Boston Jane

by Jennifer L. Holm

  “Mr. Russell, I stated very plainly that I would not be sleeping in that cabin. Now good night, sir.”

  “The cabin will—”

  I pulled my tent flap shut with a firm snap. “Good night, Mr. Russell!”

  Mr. Russell grumbled some more, and the men’s voices drifted away.

  Finally I would get some sleep after this long, dreadful day, I thought. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and, curling into a ball, fell asleep.

  Next thing I knew, I was on the Lady Luck.

  I was in our tiny cabin, and Mary’s bunk was empty, the bedding neatly made up. All was quiet and still, except for the rhythmic slap of the waves.

  Out of the stillness came a familiar scurrying sound. Hordes of rats began pouring into the room, leaping onto my bunk and biting me viciously. I screamed and screamed, but then the dream shifted, and all of a sudden I was on deck in the middle of a storm.

  Massive waves slammed against the ship, rain pelted down in sheets, and I struggled to hold on to the rail. A flash of lightning crackled through the night, illuminating the inky ocean for one long heartbeat. And then I saw her.

  Mary was standing on the deck, beneath the mainmast, still as a statue, her back to me, her black hair flowing like a waterfall.

  “Mary!” I called.

  But she didn’t hear me. She just stood there, her pale skin glowing in the dark night.

  I rushed across the deck, shouting her name over the wind. Then lightning struck the mainmast with a loud crack, and I watched in horror as the mast started to fall.

  “Mary!” I screamed.

  She turned around slowly and stared at me.

  With dark, dead eyes.

  I woke with a start, my heart pounding.

  A crash of thunder rang through the night, and rain began pelting the tent.

  “It was just a bad dream,” I whispered to myself again and again.

  The rain slapped noisily on the tent, and I wished with all my might that I was back in my four-poster bed on Walnut Street. Had I made a horrible mistake coming to this desolate place? Had I traded Papa and Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie for a wilderness full of filthy men? Then I remembered William’s beautiful eyes and lovely smile and knew that he was worth all these inconveniences. I would send a messenger for him first thing tomorrow, I promised myself. As soon as he found out I was in the territory, he would come for me directly, and all would be well.

  I felt a stinging rush of cold water under my back side and looked down in alarm.

  “Oh blast,” I whispered softly.

  Before I could move, a great wind came up, flapping the tent wildly. In the next moment the tent was gone, and I was left crouching over a small stream of water.

  Entirely discouraged, I heaved up the sodden skirt of my woolen nightgown and made a dash for the dreaded cabin. I entertained little hope that anyone would be up, but when I opened the door a cheery fire was blazing and the men were sitting around drinking whiskey and laughing. They were all snug and dry. Brandywine was curled up in front of the fire. Even the sorry hound had known enough to get in from the storm.

  Mr. Russell took in my wet nightdress and cackled. “Backs of the leaves, gal.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The backs of the leaves show when it’s gonna rain, gal,” Mr. Russell said, puffing on his pipe.

  “You knew it was going to rain?” I asked incredulously.

  “Could be I did.”

  “You—you—”

  “You’re most welcome to stay here, Miss Peck,” Mr. Swan interrupted, stepping between me and Mr. Russell and proffering a grimy wool blanket.

  I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I snatched the blanket and stalked over to the fire with as much dignity as I could muster. Every bunk contained a lumpy man, so I swiftly stripped out of my soggy night dress under the blanket and bundled on the dirt floor next to the warm flames. The wool blanket smelled as if it had been used to clean a horse. I was utterly humiliated.

  Brandywine lifted his head and gave a halfhearted sniff to see if I had brought any food.

  “Worthless hound,” I muttered.

  I lay there wrapped in the grimy blanket on the filthy dirt floor with the sounds of snoring men filling my ears, and it all suddenly seemed too much. Mary was dead, Papa was far away, and William was missing. I was cold, wet, and naked. And I didn’t have a friend in the world. Hot tears wet my cheeks as I cried my frustration and fear into the scratchy wool blanket.

  I was just beginning to fall asleep when I felt someone lay another blanket on me. And a voice—was it Mr. Russell’s?—said, “She sure is a stubborn gal.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  or,

  Dress as a Test of Character

  I awoke early and crept out of the cabin to fetch one of my dresses. It had stopped raining sometime during the night. If I were lucky, my dresses would be merely damp and not soaking wet.

  The sky was gray and grim, and the air smelled muddy. I couldn’t help but notice that the roof of Mr. Russell’s cabin was sprouting moss, which seemed to me a very bad sign. It must rain a considerable amount for moss to grow on one’s roof.

  I saw the abomination the minute I rounded the corner.

  I did what any young lady would do. I screamed.

  Handsome Jim came running out of the cabin, rifle at the ready no doubt expecting to find me in mortal danger.

  “Shoot it!” I ordered, pointing at the perpetrator.

  The cow regarded me with lazy eyes. She was calmly chewing away, a lace-trimmed hem hanging out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Shoot cow?” Handsome Jim asked, confused.

  I stamped my foot. “Yes. Shoot the blasted beast!”

  Handsome Jim looked worried. “That cow Mr. Russell’s. Burton!”

  “I don’t care! Just shoot the wretched animal!” I stamped my foot again.

  Jehu emerged from the cabin, looking sleepy. He was shirtless, and his hair was mussed. “What’s all the carrying-on?”

  “Look!” I shrieked.

  “And good morning to you, too, Miss Peck,” Jehu said dryly.

  I pointed angrily at the cow, which was methodically chewing, apparently unperturbed by the sight of a man holding a gun pointed in its general direction.

  “That blasted beast ate all my dresses!”

  Jehu started to laugh.

  “It’s not funny! What am I to wear?” I cried. The blanket slipped, and I gripped it tightly around me. What an unseemly predicament!

  “I’m sure a lady like you will figure it out,” Jehu said, and, still laughing, walked away.

  I stared grimly into the smoldering fire. I had reluctantly put on my nightdress even though it was still wet from the night before. It was itchy and smelled rancid, like the inside of the cabin, but worse somehow. The only other dress I possessed was my wedding dress and I was not about to traipse around in that. It would be destroyed in no time. Above all, that must be saved for William.

  “What am I to wear?”

  “Why don’t you ask Suis to trade one of hers?” Mr. Swan suggested mildly.

  I remembered Miss Hepplewhite’s counsel on Dress as a Test of Character (Chapter Eight):

  Your true character is shown in your dress, girls.

  “Mr. Swan, those dresses are immodest!”

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “The Chinook ladies seem comfortable enough.”

  “But Suis goes around practically naked! Why, you can see her—her ankles!—in that dress she wears!”

  “Her ankles, you say?” Mr. Swan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  As if she knew I was speaking of her, Suis appeared in the doorway of the cabin, carrying a bundle. Clearly Handsome Jim had related the situation to her and she had come, ready to bargain.

  “Guess I’ll leave you ladies to it.” Mr. Swan winked knowingly and disappeared outside.

  Suis undid the bundle and held out a skirt similar to the one she was wearing and a calico blouse.
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  A little girl peeked out at me from behind Suis’s legs.

  “But what can I trade?” I asked plaintively.

  Suis poked me in the ribs, pushing the whalebones of my corset into my side. I inhaled sharply.

  “My corset?” I asked in dismay.

  She nodded inexorably. “Trade colset.”

  I had worn a corset for so long, I didn’t know what to do without one. What would Miss Hepplewhite say? Furthermore, what would William say when he returned and saw me? What kind of respectable young lady went about dressed like an Indian?

  A dry one, whispered a voice that sounded suspiciously like Papa’s.

  The skirt and blouse she held looked so clean and dry. Something in me relented.

  “Very well,” I said reluctantly.

  Suis smiled smugly.

  I unlaced the corset, leaving on my drawers and shift, and slipped into the calico blouse, my petticoats, and the Chinook skirt. The skirt was a series of woven strands of some material that created a thick fringe and left my legs exposed below the knee. It smelled sweet and it was heaven to be dry.

  “It is cedar,” Suis said, indicating my skirt. “Beaten soft.”

  I could hardly believe I was wearing a tree, but clearly I was.

  Despite myself, I smiled. It felt, well, nice not to have the corset on. It was somehow easier to breathe. Perhaps Papa was right about corsets, after all.

  The little girl tugged on my hand shyly. I knelt down.

  “And what is your name?”

  “Sootie,” Suis said with obvious pride.

  The little girl grinned, exposing missing front teeth. She had a slanted forehead like her mother, and wide, curious brown eyes.

  “It means ‘mouse,’” Suis explained.

  “Is she your daughter?”

  Suis nodded, smoothing her daughter’s hair back.

  I had not yet put up my hair, and it hung loose in a tangle of curls. Sootie reached out and touched it in wonder, pulling her hands through it as if to assure herself it was real.

  “Have you never seen red hair?” I asked with a laugh as the little girl’s fingers caught and tugged through the mass.

  A sudden image of Mary combing my hair as I sat at my bedroom table at Walnut Street flashed before my eyes, and for a fleeting moment the feel of those gentle fingers brought back a rush of memories so fierce all I could do was blink.

  Mr. Swan was waiting for me on the porch when we emerged from the cabin.

  “You look much improved, my dear,” Mr. Swan said brightly.

  “She looks beautiful,” a voice said admiringly.

  Jehu was leaning against the porch.

  I shifted awkwardly in my new outfit. How strange it felt to be in public without a corset! I had to force myself not to cross my arms in front of my bosom. As if sensing my discomfort, Father Joseph appeared at that very moment and frowned at me.

  “That ensemble is hardly appropriate for a decent Christian girl,” he said sternly.

  I felt like perishing on the spot.

  Mr. Swan came to my rescue. He cleared his throat loudly. “Come, Miss Peck. We have an errand requiring all haste,” he said, waving a sturdy-looking walking stick importantly.

  I looked at him blankly for a moment, then realizing his game, said, “Oh yes! We must hurry.” I was anxious to be away from Father Joseph’s admonishments, even if the sky was gray and it was starting to drizzle.

  Mr. Swan’s eyes crinkled softly in understanding.

  I followed Mr. Swan as he trampled down the stream to where a strange-looking collection of buildings was situated. There were Indians everywhere: women laughing, small children running and playing, men chattering away to each other.

  “This is Toke’s village,” he said. “Those are the lodges.”

  “Mr. Swan, I need to secure a messenger, to send word to William,” I reminded him.

  “Of course, my dear.”

  I followed him over to one of the long wooden lodges.

  “How do we get in?” I asked, looking for a door but seeing none.

  “Through here,” Mr. Swan said, disappearing through a small opening near the ground, a sort of rabbit’s hole but big enough to fit a person.

  I slipped after him into the dark hole, and I fairly gasped in astonishment at the scene before me.

  The room was massive, and firepits lining the center bustled with activity. There were women preparing salmon, babies being cared for by their mothers, and men engaged in a fierce game of some kind. Dolly smiled shyly at me from the corner where she appeared to be weaving a basket.

  Huge bunklike structures, platforms really, were arrayed against the walls, and it was perfectly astonishing to see whole families perched on these platforms observing us with great interest. It appeared that several families lived in Chief Toke’s large lodge. What was most astounding was that the lodge was so clean and tidy. The floors were lined with mats, and it all smelled sweetly of cedar. Mr. Russell’s cabin seemed positively a pigsty in comparison.

  Chief Toke was sitting on a platform at the end of the room.

  When he saw Mr. Swan, he gestured to us. Mr. Swan explained my situation to him, and in short order we were discussing my needs with a young man.

  “This is Yelloh. He is one of Chief Toke’s nephews. He is acquainted with William and says that he has a fair idea of where he might be,” Mr. Swan said.

  Yelloh had a ring made from a shell in his nose. I couldn’t stop looking at it.

  “Does he speak English?” I whispered.

  “I’m afraid that Yelloh does not. Most of the Indians prefer to speak the Jargon when communicating with whites or other tribes. It’s much more practical. Although, I must say, some of the Indians, like Suis and Handsome Jim, speak English quite well. The children seem to speak English the best. But you should really learn the Jargon, my dear. It is a fascinating language.”

  It was becoming clear to me that Mr. Swan was very fond of giving lectures. “Will they take American money?” I asked.

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “How much?”

  Mr. Swan spoke to Yelloh and then turned back to me. “Five silver dollars.”

  “Five dollars?” I asked, aghast. That was half my funds!

  “He says five silver dollars for fifteen days’ travel north and fifteen travel back. A month, to be clear. If he does not find William in that time he will come back. You must make him a counteroffer, my dear,” Mr. Swan said.

  I needed to make my ten dollars last.

  “Tell him three dollars for ten days in each direction.”

  Mr. Swan translated, and Yelloh shook his head.

  “He says that he heard from a cousin that William has gone very far north, and that it will take him at least twelve days. His final price is four silver dollars.”

  I looked at Mr. Swan anxiously.

  He smiled apologetically. “My dear, I do believe that William has traveled a considerable distance.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Four dollars for twelve days each way.” I handed him the money. “Do not go a day over twelve days.”

  Mr. Swan related my concern to Yelloh. The young man inclined his head gravely.

  “He promises to travel twelve days only.”

  I looked suspiciously at Yelloh.

  Mr. Swan nodded reassuringly. “Have no fear. Chief Toke says he is very capable.”

  I was having a hard time considering anyone who had a ring in his nose as capable of much of anything. The fellow couldn’t even sneeze. How could he find William?

  “Is he trustworthy?” I asked.

  “I confess I don’t know him very well, but he seems a nice enough lad to me.”

  It wasn’t as if I had much of a choice. “Very well.”

  Mr. Swan grinned at Yelloh, who nodded.

  “Now that that’s resolved, why don’t we make our way down to the beach?” Mr. Swan suggested cheerily, as if it were an ordinary day and we were setting out to ca
ll on a neighbor.

  I tromped after him along a narrow trail. It was drizzling harder now, but Mr. Swan seemed not the least bit bothered. I could feel my hair start to escape from its knot. My hair was at its worst in wet weather.

  “Does it rain very much here?” I asked.

  “Nearly always, my dear girl.”

  I was doomed.

  “Except, of course, in the summer, when it is quite beautiful. Just wait until July,” he promised.

  We made our way down to the dark sandy beach, where a large canoe rested. It was the same canoe Mr. Swan had met us in the day we’d arrived.

  “That’s mine. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  I judged the canoe to be nearly thirty feet long. It looked as if it could carry a dozen people. There was a carved head of a bird on its prow, and it was painted black on the outside and red on the inside. It was indeed quite impressive.

  “Toke traded it to me. It was carved from a single cedar tree. Can you imagine?” He shook his head in wonderment. “It took more than three months to make. And look, those are little snail shells embedded as decoration. Simply marvelous workmanship.”

  He reminded me of the way Papa talked when he was excited about an interesting case. Except, of course, Mr. Swan wasn’t a surgeon. In fact, I wasn’t at all certain what his occupation was.

  “Mr. Swan, why are you here?” I asked.

  “I am chronicling these Indians, Jane,” he said. He drew out a small diary from his pocket. “I write down my observations on the Indians and their customs and their languages. And then of course there is the flora and fauna of the region, which is distinct and worth studying.”

  It seemed a bit mad.

  “Yes, but how could you leave civilization for this?” I said. We were standing on the edge of the beach. The horizon was slate gray, the air damp. The trees in the distance rose high and thick. It was all so wild; I longed to see something familiar and civilized, like a proper roof or a cobblestone street.

  Mr. Swan took a deep breath and gestured widely. “How could I not? This is the frontier, Jane. History is being made all around us, and we are in the thick of it.”

  Something stirred in me at his words, something that reminded me of Jebediah Parker and the enthusiasm of a young boy.