Boston Jane

by Jennifer L. Holm

  My skirt had snagged on a rung and my stockinged legs were exposed for all the world to see! I blushed as red as my hair.

  “Trying to make a good impression with the locals, eh Jane?” Jehu chuckled. Truly he was the most disagreeable man I’d ever laid eyes on.

  “That’s Miss Peck to you,” I said in a cool voice.

  Jehu narrowed his eyes. “Of course, Miss Peck,” he said, handing me down into the boat.

  I settled onto a bench, and a filthy sailor with a rotten front tooth leered at me. I looked quickly away.

  We bounced up and down on the waves as the men rowed to shore. I scanned the group awaiting us on the dark sand. Not one of them had William’s bright blond hair. Was he not there? Where was he?

  It was an altogether strange greeting party, and I eyed them with trepidation. Upon closer inspection the savages were dressed like white men and not like the illustrations in the newspapers. Their hair was thick and black, and most wore it long and parted down the middle.

  Captain Johnson leaped off the boat and strode through the shallow water to the beach. Jehu put out a hand. I regarded him warily.

  He sighed, “Come on, Miss Peck. I’ll not bite, but I can’t speak for the men on shore.”

  I reluctantly extended my gloved hand. Imagine my surprise and astonishment when he ignored it—and swung me up into his arms!

  “Kindly put me down,” I said stiffly.

  He waded through the water, ignoring me. “Can’t be getting your skirts wet when you’re meeting your betrothed, now can you?”

  When we reached the shore, he set me down. Need I say I was heartily glad to be on solid ground after so many months at sea? Even so, the ground seemed to move as if we were still on the ship. I clutched Jehu’s arm for a moment as a wave of nausea washed over me.

  “All right?” he asked. “Sometimes when you’ve been seasick it takes time to get your land legs back.”

  I nodded, swallowing hard, praying that I would not be sick in front of all these men, who were busy making introductions.

  “Johnson,” Captain Johnson said brusquely. “Captain of the Lady Luck.”

  “I am James Swan, Captain,” the stocky, plump-bellied man declared with a wide smile. Mr. Swan’s ill-fitting wire-rimmed spectacles were patched with twine and balanced precariously on his bulbous nose. “How long was your voyage, my good man?”

  “One hundred and eighty days from Philadelphia,” Captain Johnson said with a slow grin.

  “Capital time, my dear fellow! Capital! And what brings you to our fair country?”

  “Timber.”

  “Capital! A man after my own heart.” Mr. Swan turned to the scruffy-looking mountain man next to him. “This is Mr. Russell, longtime resident of Shoalwater Bay.”

  The man, with a mangy, gray-flecked beard, was outfitted entirely in buckskins, a rifle slung over his back.

  “Mr. Russell runs our humble trading post, such as it is,” Mr. Swan explained.

  Mr. Russell narrowed his eyes at me, spat on the ground, and snorted. Whoever he was, he was plainly not a very pleasant man.

  An older man stepped forward.

  “And this is Toke. He is the tyee, chief, of the Chinooks of Shoalwater Bay,” Mr. Swan said with a flourish.

  I must admit, I was rather surprised. I had imagined someone younger and fiercer, with a long, sharp nose, war paint, and a necklace of human teeth. Instead, as he fixed me with his appraising, intelligent gaze, I was rather reminded of the dignified judge Papa invited over for supper. Except the judge had been better dressed. All that kept us from seeing Chief Toke in his natural state was the belt holding the blanket wrapped around him.

  A leathery-looking thing hung from the side of his belt. I recalled stories from newspapers and shivered, although the chief looked perfectly harmless, and perhaps even kind.

  “Is that a scalp?” I whispered to Mr. Swan.

  Mr. Swan blinked. “A scalp?”

  “Yes, a scalp. From some unfortunate pioneer.”

  “It’s the sole of an old shoe,” Mr. Russell grunted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Chief Toke fingered the leather.

  “A shoe. He likes to carry it around. Used to be mine.” Mr. Russell spit a wad of tobacco, and it barely missed my toe. It seemed that the loathsome habits of the States had been carried to the frontier.

  “I see,” I said, although I clearly did not.

  “Mr. Russell is a great friend of Toke’s people,” Mr. Swan said as if this explained everything.

  “Right,” Captain Johnson said. “Well. This here is my first mate, Jehu Scudder. This is Father Joseph, and the girl is Jane Peck.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Scudder, Father,” Mr. Swan said, shaking the men’s hands firmly. He smiled when he reached me. “It is indeed a surprise to see you, Miss Peck, although I daresay I feel as if I already know you. William spoke often about you!”

  “A surprise to see me?” I asked. And where was William?

  But Mr. Swan had already turned away and was deep in conversation with the chief.

  “King George tillicum,” Mr. Swan said, pointing to Captain Johnson. Chief Toke nodded gravely. “Boston tillicum.” Mr. Swan gestured to me. “Jane Peck.”

  “You speak the savage’s language?” Father Joseph asked in an amazed voice.

  “I speak the Jargon. Most of the folks around here do.”

  “The Jargon?”

  “It’s a kind of trading language. Mainly Chinook and some English and French all mixed together. It’s not elegant, but we get by.”

  “What did you tell him?” Father Joseph asked.

  “I told him that Captain Johnson was English and that Miss Peck was an American,” Mr. Swan said.

  “But you pointed to me and said Boston. I’m not from Boston; I’m from Philadelphia,” I said.

  “The first ships that came from the States were from Boston, so now the Indians call all Americans Boston tillicum, Boston people. They call the British King George tillicum, on account of King George.”

  “Mr. Swan, what did you mean when you said you were surprised to see me? Where is William?” I asked, my voice rising a notch.

  “Well, I believe you were supposed to have arrived over two months ago.” He paused. “And I’m afraid William’s not here.”

  “Not here?” I whispered, my heart and belly twisting painfully.

  Mr. Swan frowned. “William was called away on an errand for the governor.”

  William wasn’t here!

  “As an Indian agent, your future husband is much in demand, I’m afraid. He left for parts north several weeks ago.”

  It was too much. I rushed over to the water and retched up my breakfast. This wasn’t happening, I told myself, trying to catch my breath. I remembered every word Papa had said about William. How he was a fool and had no sense. I touched my hand to my belly, trying to compose myself.

  “You okay?”

  Jehu put a hand on my arm. I shook it off angrily and marched back to where the men were all standing, staring at me as if I had two heads.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Mr. Swan asked.

  “Didn’t William receive my letter saying that our departure had been delayed?” I asked, shaking and pale.

  “I’m afraid not, my dear.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “The mail is not very reliable out here. When you didn’t arrive two months ago as you’d written when you accepted his proposal, William thought you’d changed your mind and thought it best to go about his business.”

  “Changed my mind? How could he think such a thing? I didn’t!” I said desperately. “It took two months to get my wedding dress made so we were late leaving and, and—”

  Mr. Swan shook his head sadly at me.

  Miss Hepplewhite’s words rang in my ears:

  Young ladies who are not punctual when traveling think up any manner of excuses. The truth is the unpunctual do not allow themselves sufficient time.


  I burst into tears.

  “There, there,” Mr. Swan said comfortingly, handing me a square of rough cloth. “There’s nothing to cry about. He’ll turn up eventually.”

  I looked up at him through tears and sniffed. “But when?”

  Mr. Swan looked perplexed. “I’m sorry, dear girl, but I can’t say for certain.”

  “Can’t we send word for him to come back?”

  “It’s not that simple out here, my dear Miss Peck. It’s best to just wait for his return.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to do until then?” I asked. The difficulty of my situation was just beginning to occur to me. “Who will look after me?”

  “I’m sure we’ll sort everything out.” Mr. Swan clapped his hands efficiently. “I suggest we get you and your companions acquainted with the surroundings,” he said, pushing up his spectacles. He turned and started purposefully down the trail, the men following him into the deep, dark woods.

  All I could do was stand there and watch them go, too stunned to move.

  Jehu leaned over and said gently, “Come on, Jane.”

  What was I going to do? I thought wildly as I fol lowed the men through the dense forest. What would happen to me?

  This wilderness bore no resemblance to the familiar woods of Pennsylvania. The very trees were different—so massive that they reached the sky. The ferns grew huge and lush and spidery. Everywhere strange birds cried and fluttered.

  “I have never seen trees this tall,” Father Joseph said in awe.

  “Yes, Father,” Mr. Swan called back. “They are peculiar to this region. They are most wondrous, are they not?”

  “Wondrous to chop down,” Captain Johnson said, a gleam in his eye.

  The trail emptied into a wide clearing, at the center of which a solitary, shabby-looking log cabin was situated. A group of savages congregated in front of it.

  I froze when I caught sight of the women. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Most of the women were wearing ordinary dresses of calico, but a few were wearing scandalous-looking skirts that ended above the knee. Bare knees, legs, and ankles were in plain sight! Furthermore, none of the women were wearing shoes!

  The women stared at me boldly.

  I hung back, afraid and nervous.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Swan said in a satisfied voice.

  “Is this where the savages live?” I asked.

  Mr. Swan looked confused. “No, this is Mr. Russell’s cabin, and our humble home. It doubles as our trading post as well. Toke’s lodge is a stone’s throw away, just down that stream.” He pointed to a stream that ran alongside the encampment.

  But I couldn’t take my eyes from the strange sight in front of me. One of the savage women had tied a baby’s head between a board and a sort of padded cradle and secured it with a length of fabric, squeezing the infant’s forehead! No doubt this was how they acquired their flattened foreheads.

  I tugged on Mr. Swan’s hand.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Mr. Swan,” I whispered, “she’s torturing that infant!”

  The infant in question was fast asleep.

  Mr. Swan winked. “The babe looks well enough to me.”

  He started toward the cabin.

  I looked about me, but there were no other lodgings to be seen. Perhaps William’s house was farther down the path, or in another area entirely.

  “Mr. Swan,” I called politely.

  “Yes, Miss Peck?”

  “Could you please direct me to William’s house?”

  Mr. Swan wrinkled his nose, and his spectacles slid a little lower down his face. “William’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. Hmmph. I’m rather afraid—” He cleared his throat. “I’m rather afraid William has no house of his own, my dear.”

  “What?” I asked, my voice wavering.

  “He has always stayed with us in the cabin,” he said simply.

  I could hardly believe my ears. I was here on my own with nowhere to live? It was impossible. William would never do this to me. He was a gentleman. Certainly this was all a mistake!

  “But surely there are other houses in the settlement?” I faltered.

  Mr. Swan shifted uncomfortably. “Miss Peck. I’m afraid that the cabin is the settlement. I thought William had told you.”

  “Are there no houses at all?”

  Mr. Russell narrowed his eyes at me and spat a wad of tobacco, narrowly missing my skirt. “Well, gal, I reckon ya’ve come to the wrong place if yar expecting bricks and steps.”

  “But William wrote that he’d arranged for ‘comfortable accommodations,’” I said desperately, reciting William’s words by heart.

  Mr. Swan scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Well, Mr. Russell’s cabin is very pleasant. Marvelously warm when the cold wind blows off the bay.” He turned and started toward the cabin again.

  I felt faint. William was missing. Mary was dead. Papa was far away. And here I was in the middle of the wilderness with no place to stay.

  As I looked around anxiously, another realization struck home.

  “Mr. Swan!” I called.

  “Yes, Miss Peck?”

  “Where are the other women?”

  “Why, Miss Peck,” Mr. Swan said, pushing his spectacles up. “They’re right in front of you.” He pointed to the group of savages.

  “I meant the other ladies,” I clarified.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m afraid there aren’t any others. You’re the only one.”

  I swear I heard Sally Biddle laughing at me all the way back in Philadelphia.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  or,

  Being a Good Guest

  I peered into the dark doorway of the miserable cabin. The floorboards of the porch creaked dangerously under my feet.

  A motley gathering of filthy pioneer men and savages were sitting around on rough benches drinking whiskey. A rotten odor permeated the air. No doubt it came from the men themselves.

  “Pardon me, but where am I to sleep?” I called from the doorway, holding my handkerchief to my nose. The men ignored me.

  I knew that a gracious guest should not interfere with the domestic routine of the house, but the only routine here seemed to involve getting drunk. Clearly any instructions and helpful hints from Being a Good Guest (Chapter Eleven) would be wasted on this vulgar group.

  I squinted through the single smoke-filled room. Two tiny windows covered with greasy-looking animal skins let in less light than the chinks in the walls. Hard-looking wooden bunks lined two walls. A rickety set of rough-hewn shelves burdened with sacks of flour, potatoes, and spices lined another wall. Every surface was covered with a thick layer of dust and grit. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and I could tell from the way the shadows moved that there was more than dirt on the floor. Vermin.

  It was frightful.

  Summoning all my courage, I walked into the room, and as I did something struck me in the face.

  I looked up, startled.

  An enormous dead cougar hung from the rafters, its teeth frozen in a snarl.

  I screamed.

  “What ya hollering for?” Mr. Russell drawled, his whiskers twitching.

  “Where am I to sleep!” I shouted in sheer frustration.

  A hush came over the room. All eyes fixed on me.

  “Do any of you selfish louts understand what a lady requires?” I asked peevishly. Sometimes strong language is regrettable but necessary.

  “Sleep?” Mr. Swan blinked and looked about. “Why, here, of course.”

  I was speechless.

  “I’ll be moving into my own home in a few weeks’ time, and you will be most welcome there,” Mr. Swan said kindly.

  “Stay here?” I said at last. I was dumbfounded. Miss Hepplewhite didn’t even consider it proper for unmarried ladies and gentlemen to sit on the same picnic blanket, and here was Mr. Swan proposing that I sleep in the same room as these vulgar men! It was utterly unthinkable!

&n
bsp; Mr. Swan gave me a fatherly smile and said reassuringly, “You have nothing to fear, Miss Peck.”

  I pulled myself up, smoothing my skirt and straightening my bonnet.

  “Mr. Swan, I must protest. I can’t possibly sleep here.”

  “We don’t snore, gal,” Mr. Russell said, spitting, and this time I swear he aimed right at my petticoats! I leaped back, barely avoiding the gob of wet, chewed tobacco. And to think that when I was a girl, I had considered spitting amusing.

  “Well, Mr. Swan? There simply must be somewhere else I can stay,” I said in a reasonable tone.

  “I’m afraid, Miss Peck, there is nowhere else.”

  Before I could take in the enormity of Mr. Swan’s words, a young savage about my age entered the doorway of the cabin carrying my trunk from the Lady Luck.

  My mouth nearly dropped open in astonishment.

  I had never seen such a handsome young man in all my life. Except William, of course, but even he seemed a hazy memory compared to this finely muscled body. The savage in question had liquid eyes, flowing hair, and a radiant smile, and despite myself, I stared at him. He was remarkably pleasing to the eye.

  I stared at the comely young man and he grinned back at me, plainly amused and quite aware of his appeal. There was certainly something charming about him. I felt heat rise to my cheeks.

  Jehu snorted.

  “Miss Peck, may I introduce Handsome Jim?” Mr. Swan said formally.

  Handsome Jim puffed out his chest and bowed. I swallowed and curtsied quickly.

  “His name is truly Handsome Jim?” Father Joseph asked.

  “I should say it suits him,” I said before I could stop the words.

  Mr. Swan laughed while I blushed at my indiscretion.

  “I agree,” Mr. Swan said, his eyes twinkling. “And he is most fond of our mirrors and admiring his reflection in the water. He used to be Handsome Tom, but he changed his name recently. Isn’t that right, Jim?”

  Handsome Jim looked suddenly nervous but nodded. It was clear enough that he understood English.

  “Changed his name?” Father Joseph asked with a sniff of disdain. “These savages can’t even remember their own names and must change them?”

  Mr. Swan shook his head.

  “My dear fellow, it is the habit of these Indians to change their names when one of their kin dies. It is their belief that the spirit of the departed soul comes back and haunts them, attempting to lure them to the other side. They change their names to fool the spirits.”