The Indifference of Tumbleweed

by Rebecca Tope

  It was a similar talent that enabled her to sing more sweetly than anyone I had ever heard. Her voice soared like a lark, warbling the old Irish airs that both our parents would choose as their favourites when there was a singing time. My sister never forgot the words to a song, even though she could barely recall her Bible passages or the names of the other migrants.

  Our party of four families totalled thirty-nine souls. Eight Collinses, nine Bricewoods, ten Franklins and no fewer than twelve Tennants. The last-named had two brand new wagons drawn by three yoke of oxen apiece, packed tight with their goods and youngsters. They had a true patriarch, in the form of the grandfather, Mr James Tennant. His two sons and their wives had seven children between them, which was no great number, but they were all large, many of them with hair the colour of a ripe apricot. The older son, Luke, was the father of Abel. The younger, Barty, had twin boys, about five years in age, who had such energy that my mother would sigh just to look at them.

  In addition, Mr Franklin, who had come from Indiana, carried fifty young apple trees in clay pots, which occupied a good deal of his time and attention. The Bricewood family consisted of the senior couple, and seven children – Benjamin, Henry, and five assorted youngsters, one of whom was a darkie boy aged about six, and apparently adopted by the Bricewoods as a baby. He was named Joel and showed no awareness of his difference to the others.

  Mr Bricewood and the senior Mr Tennant had both expected to be leader of the party. While we were still at Westport, their dickering began. Every party required a single figurehead, where the ultimate decision-making lay, and whose name was given to the group for easy reference. The train comprised eighteen such parties, although those at the front never had any dealings with those at the rear. Immediately ahead of us was the Wilson party, which seemed to have more than its share of strong young men and very few girls.

  The choice of leader was conducted with a jocular goodwill, by and large. Mr Bricewood was the younger by seven or eight years, but he was less sharp in his wits. Mr Tennant was the more prosperous, his wagons newmade, his oxen hale and powerful. He had five fine horses, besides. We had just the single horse, there for back-up in the event that we might need to send a rider for help of some sort. Or for use as a pack animal, if for some unimaginable reason we were forced to abandon the wagon and continue with a bare minimum of dry meat and a single tent. My father had been a good rider, back in Ireland, but Reuben had no skill at riding. While some families had brought several horses with them, my father preferred to purchase half a dozen steers to come along with us.

  In the end it came to a vote, with all men over the age of eighteen participating. There was Mr Franklin and his two sons, Allen and Jude; my father and Reuben – whose birthday had taken place on 20th April, which made him the youngest to be allowed to vote; Mr Bricewood’s son Benjamin; Mr Fields and finally Mr Tennant’s two sons, Barty and Luke. Thus nine out of thirty-one individuals made the choice, leaving the many women and children out of the calculation entirely. My grandmother made comment on this, without rancour. ‘’Tis men’s business,’ said my mother, with a hint of reproach. ‘What for would we want to be getting involved?’

  ‘For our own safety’s sake,’ came the tart reply. ‘If they choose a man incapable of the task, we could all die in a snowdrift.’

  ‘No-one’s going to die,’ my mother told her, and indeed it seemed a wild fancy to think we could ever follow a man into any sort of danger.

  ‘I pray you’re right,’ said the old lady. ‘And I pray they have the good sense to select the right man.’

  It was no secret that Mr Tennant would have been her choice, if she had been asked. No much short of her own age, he had paused to speak to her when we first got to Westport, doffing his hat and making it clear that he admired her for her spirit of adventure. Fanny and I had heard them sighing over the headstrong young people of the times, and their notions that good things would come easily to them.

  Mr Tennant won, in any case, which was gratifying to Grandma. He was senior in more ways than one. His grandfather had been a slave trader, his great-uncle a ship’s captain carrying the captives from Africa. His father settled in North Carolina and had a post in the state government. Mr Tennant himself was a third son, always eager for exploration. In his time he had been to Chihuahua, Pike’s Peak, Niagara Falls and many other romantic places. I knew this from listening to him one evening in Westport, where he had given a demonstration of trail life, arranging us all in a circle around a flickering fire and telling us the story of his travels. There had been other families present, and I believe he expected to be leader of a far larger party than the one he ended up with. His cousin, he told us, was a wild mountain man, who knew the crossing places, the climate, the nature of the different Indian tribes, and the finer points of fur trapping. ‘I spent my twentieth year accompanying him in Dakota country,’ he boasted. ‘Many years before the Clark and Lewis expedition. My eternal regret is that I let my ambitions drop when I was young, and allowed myself to be diverted into business in Massachusetts for my prime years.’

  I kept my eyes on his face, trying to wriggle myself into his head, where there were assuredly wondrous pictures stored. I could feel his self-reproach for taking the easier way as a young man. He was a tall figure with broad shoulders and large hands. He seemed fit and strong despite his age, which we calculated had to be close to seventy. He had a small grand-daughter at his side, now and then resting a hand on her head, or lightly patting her cheek, as he told his tales. He appeared to be a gentle man, and I had difficulty in imagining him cutting the throat of a trapped beaver or fox. Perhaps, I thought, he had romanticised the life of a mountain man, during those forty-some years that had passed since he lived with his uncle in the wilderness. Perhaps he had known it was too harsh, too dangerous and lonely for a man of his character. He relished human company and was a natural entertainer. Mr Bricewood, we discovered, would have been a better disciplinarian, and thus perhaps a better leader. But on that first day, when the selection was made, we none of us thought it of much significance. A small party in a great train, with not the slightest sign of trouble – it was little more than a firm necessity to acquire a handle for reference that urged us to choose a leader.

  May 16th. We have turned towards the north somewhat, with the evening sunlight a great spectacle behind a handsome ridge. We are now one hundred miles from Westport. One of our oxen stepped onto a thorn and his foot is paining him. Mr Franklin made a poultice for it, and the hope is that it will be easier on the morrow. Father thinks we might have a loan of a replacement from the Wilson party, but the poor creature will have to walk on his bad foot, in any case.

  Word has been passed that we are a few miles from the Solomon River, where we might fill our water barrels and perform all the other functions for which water is necessary. Father bemoaned our position near the rear of the train, since the water would be muddied and meagre by the time it came to our turn to use it. Lizzie’s ankle has swelled, so she rides in the wagon, but strictly just for the single day.

  There was some annoyance that day, from a variety of causes. The ox made much of his injured foot and Lizzie seemed to suffer in sympathy with him. Her ankle did indeed swell alarmingly through the first hour of the day, and she was finally allowed to perch at the front of the wagon, where she kept up a complaint, alternately calling for mercy for the beast, and yelping at every jolt. The tracks were deeply rutted, but the ground was quite soft from the spring rains and there was not a stone to be seen, after so many hundreds of wagons had passed over the same ground. This meant that the jolts were rather minor, and Lizzie was more anxious to remind us of her presence than to make us believe she was in any real pain.

  She achieved her purpose handsomely. The whole of that day was consumed by irritation with my sister, and the first faint inklings that this was to be our way of life for many more months. Our water was stale to the tongue, with an odd lifelessness to it. My boots had been a littl
e too large when I acquired them, so I had been careful to wear my thickest hose to pad them out. This was now uncomfortably warm on my legs, chafing and itching. My hair was thick and hot under my bonnet. Fanny had been bitten by a bug on the side of her neck, and she scratched it incessantly, only to scream with shock when she made it bleed. My mother walked unevenly, using more energy than necessary, pulling at her left leg for no reason she would ever disclose. It was, I believe, nothing more than an unfortunate gait, developed from childhood and never to be altered. She resembled a woman stumbling over a ploughed field, the left leg behaving as if an invisible ridge obstructed it at every step. Watching her merely increased my irritation.

  Even little Nam’s spirits were subdued. She eyed Lizzie with envy, letting herself fall behind the party, to demonstrate how weary and small she was, and how deserving of a place on the wagon next to her sister. My mother called to her, going back and grabbing her hand when Nam failed to catch us up. All the younger children had received a plain talking-to at the outset, in which the requirement that they walk ten or twelve miles each day was not open to any discussion. Those above the age of three would have to use their legs like anybody else. We had seen a few being carried on their fathers’ shoulders now and then, in the first days, but this has quickly been abandoned, as realisation dawned that it was not a good habit to establish.

  Chapter Five

  The first time we crossed a river, we thought ourselves doomed to drown. ‘But why do we have to go across?’ Lizzie demanded, more than once.

  A glance at the two banks of the river was answer enough for anyone with half a brain. On our side was marshland for half a mile or more, with no chance of hauling wagons through it without them sticking and sinking. Across the river was rising ground, sporting good green pasture and an easy trail. The water was less than three feet deep, but cold. The bed was soft and slippery, which would make the crossing difficult.

  The first wagons began at daybreak, the drivers goading their oxen with shouts and whip-cracking. By the time it came to our turn the water was almost black from the churning and dredging from so many hooves and wheels and human feet. But the bed had become harder, the softer sediment cleared away to leave smooth rocks beneath our feet. Father led the oxen, and we all but Nam walked behind, ready to push if the wagon got stuck. The cold water was a shock at first, but before we reached the far bank, it had become almost pleasant. Melchior swam in a lurching paddle that made him look as if he would sink at any moment. Nam was riding on one of the lead oxen’s back, as she had taken to doing now and then. She directed him with her knees like a horse, and he seemed to suffer her presence with some enjoyment.

  On the further bank, the train had moved forward to leave space for those following after, but then stopped at a suitable point for nooning. The stock were shaking themselves dry after their wetting. The horses had taken more readily to the water than the cattle, on that first crossing, but they all had an instinct to swim, even our draft oxen, who had to keep wading, holding their heads as high as they could. The contents of our wagon remained mercifully dry, although in the very middle of the river the water had lapped at the bed of it, over the axles.

  Lizzie continued to protest at her wet skirt and cold feet. We had taken off our boots and stockings, and tucked our clothes as high as we could manage with modesty. It was all clumsily achieved, that first time, which became harder to credit with every subsequent crossing. Within a month or so we had become so accustomed to it that I believe there were times when we went over a river without any real necessity to do so, simply on a whim.

  The nights remained loud with the cries of coyotes, along with hooting owls and the mournful cry of foxes. Most of the men and grown boys slept in the open, wrapped in a blanket. Women, girls and smaller children crowded into tents. With all my sisters, the four of us lying like wheat sheaves stacked side by side with barely an inch between us, I generally slept soundly in spite of annoyances. Lizzie habitually curled herself into the shape of a crescent moon, which discommoded the rest of us intolerably. The night would be broken by Fanny or Nam yowling in protest as Lizzie’s bony knees jabbed into them. I was closest to the front flap, my breath making a damp patch on the canvas, the groundsheet rolling and rucking beneath me every time I moved. Tents, as we had long ago discovered in Westport, were very far from soundproof. Conversations, crying infants, occasional songs and even more occasional muffled rhythmic panting all filled the air until some hours after nightfall. The feeling of being surrounded by living breathing people was far stronger out there in the vast dark country than it had ever been in a town, with sturdy wooden walls between us. Every night was warmer than the one before, and the air inside the tents grew thicker accordingly. We perspired. We woke with our hair plastered to our heads and our nightclothes heavy on our skin.

  Privacy was impossible without the strictest routines imposed by the womenfolk. Washing areas were established with groundsheets hung on stakes to give concealment. Men who insisted on shaving off their beards would gather together for the purpose. Garments were washed sparingly, when they were too gross to endure and when there was water enough, and dried by being draped on top of the wagon covers overnight. If still damp by morning, as was very often the case, they would be left in place during the day – with the risk of finishing up more soiled by dust than they had been before the washing. My mother rapidly adjusted her usual insistence on clean clothes every few days. It was too large a task to keep four daughters spotless, as she had done for our whole lives thus far. That was when we had servants to do the work, of course. On the wagon train, there was nobody but their own family members to do it - unless one of the poorer families sent a girl along to offer her services in exchange for meat or other necessities. Two weeks into the journey, there were many reassessments going on. The weight of some wagons, containing as they did almost everything the family owned, proved too much for their oxen, and people were slowly understanding that many objects could be discarded. Others, in a minor panic, found they had neglected to bring something essential. Arguments broke out between husbands and wives as to the relative importance of tools, clothes and objects of useless sentiment. Decisions were forced by injury or illness, when space had to be found for the sufferer to ride all day in the wagon, contrary to earlier expectations.

  Fanny and I were somehow infected by the fractious atmosphere at the start of that third week. She had a scratch on her leg that pained her, while I was horrified at the outbreak of unsightly blemishes on my cheeks. I had been similarly afflicted a few years earlier, but the condition had abated quite quickly. Now it flared again, and I was consumed with embarrassment at my appearance. Grandma assured me it was a normal part of girlhood and meant nothing for my future beauty. ‘Until you reach threescore or thereabouts,’ she added. ‘And then you can expect a moustache and beard, if you take after me – as we all know you do.’ It was true – I had been blessed with the very same features as my father’s mother – a large blob of a nose, small ears and a low brow. Also, admittedly, a wide full mouth and a long slender neck. Grandma’s neck had become stringy with age, but mine was white and smooth and thankfully untainted by spots.

  Fanny had lovely Irish looks, to go with her lovely Irish voice. Fond of her food, she had a plumpness to her that only added to her appeal. Dark curls framed round cheeks and her bust was several inches larger than mine, for all she was only sixteen. People regularly refused to credit that we were sisters. Generally we forgot to inform them that we had different mothers, since the fact slipped our minds almost entirely in our everyday lives.

  We walked steadily that day, in the middle of May, in a long ribbon of wagons, livestock, people, winding through the plains country, one foot in front of the other, thousands of times. After four hours or so we would halt for nooning, as we called the mid-day meal. It would be bread, cold meat, ale, cheese, prepared by the women shortly before we moved off in the morning. The same muslin cloth wrapped the food each day, care
fully folded and stored away when we were finished. On that day, Nam had left a small portion of cheese uneaten, and when Melchoir, who had discovered a friend in my small sister, approached, she proffered it to him. A gentle animal, he was nonetheless hungry, as always, and eager to grasp the morsel before any competitor could interpose itself, or the child change her mind. Foolishly, she waved the muslin containing the cheese in his face, and he made a great snap with his powerful jaws. Her screams pierced the air, turning every face towards her from six or seven parties, both ahead and behind. The dog dropped her hand in confusion. Blood drizzled to the ground and Nam went on screaming.

  Mr Bricewood was on the scene in seconds, kicking viciously at his animal, which howled and scuttled off. My father was at his shoulder, lifting Nam into his arms and examining her injuries with a white face.

  ‘It was her own fault, Pa,’ I called. ‘I saw what she did. The dog couldn’t see her hand for the muslin.’

  My father took a deep breath, cradling his whimpering youngest to his chest. ‘Bricewood – this is due to your starving the animal. If you take it on yourself to own a dog like that, then you have a duty to see it properly fed.’

  Mr Bricewood turned red, but forbore to protest. ‘Is the hand badly hurt?’ he asked, with astonishing humility.