The Indifference of Tumbleweed

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Bad enough. ’Twill fester, most like. Dog bite is just about the worst of them all.’

  My mother and other sisters were clustering around, peering at the hand, unsure of the right response. ‘Charity tells me ’tis the child’s own fault,’ said my father, throwing me a heart-stopping look of unhappy reproach that I would never forget.

  ‘No! I didn’t mean…I was afraid for Melchior. He meant no harm.’ It was true that my chief concern remained for the innocent dog and his unfortunate teeth. I was afraid that Mr Bricewood would shoot him, in an attempt to save his own dignity. It would gain him respect of a sort, I guessed, however unjust and wrong it might be.

  ‘The dog finds his own provision,’ the man muttered. ‘Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. The child has been encouraging him with titbits. I seen it before today.’

  ‘She won’t do it again,’ I said, intending it as a plea for mercy to Melchior, before another look from my father made me hear again my words. ‘I mean…she will know not to…’ I stopped miserably.

  ‘Wife – take her and clean the wound,’ my father ordered, handing Nam over like a parcel. ‘The bleeding is almost stopped. Hot water, and – ’he cast around at the vegetation close by ‘see, there is yarrow, by God’s true mercy. Gather it, girl, and help your mother.’ His orders issued, he stamped away, brushing at himself where my sister’s blood had left a mark on his jerkin.

  The clump of white flowers was indeed as if God-given. It was the easier of the ingredients for Nam’s potion to obtain. Hot water was a bigger challenge, since we had not lighted any fires for the nooning. Reuben, without ceremony, made a small fire, and placed a tin can of water on it. It was steaming within ten minutes, as the dry kindling caught and flamed immediately the tinder was sparked.

  My mother chopped the plant and infused it, while Fanny and Lizzie and two or three women from the party gathered around poor Nam. Pain came off her in waves you could almost see. The hand had swelled and turned a bright pink, the fingers looking small and useless, attached to the mis-shapen lump that had been a pretty child’s hand. Three teeth had broken it, as far as we could tell from the punctures in a ragged pattern across the small bones. My own hand throbbed in sympathy as I hung back helplessly. Fanny looked over her shoulder at me, an unfamiliar expression in her eyes. Something like accusation and puzzlement.

  ‘What?’ I asked her, less boldly than I intended. My insides were churning, threatening to make me sick.

  She stood up and came to me. ‘Seemed to me you had more feeling for the dog than your injured sister,’ she murmured.

  ‘Of course I did not,’ I protested. ‘It was simply…’ Again I thought of poor silly Melchior, unaware of his own strength and ravenous for food. Again my spirit rose in a passionate objection to the powerlessness of an animal in the face of human control. The man, his owner; the kindly child, between them they had constructed a situation which gave the dog no choice but to do what he did. It could hardly be termed an accident, given the circumstances.

  ‘Mr Bricewood will shoot him,’ said Fanny. ‘I wager he will.’

  ‘Then he will be a murderer in my eyes,’ I said, feeling faint from my rage.

  ‘All the children will be afraid of him now. And he will grow nervous and unhappy. It might be that ’tis the best thing for him.’

  I stared at her, sixteen years old and disgracefully wise. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I would take him as my own rather than that. He would not be nervous with me. I have no fear of him.’

  Word was passing along that we should get moving for the next stretch. Five or six miles before sunset would be our goal, as always. It was so pathetically little in the great whole that a day’s travelling earned itself little significance. We had rested on the Sabbath each week, and for many it was becoming a chore to start off again on the following day. The train was becoming looser as the weeks unrolled. The more eager parties had overtaken the idlers, and spaces were growing between them. But the essential pattern persisted, with the entire assembly walking for eight hours each day, achieving somewhere between twelve and fifteen miles, now and then a little more, pitifully nibbling away at the thousands that seemed to be written in smoke on the sky ahead.

  There were, though, changes to the landscape, even in a day’s walk. Hills passed in the distance, vales were filled with the hundred or more wagons, forced together by the sloping sides, sometimes so close to small water courses that the heavy wheels altered the shape of the banks and widened the streams simply by their passage. The track was totally bare of any vegetation after all the traffic that had passed over it, the ruts so deep that there was seldom any alternative but to simply stay in them, until they wore down too far, the ground between them impeding the axles. This was not a frequent occurrence, since the feet of the oxen also wore down the central band, though at a slower pace than the laden wagons. As I walked, I could often lose an hour simply watching the rhythmic plod of the patient beasts and the endless rotation of the great wheels.

  My daring offer to take custody of Melchior never got further than my sister’s ears. None of us set eyes on the dog for the rest of that day, but at nightfall he returned, on his belly, eyes rolling. It was Nam herself who set things right again. Still pale, wincing at any movement of her hand, she yet had the good heartedness to welcome his return.

  ‘He meant no hurt,’ she said quickly to Mr Bricewood, who was watching his dog with narrow eyes. ‘Please, sir, he has had punishment enough. It was my own foolish doing that he bit me. He had no notion my hand was inside the muslin.’

  My father, who had taken his youngest onto his lap, pulled her to him, resting his bearded chin on her hair. ‘She speaks the truth,’ he said. ‘Pray spare the dog for her sake. It would add greatly to her pain if he were to suffer on her behalf.’

  ‘And am I to feed him the best beefsteak, too?’ The words were disputatious, but his face was softening. Since no blame was attaching to his animal, he perhaps saw less need to demonstrate manly resolve in enforcing justice.

  ‘Some scraps would not go amiss,’ my father said flatly. After all, the moral balance did weigh in our favour if only because of Nam’s injury. There was no certainty that her hand would ever be properly right again.

  Mr Bricewood’s second son, Henry, was close by, attending to their oxen as he always did at the end of each day. He was short in stature, to the point where he was often taken for a child instead of the almost-grown man he actually was. Reuben was given to calling him the dwarf, at times. It made me sad to see him, so I did my best to avoid doing so. He had a handsome face, and rich chestnut hair. His shoulders were broad and his strength was never in doubt. But his lack of height was like an invisible burden on his back, loaded onto him through no fault or choice of his own. It was yet another reason for me to question the stark lack of justice in so many people’s lives.

  Henry’s father and older brother Benjamin generally showed an impatience with him, throwing needless orders and instructions his way, bidding him hurry when he was already working deftly. Their victim would nod and bite his lip with a stoicism that only added to my melancholy feelings towards him. Now, his father called him over to our circle and pointed out the little girl’s damaged hand. ‘What should be done with the dog, think ’ee?’ he asked.

  Henry gave his father a slow look, from an unusual vantage of a few inches above him, since Mr Bricewood was sitting on a log and Henry was standing. Reuben, on another log close to our mother, gave a subdued snort, as if to scorn the idea of consulting Henry. My father looked behind him, with an expression I couldn’t catch. The effect on Reuben was to make him hang his head, which made me glad.

  ‘Shoot him,’ said Henry, in a loud ringing voice.

  ‘Yes!’ echoed Fanny, my treacherous sister.

  Mr Bricewood laughed so merrily he almost rolled off his seat. ‘Well done, boy. Fetch the rifle, and do it without more delay,’ he gasped, when his laughter had abated.

  ‘Me, sir?’

&n
bsp; ‘Whyever not?’

  ‘No!’ screamed Nam. ‘Don’t shoot him!’

  We all gazed round in the twilight, wondering where the dog might be, some of us hoping he would have the wit to hide, while knowing he would not. One summoning shout from his master and he would appear with absolute obedience.

  ‘Can Henry handle a rifle?’ wondered my father.

  ‘That we will shortly discover,’ said Mr Bricewood.

  ‘I cannot,’ said Henry. ‘’Tis too dark. And the dog is not here.’

  ‘I can call him.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Nam again. ‘If you do, I will kill you. I’ll take a gun and kill you – both of you.’

  Such was her ferocity, I could well imagine her doing it. My smallest sister was eight years old, with many boyish skills. The dog bite had turned her back to an infant for a day or so, but in truth she was no baby. We had two rifles in our wagon, brand new and unused. My father had taught himself the basic requirements for their operation, at the same time as instructing us on the loading and firing procedure. We all of us understood the principles while having no grasp of the reality. I suspected the same was true for the Bricewoods.

  ‘Ah! In that case, we should show due caution. Henry, the dog must be pardoned and reprieved. Unless he commits a second crime, he should be spared. I cannot pass six months on the trail with the fear of a gun trained on my back.’ He laughed again, and slapped his leg.

  Somehow, the whole gathering of two dozen people all exhaled together. There had been some complicated joke going on, understood only by the men – and possibly Fanny. Or rather, less of a joke and more of a trial of strength, or test of character. The dog was a pretext of some sort; a less threatening way of establishing certain facts between the families, of learning something deeper about each other. I couldn’t explain it to myself then, but afterwards it felt as if something had been strengthened. The central fact appeared to be that Henry had proved triumphant. Small, inexperienced with a rifle, as kindly as any other man – which was not especially benignant – he had acquitted himself well. He and his father walked back to their own fire, Henry’s shoulder nudging against Mr Bricewood’s elbow, and when the older man whistled, his dog came out of the shadows, to receive an astonishing pat on the head.

  Chapter Six

  We moved on as usual next morning. I kicked the ashes of the fire apart to ensure no stray sparks would survive to set the scrub alight. It often seemed unnatural to me that we should walk away from the spot, never to see it again. Every camp saw some small event: a conversation or a decision, perhaps, or a matter of health. But every night found us at a different place, and very few of their distinguishing features stuck in my memory. The scouts would choose the spot, with pasture and water and fuel for our fires, and we would gather in a rough circle, erecting the tents and releasing the oxen. The livestock might be driven to grass some distance off, with a dozen young men from various parties obliged to herd them and guard them through the night. But never even to know the camp’s name or exact position seemed wrong to me. And then I found myself to be mistaken. When my father looked over my journal, a few days later, he surprised me by saying, ‘Mr Padgett, in one of the front parties, is keeping note of the longitude and latitude of every place we camp, with the date. If we wished, we could indeed find the spot again, if I understand it aright. I suggest we find him and make a similar note in your journal, if it would satisfy you.’

  I had written, Naomi’s hand bitten accidentally by Mr Bricewood’s dog and greatly damaged. No marker at the place, which was in a broad valley, with four birch trees on a ridge. We can never find it again.

  ‘Longitude and latty…what was it you said, Dadda?’ I had never heard either word before, and had not the slightest understanding of what he meant.

  He made a grimace of defeat. ‘I never quite grasped it myself, to be frank with you. But later on we will go and speak with Mr Padgett and ask him to explain it to us. ’Tis science, my lamb, and far beyond the scope of our sort.’

  I cocked my head at him, acting the simple daughter, putting a finger to my mouth. I had observed that all four of we sisters had behaved in a similar fashion since Nam’s injury. We had grown more nervous, not only of the evils that could befall us, but of the strange interplay between the men of our party. Despite the providential presence of the yarrow, it came home to me how alone we were in that great empty country. However carefully we planned and prepared ourselves with tools and other equipment, we were ill provided with medicines adequate to any serious malady. There were two surgeons in the train, with trunks full of laudanum and materials for poultices, as well as the sinister knives and forceps they might be called upon to use. But these supplies would soon disappear, leaving eight hundred people to fend for themselves. I could recall life back in Boston, before we moved south to Providence, how a doctor and his assistant had both attended Lizzie’s birth, when I was just six. We lived in a sturdy town house, with a doctor’s office five buildings away, his pharmacy well stocked. There had been people of every skill to call on, within half a mile of us. And yet, I mused, it was not so entirely different here on this wagon train. Amongst the migrants there had to be every skill known to humankind. There was even a register, kept by the leader of the largest party, at the head of the train, in which were listed all these abilities, with the name and party of those possessing them. We were a moving town, in effect, with neighbours and alliances and slowly developing feuds.

  ‘Is science so difficult, Dadda?’ I simpered. ‘Is it trains, and stars and medicine?’

  He scratched his head and gave me a close scrutiny. ‘As you know full well,’ he chastised me. ‘You were in the city not so many months since. You saw the glass manufactory, and the dyers, and the ironworks.’

  It was true that we had been taken to see the industrial enterprises of the fast-growing city. My father had told us the story of his arrival in America, where he had originally intended to find a place in a glass-making enterprise. He had been thrilled by the possibilities, in his first year or two in the new land. But somehow he had stepped away from that plan into leatherwork. The new dyes had intrigued him, and the very obvious demand for all types of harness and other equine and agricultural equipment felt good to him. He could speak the language of horsemen and was proud of the quality of his goods.

  In his youth, my father had been a passionate rider, following the hounds and entering the steeplechases. There were similar events in Massachusetts, which gave rise to reminiscences from my grandmother as well as my father, about their earlier years in Ireland. She told a vivid story of a bright winter morning, standing with her mother at a field gate and watching a stampede of huge sweating horses charging towards them, bearing big red-faced men, shouting and yodelling. She laughingly told of her terror as they veered away at almost the final moment, the weight and speed of them beyond description. I had never in my life been on horseback and Reuben was little better. When my father reproached him, saying that in the Old Country he’d have ridden to hounds at seven years old, been blooded with the fox’s brush and be proud of it, my brother had shrugged and expressed relief at his own less gruesome upbringing.

  ‘A man of business makes a better life than a man of science,’ I told my father, as if reciting a remark made previously. It was a truism that required no further defence or elaboration. My father had made money aplenty in the Boston and Providence years. Money for a wagon and oxen and cattle, and great stacks of goods, and a new home when we reached the western coast. What man of science could ever have prospered so well?

  The incident with Nam’s hand sent all kinds of ripples spreading over the next days. The wounds turned black where the dog’s teeth had gone in, and the pain kept her awake at night. Our mother had taken her in with her and Grandma and we heard the cries and whispers in the small dark hours. Mamma looked pinched and anxious in the mornings. The yarrow infusion had been kept and bottled, but it was all gone by the third day and we saw no more of
the plant as we journeyed. Grandma watched closely for the sinister threads of infection that would spread up the wrist and spell doom for the hand itself. One of the surgeons would be called to amputate it, with the unimaginable horror that would go with such a procedure. But there were no such signs, nor the telltale smell of dead flesh that would indicate gangrene. Instead, the little hand slowly resumed its natural shape, the fingers wiggled and after a week, the pain was greatly abated.

  But before that Reuben and I were addressed by Henry Bricewood, in the company of Jude Franklin, the younger of the two Franklin brothers. Jude and Henry had been cautious friends from Westport days, and were often seen together. How Jude had missed the original scene with the dog was unexplained. He was a slow-witted fellow, but not in the way that my brother was slow. Reuben had a steady good-hearted approach, with a task done well to its completion. Jude seemed perpetually frustrated and angry with himself and his limitations. He would kick and lash the oxen if they turned the wrong way or ignored an instruction. I had seen him break a good knife by getting it too deep into a stick he was trying to cut, stupidly wrenching and twisting it beyond its endurance. His two young sisters, with far more natural ability than he would ever have, would watch him cautiously from a distance, whispering together, but never venturing to advise or assist him. His older brother Allen sneered at him continuously, teasing and jibing and making everything a hundred times worse. Allen was a good deal of the reason for Jude being the way he was, I concluded.

  There were ten Franklins in all. Mr Samuel Franklin was a skilled butcher, with large beefy forearms and a strange multi-coloured moustache which jutted horizontally above his lip, to give him an air of perpetual pouting. His passion was all for his apple trees, and he repeatedly spoke of a change of career when he reached Oregon. My father suggested he acquire a herd of swine, the meat of which went so well with applesauce. ‘Combine your skills, man,’ he adjured. ‘Don’t give up one for another.’