by Eowyn Ivey
Yet would it be better to live in ignorance, to be coddled like a feeble-minded child? Isn’t knowledge in and of itself always good?
I uncovered the truth when I came come across a small piece of paper where, likely during my first visit to his office, he had marked a section in his book: “Malformations of the Uterus.”
The symptoms aligned in a chilling way with all that I had experienced, and I could see through the Latin words well enough — septus, divided; bicornis and unicornis, like some mythical creature with either one or two horns. Such deformities of the womb appear in the illustrations as unsightly hearts, cleaved down the middle or gruesomely lopsided. Which exactly is my affliction? Dr Randall is fairly certain that I suffer a divided and misshapen womb, but its specific nature can only be identified through dissection.
“And does it make you happy, Mrs Forrester, to know all of this? Would it have been better if I told you my suspicions when I first examined you? Not one damned thing either of us can do about it, and now you have the rest of the pregnancy to sit around and agonize. You should have left that to me.”
It is true. I agonize. The bleeding has stopped, yet any pang in my side or cramp of my womb causes me to fear the worst.
I cannot imagine how I will endure these next months, kept to this small room with nothing but my own worries.
I have returned the book to Dr Randall.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
April 16, 1885
The only good that came of it all is the last of the liquor is gone. I should have seen it coming. The sergeant was in rare form, rowdy, belligerent, no doubt downtrodden by the loss of the sled & provisions.
The Indian woman had killed a porcupine, brought it to us skinned & ready for the cook pot. We boiled it, ate the stringy dark meat with a small portion of flour added. After supper, Tillman pulled out his flask to offer swigs to us, which we refused. Then he took it to the Indians. Over these past weeks, he has become increasingly friendly with them, sits with them after supper to talk & joke. He says their tongue is similar to Apache & he makes progress in learning it.
I advised against giving the Indians any whiskey — I do not wish us to contribute to their ill. In retrospect it would have been better to dilute it among many mouths & have it be done. Instead, Tillman proceeded to drink it all himself.
— He managed to save his flask even if he lost all our food, Pruitt said.
— Tillman would have given his life to save that sled, I said. — His flask was in his pocket, that is all.
Yet I would not have minded if the liquor had washed downstream.
As the evening wore on, Tillman approached the Indian woman, leaned close to her & in slurred speech praised her dark hair & eyes. Samuelson was quick to remind Tillman of her skills with a blade. He was not so drunk as to risk his life, so let her be. Still we were to have no peace. As the rest of us retreated to our sleeping bags, Tillman stepped around the campfire in a ridiculous jig he said he learned from his grandfather. As his gait became more impaired, he tripped over the sleeping dog. It jumped to its feet with a snarl. It seemed likely the dog would attack. Pruitt withdrew his carbine from his sleeping bag, preparing to shoot the animal, but I advised him to wait a moment longer.
Tillman growled, crouched, circled, lunged at the dog, then the two were wrestling in the snow like overgrown boys. It seemed all in play, yet the half-wild dog could cause real injury. I moved to break it up, but next came the pinnacle of the evening, perhaps of our entire journey — Tillman on hands & knees, he & the dog each with opposite ends of a tether in their mouths, both growling & yanking in a mad game of tug of war.
The Indians watched in humor. Boyd said he wished he had gotten a nip before Tillman downed it all. Pruitt urged me to put a stop to it. I waited to see if the beasts would tire themselves out. At last, with no apparent injury to either, man & dog collapsed in a heap. We fell asleep to Tillman’s mumbling — Good fellow. You’re a good old fellow, aren’t you?
This morning we woke to find the two curled up together by the cold campfire. The Indian woman stood over them. I’m not sure which most disgusted her — Tillman or the disloyal dog.
The sergeant is haggard from his dunk in the creek & long night, but still we will set out early this morning with hopes of reaching the canyon today.
Longest day’s march yet. Pruitt estimates 11 miles. Our feet are swollen & pain us. All of us, Indians, too, suffer from some inflammation of the eyes, perhaps from exposure to snow, rain, wind, sun. Despite ailments & fatigue, we are within sight of the mouth of the canyon. We stay tonight on the western shore. The bank here is steep & high, but the spruce forest still meets the river & allows us to gather firewood, set a comfortable camp. Upriver, the Wolverine cuts its way through slate walls several hundred feet high. Once we enter, there will be no more trees or soft ground, only rock and ice.
April 17
We have survived a disturbing night. Not long after supper, we stocked the campfire & went to our sleeping bags. Though it was after 8 o’clock, the northern sun had only dipped behind the mountains & still cast its glow. We sought a long rest in preparation for our journey through the canyon. As I neared sleep, Pruitt’s voice stirred me.
— Sir, what is that?
I sat up, followed his point. There at the top of the snowy gully above us was a dark figure. At first I took it for a black bear, standing on its hind legs. I did not think they would emerge from their dens this early.
It was no bear. That would have been preferable.
— I can’t make it out, but I think he’s wearing a black hat, Pruitt said.
Surely the Old Man could not be here, these many miles up the Wolverine River, when we left him behind in the Indian camp. Yet there could be no doubt that it was him.
The Old Man waved his arms, then hopped into the air with what seemed like more height than should be possible for a man of his age. With each jump, he tucked up his feet, so that he appeared airborne.
— What is he doing up there? Tillman asked.
Pruitt left his sleeping bag, took out field glasses. Nearby the Indians were packing up their belongings.
— They’re moving away from this hill, Samuelson said. —Believe I will, too. Don’t like the looks of him up there.
He rolled up his sleeping bag, jostled Boyd awake.
Tillman wanted to go as well, but I said I would not be moved by a cockeyed troublemaker.
As Tillman & I tried to sleep, we could hear the Old Man’s calls. There were no words that I could discern, only cackles, yowls.
Around dark, Pruitt returned to his sleeping bag.
— He leapt into a treetop, Pruitt whispered.
No matter how we questioned him, he was convinced of what he had seen.
We were all silent in the dark after that. I knew from the way Tillman & Pruitt cleared their throats, turned in their sleeping bags, that none of us was quick to sleep. Yet somehow we must have dozed, for we were startled awake by rumbles in the dark above us.
— Something’s coming down the hill! Tillman shouted.
I heard the Old Man’s calls, then flaps like that of giant wings. With the noise came another crash of something falling down the gully. We scrambled to our feet, gathered our sleeping bags in our arms, & ran through the dark.
Behind us was a rumble, the cracking of branches, the rush of cold air at our backs.
When we reached the far side of the creek, as far as we could go in such darkness, Pruitt struck a match, lit a candle so that we could see enough to climb back into our sleeping bags.
We remained awake the rest of the night.
At dawn we saw our near fate. The Old Man had triggered an avalanche of snow, ice, earth, & rocks that spilled down the gully, swept through our camp. It was only luck that our sleds, with scant remaining supplies, were just beyond the reach of the slide.
There is no sign of the Old Man this morning.
I do not know his motives, but if we see him again, I may not stop Tillman when he takes him by the collar.
&56. THE MECHANISM of these bones is admirable. The shoulder-joint is loose, much like ours, and allows the humerus to swing all about, though chiefly up and down. The elbow-joint is tight, permitting only bending and unbending in a horizontal line. The finger bones have scarcely any motion. But it is in the wrist that the singular mechanism exists.
— From Key to North American Birds: Living and Fossil Bird,
Elliott Coues, assistant surgeon U.S. Army, 1872
Received at Vancouver Barracks on June 5, 1885
Wolverine River, Alaska Territory
April 18, 1885
Dearest Sophie, my love,
I do not know the chances of this letter ever reaching you, & certainly it will be a miracle if it does, but I have to seize this chance. The Indians we employed on Alaska’s coast are to leave us now. We send them back down the river with a report to Vancouver Barracks, letters to loved ones, & a box of photograph plates Lieut. Pruitt has taken thus far on the trip. They have orders to bring everything to Perkins Island & send via steamer to Vancouver.
Sophie, you do not know how precious your letter is to me. Your words have filled me with much joy & love; they keep me through the toughest days. I travel with different eyes now, eyes for home & your arms & your love & our child. It is remarkable, & at times overwhelms me, to think of how full my life has become. Just a few short years ago, I had no such ties. Each night’s camp was home enough. It may be why I had so little fear. What did I have to lose? Nothing compared to now.
I do hope you are being well cared for & want for nothing. You must not worry for me. We are bone tired but safe. Already we’ve encountered many strange & unexpected adventures, which I do not have time enough to recount here. So often I have wished that you could see this land for yourself. We walk past glaciers that would bring tears to your eyes for their majesty, & the Wolverine River is grand. As is my wont, I have been dedicated to my personal diary. I hope you have been as well. I long for the evenings when we can read them aloud to each other & share our days.
I watch for your birds. So far sighted: camp robbers, magpies, ravens, bald eagles, chickadees, redpolls (Pruitt helped me to identify that flock), grosbeaks. We have also come across a handful of game birds — grouse & ptarmigan — but they quickly went the way of the cook pot when we were lucky enough. When we stop to rest, we hear woodpeckers & owls in the forest, but do not have time to seek them out. The trapper Samuelson who accompanies us says we may also expect migratory birds, waterfowl & raptors, to begin to fill the skies as they travel north. I will keep my eye out. I have no doubt that you would spot & identify dozens of others, & I am sorry for my poor skills as your assistant.
As I write, an Indian by the name of Skilly sits nearby. He knows some English, but looks as wild an Indian as I have ever seen. A tube-shaped shell, called a dentalium, pierces his nose. His black hair is cropped short as if cut with a dull blade. He wears a parkie made of caribou hide trimmed with wolf fur. Around his neck he carries a beaded scabbard for his knife — these are a source of great pride, & the Indian men do not remove them even to sleep.
Skilly wants to know to whom I write, & when I told him this letter is for you, my wife, he asked if you are pretty & good. Of course, I said.
He says he, too, has a wife at home, though not as pretty as he would like. He says he hopes she is faithful to him while he is gone.
I did not know before now that he left behind a family. He says they have three children, with a fourth born not long before we left. I am sorry to know that we drew him away from these responsibilities. He has proven himself quick on his feet & faithful in his own right. I wish him safe travels back down the river to his family.
Our progress so far has been slower than I expected, but we prepare to enter the canyon I so often told you about. Once we have passed through it, I will be more at ease.
I hold out hope that we will reach St. Michael’s, & passage back to Washington Territory, before winter. If for some reason you do not hear from me again for many months, do not be alarmed. I will not be able to send word again until we near the western coast. In the event that we are delayed for any reason, we will spend the winter with the Indians. I beg you, Sophie, do not lose hope.
In your first letter, you asked when I fell in love with you, so I will tell you. It was that very first day, when I rode through the woods near your schoolhouse & passed right beneath you. I nearly fell out of my saddle when I heard the rustle of your skirts overhead. You apologized for startling my horse, but otherwise did you notice me at all? I had never seen an adult woman, skirts & all, in the branches of a tree, but more than that, it was the sound of your voice, gentle, so full of delight. — Didn’t I tell you we would find something interesting up here, you said, & you continued. — Yes, you are right! I see that now. You will become an expert before this day is out.
It was only then that I noticed several children sitting on the various branches around you. I asked if it was some insect or bird that you all examined, but you shushed & waved me away. There you were: lovely, brave, & oblivious to me. I think it only served to kindle my affection.
Now you carry our child, Sophie, & you become all the more extraordinary to me. Each passing day as I think on it, I love you more.
I must end this letter. I hope you can read all that I have crowded onto these few pages.
Be sure that the Connors’ girl takes good care of you. Sleep late, eat as much butter as you desire, please do not climb any trees, stay well & know that I think of you each & every day.
Your adoring husband,
Allen
PS Know that my love is steadfast. I march back home to you.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
April 18, 1885
The Old Man becomes the bane of this venture. It appears that because of him we have lost most, if not all, of Pruitt’s photographs. The fate of our reports & letters is unknown.
Not long after we sent the Indians downriver with the box of photography plates & documents, the one I have called Skilly ran back into our view. We were tying down the loads, preparing to venture into the canyon, when he shouted for our attention. We soon came to understand that the Old Man joined the Indians as they set south downriver. The scoundrel told them that we were trying to steal the very light of dawn, that we had hidden it in the crate to take back to our own land so we could have two suns. He prodded them to open it & release the light. Skilly says he tried to stop them, but they found the glass plates &, perhaps thinking they were contraptions for catching light, stripped them from the protective covers. Skilly demonstrated how they held each up to the sky to inspect them & to shake out any remnants of dawn.
Pruitt was near apoplectic. He is certain all the photographs are ruined.
I worry, too, for my letter to Sophie. The Old Man is fortunate that we will not see him again, as I do not think I could temper my fury.
I thanked the Indian who came to us with the news. In gratitude, I said he should help himself to some of the abandoned food, supplies we cached near his village.
— It was good of him to come back & tell us what happened, I said. — Skilly is his name, am I right?
— That’s no name, Samuelson said. — It only means ‘little brother.’ Would guess he’s kin of a chief.
No one in our group seems to know the skilly’s real name. It makes me sorry.
As for our papers, there is nothing more to be done. The Indians say the river will soon break. Throughout the morning we heard the grinding of ice on the move. It is here that Lieut. Haigh abandoned his attempt as the water through the canyon became too deep & fast moving to navigate.
If the ice washes out before we enter, we too will fail. If it does so while we are in the canyon, I cannot say we will survive.
Samuelson caught several rabbits in his snares during the night. He & t
he Indian woman, who apparently continues on with us, are cleaning them so we will have meat for this next day or two.
We leave as soon as they are done.
But with the box containing the sun he was more careful. . . . That was finally given to him, with the strict injunction to not open it. But, turning himself into a raven, he flew away with it, and, on opening the box, light shone on the earth as it does now. But the people, astonished by the unwonted glare, ran off into the mountains, woods, and even into the water, becoming animals or fish.
— From Alaska and Its Resources, William Healey Dall, 1870
Dear Mr. Forrester,
I’m working to organize and read everything in the order of how events would have unfolded. But I keep finding unexpected documents, and I’m so enjoying them. There is this rare sense of immediacy I sometimes encounter with artifacts. I’ll be holding one of your great-uncle’s small leather diaries in my hands, thinking what a miracle it is that they are still around today, and then I look outside and see the very river the Colonel is describing. I know it probably sounds overdramatic, but it gives me goose bumps. Each time I turn these brittle pages, and imagine the Colonel camped right outside my window, writing by campfire, meeting the first people of this land, it feels like time has collapsed and the past is happening now. This is what made me fall in love with history.
And as I’m going through the boxes, I have so many questions. I’m sure some of them will be answered as I go. Right now, for example, I’m wondering how on earth you could end up with your great-aunt’s hair comb as one of the artifacts if it plucked up by a raven and lost in Vancouver in 1885.
I thought of her letters when I was at the post office here in Alpine yesterday. A raven had landed in the back of my partner’s pickup truck, and it was rummaging through our grocery bags. It was trying to peck its way into a bag of tortilla chips when we noticed it. We both went running and yelling at it, trying to scare it away from our groceries. It flew off, but only as far as a light pole.