felt small and solitary, despite knowing there were other people not far distant. Less than two hundred miles away there were substantial new settlements; new towns springing up in the Willamette. Closer than that were areas of cleared forest and new cabins containing settlers with enough spirit to start in a new place, despite the lack of neighbours. Maverick families, greedy for the freedom and space that an empty land could provide; they could erect their own church and school according to their own ideas, with nothing in the way of intervention from government or other authority.

‘They will last a bare few years,' said my father. ‘Humankind craves society, and they say the winters here are beyond endurance.'

The milder climate closer to the coast was my father's unwavering goal, as well as that of almost everyone else in our train.

In the uplands that we still had to traverse, the late September climate was already turning mean. We were in a more northerly latitude than our east coast home – where
the winters were harsh enough. Night-time in our crammed-together tents was a chilly affair. If it had not been for the close proximity of the beasts – no well-spaced camping ground and pasture was available to us on that new road – we would have felt the sharp winds and frosty air even more acutely.

Lizzie's pups, almost four weeks old, were a growing menace. They demanded additional food to what their mother could provide, and no sooner had they tasted their first morsels of bread and meat than Bathsheba abandoned her task of keeping them clean. They shat in every corner of the wagon, more and more each day, causing my mother regular paroxysms of rage. The smell increased, and the little dogs grew timid and fearful under her beatings and scoldings. Finally, she insisted they no longer be allowed inside the wagon at all.

‘But Mother!' wailed Lizzie. ‘Where else can they go?'

‘That's for you to discover. My wagon has become a cesspit, thanks to you. I should never have allowed them in, from the start. There is not a woman in the train who would permit such a thing.'

Urgently, Lizzie pleaded for help from anyone who would listen. The problem rapidly resolved itself into constituent parts. At night the whole litter could easily be housed in a nest of some kind against a rock. By day, most people opined, they could walk at the slow pace we were forced to adopt, admittedly risking their lives under wagon wheels.

‘No,' said Lizzie. ‘They are too young and there are too many of them.'

It was Mr Fields who came to her rescue. He produced a sturdy basket, and enlisted Henry Bricewood's help to fashion an arrangement of long poles to hold it. Lizzie would be able to haul it along, with her pups riding inside. ‘Or one of the horses might tow it,' suggested Mr Fields.

It was a variation of the Indian practice of harnessing a light triangular construction behind their horses, on which goods were piled, as well as old enfeebled people or small children. After watching Lizzie struggle with it for a whole day, Mr Tennant amiably supplied one of his horses as draught animal, and the dogs rode in a comfortable travaux, as I think the Indians called it.

Fanny and I were forced into each other's company by the constraints of the road. Where before we might have kept a distance between us, here on the narrow ridges and valley floors, the families all remained tightly together. There was little scope for
drifting off on other tracks or wading in the river shallows, as there had been previously. When the road followed along a ridge, there was often a steep drop on both sides, either strewn with boulders or covered in scrub. There were no alternative ways at all. We simply pressed on, mile after mile, treading the road into place, forging a way across it with no knowledge of what might lie just ahead.

Thus it took some time for it to become apparent that Fanny and Abel were striving to avoid each other. The families walked close to their wagons, with their cattle and horses bunched behind them, all treading on each other's heels. At night there was no chance of forming the customary rough circles, each party creating its own little island around the cooking fires. We were strung out uncomfortably, night after night. But there was considerable sharing of food and fires, with water running short on one or two nights spent far from a river. The men who made the road had understood the need for camping places well enough, but had not spared the time to provide them beyond a token hacking down of a few trees to suggest a place where tents might be erected. As soon as we stopped for the day, men would disappear into the forest with axes and saws, both to gather firewood and scout for somewhere to put the livestock. Mr Bricewood's treasured whipsaw was taken from the side of the wagon at last, unwrapped and tested for sharpness, then used to fell large trees. The timber was cut lengthwise, where possible, and stacked for future use by subsequent emigrants. The purpose was to clear ground, not to acquire timber, but the saw was so effective and satisfying to use that the further work was done for the plain pleasure of it. My heart contracted to think how my brother Reuben would have enjoyed himself. A man took either end of the long slender implement, pulling it back and forth in a rhythm that we could all hear and feel. The sound it made was a natural music, smooth and powerful as the metal sliced through the tree that had been alive only minutes before. The violence of it was lost in the satisfaction of producing shining new boards that would weather into other colours and textures until, perhaps, used for the sidings of new cabins.

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 travelled 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.'