The Spoils of Sin (23 page)

‘There is every chance all will be well,' Fanny insisted. ‘The world is full of gold, remember. Some of it must fall to us.'

A few more weeks rolled on, the weather hotter each day and the town almost paralysed by it. The people moved slowly, keeping to the shade wherever possible. Water was carted from the river so regularly that the level fell away and the tracks of the laden carts were carved deep into the track. Fanny was reminded of the river crossings the wagon train had made and the grooves they had left, especially on the slope down to the Snake River. That particular waterway had been their companion for week after week, from Fort Hall to Fort Boise, on the hill where they saw the range of mountains that marked the final stage of the migration. Flashes of recall still came to her frequently, prompted unexpectedly by some image or other. The long walk would remain with her all her life, she supposed, as something that might find its way into history as worthy of remark. She had used her own legs to travel two thousand miles, as had many now living in Oregon. As a proportion of all the people in the world, these thousands of emigrants were a tiny group. How many of those millions across the globe could make the same claim? She would think of this at times, enjoying the sense of importance it gave her. She was a pioneer, and as such was particularly blessed.

The sense of surviving whatever might come her way remained strong, as Carola's belly swelled and the fifty dollars shrank to thirty and then twenty. She purchased a large cistern and had it securely installed on the roof, with improved pipework to bring water into the house. When the rain came, it would quickly fill. Others were taking the same precautions to ensure a good supply without the need to either buy it from carriers or take their own buckets and barrels down to the river. Water was a prime topic of conversation around town, with a few predicting that an uncontrolled expansion of human settlement, especially further south, would come to grief from lack of the most basic essential of life. Others mocked this concern, pointing to the almost incessant rainfall during the winter months. Fanny and Carola repeated to each other the strange remarks Marybelle had made about tremors and unstable ground. Would San Francisco disappear like a cataclysm in an ancient legend? Like Sodom and Gomorrah? Would all the mining for gold further disturb the ground, breaking through fragile supports that were not understood? The Indians would know – but would they tell? They might stand by, observing with amusement the self-destructive activities of the white men. Would the settlers even listen, if warnings were made?

Both girls had enjoyed a range of old tales as children: tales of fairies, dragons, giants and other worlds. These stories remained fresh in their memories, childhood not so very long gone, after all. Gradually, in quiet moments, sitting together on their little veranda, they wove new legends about this place they had come to, and about which so little was known. They invented unexplored tracks which led to magical lands. Caves, hollow trees, bottomless pools – all might provide a doorway into various kinds of fairyland. There would always be gold waiting for them, fashioned into jewellery and ornaments, as well as in piles of radiant coins, fresh-minted. Fanny began to dream of these inventions, waking slowly, unsure of what was reality and what mere childish romanticising.

It was a long time before they understood that this storytelling was in part a way of preparing for the coming child. They were creating a place that would welcome and shelter the baby. No need to build the new room or hire the new nursemaid. If they dreamed hard enough, all would come to them by sheer magic.

Fanny knew that this was folly, and yet she made no attempt to resist. It was too hot, too quiet, for worry to intrude. Carola had retreated into this fantasy world, and nothing would bring her out of it until she was ready. By late September, perhaps, when it turned grey and windy, she would return to her senses.

There were always the men, of course. Men with their lives changed wonderfully by the gold they had found, looking to become honest burghers in this pleasant town. Chemeketa itself acquired a subtle atmosphere of superiority and complacency. The town council cautiously welcomed new members – men with business sense and ambition. The incessant stories emerging from California confirmed the growing Oregon town in its determination to remain above all civilised. Gambling, drinking and whoring would all be strictly controlled. Children would be educated, and decent family life would be encouraged. The needs of the many single men were tacitly acknowledged in the tolerance given to the Misses Francesca and Carlotta.
Our whores are of a different kind to those in San Francisco
, was the general feeling. They did not paint their faces or raise their skirts to the knee. There were no fights or drunken misbehaviour on their premises. And as whispers began to the effect that Miss Carlotta had got herself in the family way, it was with as much pity as disgust. One or two childless wives even found themselves wondering whether there might be an opportunity to adopt.

On a day-to-day basis, there was little direct interaction between the girls and the townsfolk. They would go to the stores and conduct their transactions amicably. They would nod to people in the street and smile at children. Fanny sometimes petted dogs. Everyone knew full well who they were and what they did. But nobody – certainly no woman – ever referred to it, even obliquely. There were always men with familiar faces going about their business, who would politely raise their hats, for the most part. The first time one of them attempted to engage Carola in conversation, she quickly understood that this was potentially troublesome. If the man expected one day to find himself a wife from amongst the daughters of Chemeketa, he would do well to conceal his acquaintance with the local whorehouse. The veneer of civilisation was too fragile for risky behaviour. The collective resolve to maintain it demanded the most delicate manoeuvring on the part of everybody concerned. ‘We must be sure to advise them that there is no need to notice us outside these walls,' said Fanny, when Carola raised the matter. ‘We should not be offended. Our own success depends on keeping the townsfolk happy. They could drive us out if they took against us.'

One man was exempted from this regulation. Charlie, who had become something of a pet with Fanny, made no secret of his friendship with her. On his seventh or eighth visit, in the middle of June, she mentioned it to him. ‘You make it so plain that you are known to me,' she began. ‘What will people think?'

He rubbed his face. ‘They will think me a naturally virile man. A buck, with the money and appetite to visit you regularly. That is worth a good deal to me.'

She smiled and said nothing.

He became more serious, and more revealing. ‘Somehow, my deformity is known to many in town. My mother and brother, the lads I was schooled with – they will all have mentioned it, and the knowledge is commonly spread. I have lived here for twenty years. My uncle was a missionary. My father built half the homes here. If I come to a young lady with my trouble, nobody will judge me harshly for it. They will perhaps believe that you have worked some sort of miracle on me. I believe, my sweet, that you have done us both considerable good – and I see no reason to hide it.'

Indeed, there did seem to be an improvement in his performance. His truncated and scarred member was responding to being used as nature intended, albeit it in a small way. It had almost no sensation, and yet Fanny had shown him that this was not in itself an obstacle. The mysterious responses, that surely had as much to do with the mind or the nerves as direct contact, gave him the impetus to copulate, and his emissions were every bit as copious as any other man's. His tentative hope of a normal family life was strengthened by her assurances that he would indeed be able to father children.

As she came to know him better, Fanny's rage grew against the foolish mother who needlessly inflicted such harm on her infant son. Customs, rituals, superstitions – were they not made mock of in the case of the Indians, with their totems and strange dances? Yet there were practices every bit as ridiculous amongst Christians, Jews and Mormons. For what, Fanny asked herself. As a means of distinguishing one tribe from another, in the case of the Indians. They too interfered with their sons' private parts, if the rumours could be believed. She sighed in frustration. A woman's lot was seemingly to console, repair and distract her men after all the damage they spent their time wreaking.

Charlie took a long time to notice Carola's condition. It was early August before his head jerked forward one evening, as she brought him his glass of whiskey, and his eyes fixed on her belly. ‘Is that—? Are you—?' he stammered. Then he blushed and looked away. ‘It is not my place to enquire,' he added stiffly. ‘Forgive me.'

Carola glanced down at herself and nodded. ‘It is as it seems,' she said. ‘There is no longer any hiding it.'

His confusion deepened and he turned to Fanny. ‘A child is always a cause for joy,' he said. ‘Or so my uncle would maintain.'

‘As did our priests, back in Providence,' Fanny agreed. ‘The Roman Catholic church is greedy for children, or so my mother would say. They would have their women deliver a new one every year, and trust to the Lord to provide.' She thought once again of the poor smothered infants born to the abused nuns in the Maria Monk revelations. There was a case where Catholics did not welcome and celebrate a misbegotten babe.

Charlie let the subject drop, but Fanny could not avoid some further thoughts on the matter. She was put in mind of her mother, who had a precarious respect for some of the priestly utterances that came her way. When Patrick Collins had announced his intention to transport his family on the trail to Oregon, his wife's first comment had been, ‘And shall we leave behind all this Catholic flummery, then?'

Patrick had been scandalised at first, and then amused. ‘No doubt there will be churches aplenty in the new cities that we will see rising from the wilderness,' he said, with due pomposity. ‘But I imagine there will be little obligation upon us to attend – at least in the early years.'

And now, in the empty land south of the Columbia River and east of Oregon City, there was as yet little sign of new churches to accompany the many new homes, barns and stables. The Collins family said their prayers together each evening, and held a special service on the Sabbath. For Fanny's mother, that was evidently quite enough.

The summer continued hot and dry, for what felt like endlessly long months. Through June and July, very little happened, so that anxiety for the future mellowed into an unthinking belief that life would carry on in the same way forever. Hugo had a more stimulating existence than either of his mistresses, to judge by the reports of his exploits that came back to their ears. Left to wander freely all day, he would often be gone for many hours at a time, returning tired and satisfied, ready for his evening duties. In late June, a homesteader from two miles north of the town boundary drew up in his pony and trap outside the boudoir. While he sat uncertainly eyeing the colourful flowers in their pots and boxes, Hugo bounded joyfully down the steps to greet him. Fanny followed, curious about this visitor. ‘Jonas Harrison, Ma'am,' he introduced himself, with a formal bow. ‘It has taken me a full day of enquiries to track down your animal.' He scowled at Hugo, who paid no notice and merely jumped at the footboard with high enthusiasm.

‘He knows you,' said Fanny.

‘He does indeed. And he knows my Bessie even better.' He leaned backwards over the bed of his cart, and threw back a light cotton sheet. Beneath it was a wriggling bed of brindle, white and grey fur. ‘Five unwanted pups,' said Mr Harrison. ‘Sired by your untrammelled beast.'

Like any girl, Fanny was entranced. She was also far from surprised. This was the usual business with dogs, after all, as her sister Lizzie could testify. ‘What kind of dog is your Bessie?' she asked, trying to guess from the appearance of the pups. She lifted up a soft grey-and-white specimen, which looked as different from Hugo as could be imagined.

‘A prize example of a breed from Switzerland,' he replied. ‘They call them Saint Bernards.'

‘How old are these babies?'

‘Six weeks, close enough.'

Fanny hefted the pup, which required two hands to contain. ‘Surely this is large for its age?'

‘A Saint Bernard is a very large dog, Ma'am. And your creature is no dwarfling. Only a dog of considerable size could…er…
manage
.'

Fanny giggled, realising that Mr Harrison had not fully grasped the nature of her business. What, she wondered, did he think a boudoir was?

‘And you are come to town to sell them?'

He was taken aback. ‘Sell? What fool would want such as these? I was all for drowning them at birth, but my daughters begged me to spare them. There are two left at home, besides these.'

‘So – what?'

‘They are yours. Your dog sired them. You must take responsibility for them.'

‘Nonsense!' snapped Fanny. ‘Where do you get such a notion? What am I to do with them, pray?' But she still held the fluffy animal to her cheek, instinctively cradling it against any harm.

‘Let them loose, to make their own way in the world, if that's the best you can do.'

‘You might have done that yourself, just as readily.'

‘They stand a better chance amongst the stores and businesses of a town. They can keep the rats at bay, and forage for scraps around the slaughterhouse.'

At this point, Carola came to the top of the steps, wondering where Fanny had gone. Her reaction on seeing what Fanny was holding was instant. ‘Oh, no!' she cried. ‘Fanny – whatever you are planning, it cannot be. I forbid it.'

‘My friend is not enamoured of dogs,' Fanny explained.

Jonas Harrison shrugged.