by Rebecca Tope
‘We are like gypsies to him,’ sighed Henry bitterly. ‘A motley crowd of ignorant emigrants.’
Indeed we had been forced to see ourselves through other eyes, as we tried to barter for goods or glean information. The land we were in, with the absence of trees and endless views of low scrub and distant misty hills, was strange to all of us. Many of the people in the wagon train had been farmers in Missouri or Illinois or Indiana, where mankind had established a degree of dominion over nature, with orchards, gardens, diverted waterways, and fences on all sides. The rest were even more disoriented, coming from towns and cities with newspapers, grocery stores, factories and schools. Out here there was nothing familiar to soothe the eye or the spirit, and I began to notice the perpetual expression of bewilderment on almost every face. Only the very small children took each day as just another collection of experiences, no more strange than those of the day before.
We had imagined ourselves to be valued, as part of the movement west that the government very much desired. While doing good to ourselves, we were also obeying a universal imperative to colonise the lands in the western half of the continent. But here at the fort, there was no suggestion of this. We were seen as pathetic in our worn clothes and sunburned skin. I saw the French-Canadians openly sneering at one group of women, which included Mrs Fields and my own grandmother. When our boys were whirled away to a war they barely understood, none of the fort people showed any sign of sympathy.
Henry was one of the first to recognise all this. In his efforts to avoid notice by the recruitment officers, he had taken himself for walks, still behaving like a young boy, plodding along the muddy edges of the river or getting as close as he dared to the numerous lodges made of hides supported by long poles that had been erected by the Indians near the fort. In the process he had overheard conversations that taught him a great deal.
‘I learned French with my tutor,’ he told me. ‘So I understand much of what these men say. ’Tis an uncouth dialect, I can tell you, but somehow that makes it easier to follow. They use very simple grammar.’
‘French, philosophy, science – what else did you learn?’ I asked, thinking that the Bricewoods were of a different class to us, favouring education so much over everything else.
‘Mathematics, syntax, Latin, Greek – nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘You are certainly the most intellectual man in the entire caravan,’ I told him.
He laughed. ‘I should hazard there are a dozen or more who are greatly superior to me in that respect. We are no band of peasants, whatever they might think of us. Remember it takes substantial funds to assemble the equipment for a migration such as this. These families are people of means. There are very few who cannot read at least a little and write their names. The fort officers, by contrast, have no letters at all. I saw one of them holding a paper the wrong way up, making no sense of it whatsoever.’
‘I wager they can calculate well enough, and handle a rifle,’ I said. ‘And perhaps those are matters more suited to this world.’
‘They are ruffians.’ His eyes shifted, both in direction and expression. He was looking over towards the tepee village with a gleam of animation. ‘Does it not intrigue you, knowing there is such a large and alien population living here in this wilderness? They have lived here for a thousand years and more, without making more than the slightest mark on the land. And now we have come and nothing can ever be the same for them again. Why do they not kill us all?’
‘Because they have learned that more and more will come until we conquer them.’
‘I believe it is something else. A fatalism, perhaps, and a failure of imagination. And they are curious about us, and what we might bring them.’
‘Smallpox,’ I said, thinking of Mr Fields’ scarred face.
‘Indeed. And other diseases, as well as guns and all the killing that the white man knows so well how to do. And whisky, in some places. Even gambling.’
I was silent, unable to properly follow his thinking. We had all been so afraid of the Plains Indians before we began the migration, and now here we were surrounded by them, and nothing more than a dog’s torn ear to worry about.
‘There are wars between the different tribes, of course,’ mused Henry. ‘Bitter wars, with terrible slaughter. I have seen scalps hanging on walls inside the fort. The Dakota are entirely savage and bloodthirsty, as well as the Blackfeet, Snakes and Crow. That tall man who lives in the fort is trying to learn all about them. There has recently been a fierce war between the Dakota and the Snake Indians, for example.’
‘Have you spoken with him?’
Henry looked embarrassed. ‘I have, a few times now. He was reluctant to engage with me, until I spoke to one of his comrades in French, and learned that the third in their group is a medical man. I persuaded him that I am thoroughly interested in the Indians and their ways, and have little in common with the other emigrants. He told me of the Ogillallah and how they eat their dogs, as we would eat lambs or hogs. He told me a number of things, and gave me a few warnings.’
‘Warnings?’
‘The migrants must learn, he said, how to behave towards the Indians. We must stare them down when they show insolence, without mocking or sneering at them. As you would face a wolf or a bear – make yourself large and show no fear.’ Here he looked down as his own small self and smiled ruefully. ‘There must be an underlying respect for their humanity, because he says they have pride and an age-old system of morality that demands honouring an agreement and behaving with decency towards the women.’
‘Really?’ I was sceptical, having witnessed some roughness towards the Indian women on the part of the men. There were also multitudes of tales of Indian stealing horses and other livestock from wagon trains.
‘They have a form of marriage, which carries many of the same duties and obligations as we know in our own society.’
I had no reply to that, and was only passingly interested. ‘The man – what is his name?’
‘Parkman. Francis Parkman. He is shortly to leave to take up residence in an Indian village, in order to record as much as possible of their ways.’ Henry’s face was wistful. ‘Such determination and courage greatly impressed me.’
‘Will he be safe?’
‘He expects to survive, which is all anyone can hope for.’
‘He seems young when viewed at closer quarters.’
‘He graduated two years since, from Harvard. He has worked on his grandfather’s farm in New England and his father is a Minister of religion.’
‘He disclosed so much as that to you? When, may I ask?’
This question was rightly deemed of no significance and Henry showed signs of impatience to be on his way. He was consumed with fascination for a man who had successfully adopted a life that Henry himself would have enjoyed. Here was a model for himself, I concluded, and I was glad for him, that such a model had been encountered in all its solid reality.
‘Was this our appointed talk, then?’ I asked. ‘To be had now, after a mere week, rather than in a month’s time?’
He blinked in puzzlement. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We were talking about the nature of mankind, only a week since, and you said I would come to agree with your opinions and we should speak of it again.’
‘Ah!’ He smacked his own head lightly. ‘Of course. Perhaps we might regard this as an interim assessment. Well?’
I breathed a huff of exasperation. ‘The question is too large,’ I objected. ‘From experience, I cannot say that people have shown any worse inclinations than before. You tell me the Indians make barbaric wars between themselves, but I see no evidence of it. The families in our party have continued to help each other when required.’ I faced him squarely. ‘All in all, Henry Bricewood, the only sign I see of human frailty is your successful avoidance of the recruiting officers.’
‘So I am a coward,’ he said with mock sadness.
‘Some might think so.’
‘If war i
s virtuous, then I must be vicious. The logic is manifest.’
‘You think yourself too good to die by a Mexican musket,’ I accused.
He smiled wanly. ‘I am guilty as charged,’ he said. ‘I cannot lie to you. I believe there are others far better suited than I to the task of subduing our southern neighbours – who have a claim to the land that I find to be of some substance. We are all colonists, it’s true. But the Spanish, and therefore the people of Mexico by and large, have had a foothold in these western lands very much longer than anybody else.’
I glanced around, fearful that he was uttering thoughts that would raise great anger. Innocent as I was of the protocols of warfare, it was plainly ill-advised to speak tolerantly of one’s enemy. ‘Hush!’ I hissed at him.
We separated then, and I cast his ideas from my mind. Henry Bricewood was beginning to feel like a dangerous friend to have. Just as Abel Tennant and Moses Fields were dangerous, in their very different ways.
Chapter Ten
Mr Fields, in contrast to Henry, gave every impression of wishing to avoid Indians as much as possible. He remained inside the family’s wagon for almost a whole day on the pretext of rearranging their goods and assessing their supplies. That was an aimless day for me, with few chores and a restlessness that sent me roaming around the camp from wagon to wagon in search of amusement. We would be setting out again in two sleeps’ time, the scouts busy with all the usual forward arrangements for our overnighting. The last day promised to be chaotic and unpleasant. But this third morning was quiet, which found me feeling oddly apprehensive.
I capitalised on Mrs Fields’ abiding amiability towards me, and approached their wagon. The children were sitting dejectedly on the ground, appearing to be even less occupied than I was myself. ‘Good morning,’ I said loudly, hoping to draw the attention of their parents.
I was rewarded by two faces emerging from the back, where the wagon’s cover hung raggedly down. This was not how it was intended to be – the Tennants and the Franklins both had carefully fitted covers, fluted neatly around the rear hoop, so a kind of window was provided for anybody lucky enough to ride in the wagon. In the case of the Fields, there was no semblance of neatness. We had heard arguments over the past days, with the woman’s familiar whining complaints the primary element. We gathered that she was demanding to ride in the wagon constantly from that point on, because walking made her ill. Her husband was of the opinion that there was insufficient space for this, unless she sat perched on the front board, which was far from comfortable and not entirely secure. A sudden lurch over a rock or into a rut might send a person tumbling if they were not holding on tightly.
‘Miss Collins,’ said the man. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’
I had not prepared any sort of request or opening conversational remark, so I simply stood there with my hands behind my back and smiled shyly.
‘Just visiting, then,’ said his wife. ‘And why not?’ There was a sharp belligerence in her tone that made me glance at him in sympathy. She spoke as if he had said something foolish or impolite, which he had not.
I examined his straight black hair and narrow dark eyes, seeing him for the Indian he half was. And yet he wore ordinary clothes, like all the men in the train, and spoke the same. Here, amongst his mother’s people – or so I imagined they must be – was he reminded of her? Was he hiding himself away for fear that an uncle or cousin would claim him as their own? Considering that almost all the youngsters at the fort were half-breeds like him, I saw no reason for him to be reticent or self-conscious.
He climbed down and glanced at the children. ‘They are unwell,’ he said softly. ‘Something they’ve eaten.’
When I looked more closely, the little ones did appear very pale and lethargic. ‘Is it bad?’ I asked, thinking of the miscarried baby and Mrs Fields’ inevitable panic if anything befell her children.
‘Impossible to know,’ he admitted. ‘I was thinking perhaps your grandmother might help…’ he tailed off unhappily.
‘We must go and ask her,’ I said, with sudden briskness. ‘You ought to have called her sooner.’
My grandmother came willingly, pleased to be consulted. She felt the children’s brows, one by one, then peered down their throats. ‘Not cholera,’ she announced, as if in triumph. I was reasonably certain that nobody had ever suspected such a dreaded diagnosis. The very idea of cholera sent icy shivers through us all, with its terrifyingly rapid onset and consequence. There was a common saying – fine at dawn, dead by midday – which summed up the situation for anyone unlucky enough to contract the disease.
‘What have they been eating?’ she asked.
‘Berries they found amongst the sagebrush,’ admitted their stepfather.
She regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘I trust you showed them which they could eat, and which to avoid?’
He returned her look, like a mirror. ‘Madam, my mother was an Indian. Throughout my first ten years she took me out and showed me the wild foods. The children ate huckleberries and nothing else.’
‘Then they ate them unripe or in damaging quantities,’ she concluded.
‘This was my presumption. I can get no sensible account from any of them, but I fancy there was a contest of some kind, the winner of which was the one who consumed the most berries.’
The boy groaned in self-blame and nodded. He clutched his belly and groaned again.
‘And that is all?’ my grandmother demanded of him with a very stern face.
The child nodded, and she turned away, as if brought there under false pretences. ‘Give them bread and milk,’ she said, ‘and let the lesson be well learned.’
‘Hear that, wife?’ called the man. Mrs Fields was still inside the wagon, showing no interest in her suffering offspring.
‘I knew ’twas the case,’ came an indistinct reply. ‘But milk there is none.’
‘You might ask Mr Bricewood,’ I suggested. ‘His cows give a good yield.’ Mr Bricewood had begun the journey with three cows, two in milk and one expected to calve any time. The birth of the calf had taken place on the 10th June, a small excitement for the party. The leggy newcomer had black and brown markings, and a sweet face. He had been castrated by Luke Tennant at a few days of age, his frantic mother helpless to prevent the painful mutilation.
The Bricewood cows were herded with dozens of others, and milked twice a day by Letitia, Henry’s sister, who was about Fanny’s age. Henry had three sisters and two small brothers, including the dark-skinned Joel, who I had seldom had cause to notice, except to wonder about his relationship to the family. They treated him at times like a servant and at other times no differently from the other children. I had every intention of questioning Henry about his origins, but it had slipped my mind every time we spoke.
There had been a morning when I saw Henry’s brother Benjamin, a person I had little liking for, giving the little boy a kick because he had been slow about something. It had stabbed me to see it, but I made no move to defend him. We had been taught thoroughly, from the first days of the journey, never to interfere in another family’s private doings. Arguments, injustices and such were seldom what they appeared to an outsider, our father told us, and no good ever came from thinking we could change anything for the better when it came to domestic matters other than our own.
The Bricewoods sold milk to others in our party, on an unreliable basis, despite their three milking cows. Many days there was none to spare, but sometimes there was a pint or more for each family, except for the Fields. Mr Bricewood had havered for a few days after the incident of the turkey, and then come down against Mr Fields in respect of food supplies. As a result he did not offer him or his children any of his produce. My father once or twice quietly passed a cupful to them, as a gesture against the unreasonable animosity.
‘I think not,’ Mr Fields said now, with a look that declared that this would be an affront to his dignity.
His children would recover, I supposed. I was itchy wit
h curiosity about how life was for the Fields family, but had no words with which to draw answers from him. His wife was a shadowy creature, despite the constant sound of her voice and the disturbing sight of her suffering nakedness when she miscarried her child. Everyone knew what she did not like or want, but there was never a hint as to what her desires might be.
I found that I was following him, somewhat against his wishes. He had increased his pace, in a purposeful fashion, heading towards the fort, to my surprise. ‘You have business at the fort?’ I asked.
He made a slight sound of assent but said nothing.
‘You need fresh provisions? If so, I must warn you there is little left now. All the goods were taken in the first day we were here.’
‘Yes,’ he said, which told me nothing. I fell back, wary of being seen to accompany him for too long. There would be numerous members of the wagon train inside the fort, doing nothing but watching Indians or seeking out scouts who might offer information. It would be considered overly bold of me to walk alongside a married man as I had been doing. He was evidently more conscious of this than I was myself.
So I turned back, and strolled along a well-worn path between the wagons and the tents, seeking a friendly face. It was mid-day, very near, and the sun was strong. I detected knots of men, many of them party leaders, in earnest debate. Women were washing clothes in the river; children were running wild in and out of the water, or off into the sagebrush that stretched in all directions. A small hill rose a short way to the north, and boys were running to the top and rolling down again, in imitation of logs. I stood still and then turned slowly, assessing the lie of the land, and wondering what might come next in our travelling.
July 3rd. Our first day out of Fort John (which many now call Fort Laramie, on account of the Laramie River) saw us journey seven miles, due to a late start. There are fewer parties now, with many pairing together, so two becomes one. We, however, remain the Tennant Party, and have no new additions except for a half-grown Indian bitch, which my sister Lizzie has taken without any permission. She calls it Bathsheba and says it will be a friend for Melchior when older. Melchior is slow and unhappy with his injuries, and has been favoured with a bed beneath the Bricewood wagon.