Dungeness

by Polinsky, Karen;

  Posted at the head of the platform, back to the wall, in a glowing white robe, the Shaker deaconess, brandishing a candelabrum. As the other three joined her in song, the little house-on-stilts uplifted.

  My grandmother tossed off her blanket. “Granddaughter, home at last. What took you so long?”

  I wanted to throw my arms around her. I would have, except that there was barely enough room to shake hands, which of course we did, all round, for these were Indian Shakers.

  As soon as she noticed me Seya sat up, and ordered the parish claque out. As they went, they seized our hands for one last pull. They interpreted her feistiness—one might say, rudeness—as a sign that their prayers had worked a miracle. The deaconess, no longer a figure of awe but instead a hearty Jamestown matron, threw the door open.

  As soon as they were gone, my grandmother stood up. Her new slippers made her dainty. As she fussed with the kettle, her eyes shined. “Look at you. Not too bad looking. Your hair is not so blond. Reddish, like your great-great-grandmother. You want tea? Take down the cups. Look, I have sugar.”

  She handed me a chipped cup in a mismatched saucer with a tarnished tablespoon. After that she filled her own cup and stretched out her legs on the cedar mat. She blew the steam off of the top to cool it.

  It hit me: I belonged.

  Maybe it’s true for everyone. Like a seedpod we need to see what it’s like to float unattached. Only then can we land in the place we call home.

  Over the top of our rattling cups, we gossiped, as if I had never left, only better than before, since now my grandmother regarded me as an equal: a woman, with knowledge, one part sacrifice and one part suffering. Probably she credited me with more wisdom than I deserved. It was several minutes before I realized that she was speaking to me in her own Coast Salish dialect of Lkungen.

  I mused, “Your great-grandmother had red hair? I thought I got it from Carl.”

  “They say she was a white.” She acknowledged this with some embarrassment. “The Makah rescued her from a shipwreck near Ozette Village. A S’Klallam paid for her. She was stubborn, hard to handle. Once he had had enough, he gave her to my great-grandfather. Well, she wasn’t bad looking. He took her in. Not a slave, a wife.”

  What did it all mean? For one thing, this: My straw hair and light complexion no longer proved that Carl was my father. Or that Jake, the skull-crusher, wasn’t.

  Seya studied me. “You’re not the same. Better looking than before. Older, yes, but something else is different.” She squinted. “Oh, I see. Well, you look better without them.”

  The tears, which heretofore I had managed to hold back, now flowed freely. With my bandaged hand, I reached up to expose a freckled lobe. “I lost them.”

  Seya laughed. “When it comes to bad luck, I’m the expert. One thing I’ve learned: It never stays away for long.”

  She pulled herself to her feet, and shuffled over to the small cook stove. On the shelf, next to a jar with a spray of white camas, a brown paper package tied with string. It jangled.

  I pulled on the cord. Inside, a thick letter with a wax seal. Underneath: a pair of silver fish.

  Seya explained, “After Carl died, Jake hurried off to tell the Judge. Swan promised to come, as soon as he was able. That same night, guess who shows up at his office door? It was that corrupt army guy asking, do you want to buy a real Indian relic? Swan paid him, all right. He tossed him into a jail cell.”

  She waved her hand at the earrings. “So, I guess you’re one of those people. Lost things come back to you.”

  As I slid the posts into my ears, the slippery metal reminded me of Daisy, her cool caress in a world that failed to protect her. Recalling her vulnerability made me mad. It emboldened me to ask, “Seya, why did you give your daughter Annie to Carl? A white man, more than four times her age. You knew she loved someone else. How could you be so cruel?”

  She shrugged. “What do you know about it?”

  Seya shut her eyes and refused to say more. Her blunt fingers played with the bent spoon inside the cup.

  I felt it keenly—my stupidity and arrogance. I went to her, and knelt down. I took her hand and gently worked her knotted knuckles. “You’re right. I know nothing. Forgive me, if you can.”

  At last she lifted up her chin.

  “Why did I do it? To protect her. Annie is like me. Stubborn. That can be a good quality, in the right situation. At other times, fatal. Annie disappeared. The next day, when she came back, she was bleeding. I had to do something. Carl turned out better than most.”

  With great dignity, she pulled herself up. “Granddaughter, help me. Take down the dishes. Cups, plates, bowls. Everything.” Sensing in her an underlying ire, repressed for half a century, I imagined her outraged command. “Smash them, smash them all.” Instead, she solemnly announced, “It’s time for me to serve my guests.”

  I called in the Shakers and helped my grandmother distribute the tea. We sipped and chatted for a time.

  Suddenly, one of the men, tiny like a dollhouse undertaker, began to chant. The larger, broader fellow sounded his bell.

  The stout woman in the black withdrew a flame from the fire and touched the top of a towering taper. She passed it over to the deaconess. Holding it aloft in her palm, the Shaker priestess whirled, in a counterclockwise direction, to greet us one by one.

  The afternoon sun pierced the cracks in the plank walls. At the very same instance, the Shaker priestess raised her arms. The wide sleeves of her robe spread out, like the wings of an Alaskan tern, or an angel.

  Reeling, I shut my eyes.

  The deaconess silently stole up behind me. She dropped her palms on the top of my shoulders and lengthened and uplifted my arms. With her belly pressed up against me, the vibrations of her song entered my body, and wriggled down, until they took root in my core. A shard exploded there. My hand stopped throbbing and began to heal.

  There were streaming tears on my face.

  Seya embraced me, her eyes shimmering with tears.

  But not for long. She disliked physical touch. To signal I was free to go, she gently scolded, “Millie, your mother is waiting for you.”

  I ran down the ramp, lifted my skirt, and leaped down onto the wet sand. The fish earrings danced. I was about to set off, when I turned round and noticed the design carved into the square panel in the center of the salvaged door.

  A swan.

  No Safe Haven

  c. 1906

  In January of 1906, on Port Discovery, not far from the homestead where Mary Ann Lambert grew up, Mary Sadla Tunmer was brutally murdered.

  Mixed-Race Marriage

  Mary’s mother Tam-moy was married to English settler James Woodman; first in a traditional Indian ceremony, twenty years later again in a civil ceremony. Woodman ferried passengers from the sawmill to a dock at the head of the bay, also known as Woodman’s Landing. In a harmonious partnership that lasted sixty years, Tam-moy assisted him in this and other commercial endeavors.

  Mary Sadla, Woodman’s stepdaughter, was the result of Tam-moy’s earlier marriage to an Indian youth who had died. At fourteen, Sadla left the Woodman home, which she never felt was hers. She became involved with a number of dubious characters, including the gambler Henry Quaile, aka Poker Jack, later killed in a knife fight. In her teens she gave birth to two daughters.

  In 1878, Sadla, about twenty-four, met a cook on a side-wheeler. Nelville Tunmer was the son of a tailor from Suffolk, England. After his father died, Ned used his inheritance to purchase a piece of land in America. When he arrived he realized that he had been swindled. Broke, he enlisted. Described as accident prone, Ned realized a military career was not in the cards. He headed west. There he met Sadla, and built a farm for her in Fairmount.

  In addition to Sadla’s daughter Elizabeth (her other daughter was adopted by Poker Jack’s East Coast relatives) the Tunmers added a son, William. Ten years later, Ned became the captain of the steam launch Fannie. Not all the cargo on board was legal; acco
rding to the Morning Leader on October 20, 1893, Ned was jailed by a custom’s official for smuggling twenty pounds of untaxed opium.

  Yet by hook, or by crook, the family of Mary Sadla and Ned Tunmer managed to get by—weathering their tempestuous marriage until Tunmer’s death more than thirty years later.

  Yet, after three decades, Sadla was denied the proceeds of Nelville Tunmer’s estate, including his military pension, ostensibly because Sadla could not provide either a legal record of their marriage or a substantial witness.

  In recorded testimony Sadla asserted, “Yes, Soldier and I lived together continuously from the time of our marriage until he died. We were never separated nor divorced.”

  In her deposition on April 24, 1908, before Special Examiner M.M. Brower, Mary Sadla Tunmer was asked if she could produce the name of the clergyman who officiated at the wedding on the Port Madison Reservation. She could not. She explained, “He traveled around.” However, she did recall one honored guest at the Indian wedding ceremony: Chief Seattle.

  What Special Examiner Brower wanted was a white witness. “White people of this country only take about as much interest in the doings of the Indians as the Indians do in the actions of their dogs.” It was difficult to find witnesses “competent to testify,” in other words, a non-Native.

  Mary Sadla Tunmer’s petition was further complicated by a competing claim by the grown-up daughter from Ned’s previous marriage to a white woman. Sadla was denied her widow’s pension. With no means of support, she retired to a shack across the bay from the Fairmont railroad station.

  Unsolved Murder

  Nine months after the deposition, in an apparently unrelated incident, Mary Sadler Tunmer, age fifty-five, was murdered.

  She was found dead in her smoldering cabin, her body singed beyond recognition. Her skull crushed in by a blunt object. The only clue, a glass pitcher of alcohol, drained and discarded on the dock. Nothing else was missing; there was nothing of value to steal.

  Before the cabin was torched, both of Sadla’s wrists were nailed to the floor. No one knows why. No perpetrators were ever apprehended.

  38

  Love and Survival

  c. 1890

  My mind reeled as I hastened from my grandmother’s front door—contemplating the possibility that James Swan could be my grandfather.

  If so, it explained one or two things—like why he insisted on helping me—but also raised as many questions. For example, if he was so attached, why didn’t he claim us? Perhaps Swan was more of a conformist than I wanted to believe. In Port Townsend, marriage to a Native would have diminished his reputation. On the other hand, perhaps it was my grandmother Eliza III, with her noble lineage, who had refused to acknowledge him. I doubted that Seya would ever tell me the whole truth.

  On the Strait of Juan de Fuca—cradled in between the peaks of British Columbia, the Olympic range, and the Cascades—night descends without warning. The hike to our cabin was less than a mile along the shore. I knew I should hurry home.

  Still I lingered. I lolled.

  As I strolled homeward, the packet inside my skirt pocket crackled. A note from Swan, I assumed. Now that my curiosity had been aroused, I believed even the most straightforward letter might contain hidden imprecations.

  I broke the seal. It was not the penmanship of the Judge, but an equally familiar hand:

  Dear Millie,

  I just learned about the death of your father. I offer heartfelt sympathy. I loved Carl; a friend to all, except semonizing hypocrites. Allow me to raise this little glass of port to Charles Langlie, an ancient and modern mariner, who will forever be.

  Back to reality. They say trouble comes in threes (though as a clergyman I should resist superstitious-thinking!) After I led my lost sheep through the winds of the financial gale, I hurried home. I learned that my daughter Edith had eloped with the actor. Next, I discovered my son Chris collapsed in a state of mental derangement.

  Three blasts of the hurricane that howls! The next morning, treading hard on the heels of that awful night, Christopher, almost incoherent, informed me that you had fled, to be with your family in their hour of worst need. I concede that you did right.

  They say that charity begins at home. I am that hypocrite your father abhorred for I failed to heed the lessons that I preached. Immersed in my congregation, after Adele died I allowed Christopher to handle all of my household affairs. I demanded his help, while withholding the help that he needed. This was wrong.

  I cannot undo the past, but I can do better. You may be surprised to hear that I have resigned my parish to return to Scotland. There, Chris will receive treatment. At all times I will remain by his side, doing whatever I can to heal his mind and spirit. I have often observed that the determination to do the right thing often comes too late; not in this case, I pray.

  Now, the real subject of this letter: three years ago your father and I agreed: In exchange for your services, I would ensure your education. Christopher’s tutoring, though competent, was not sufficient to absolve me of my promise. Therefore, at the end of each month I set aside a fixed amount for college. All is in order; the Judge will withdraw the fund on your behalf whenever you wish.

  I’m sorry that I did not tell you sooner. More than that, I’m sorry that I never shared this scheme with Carl. More than anything your fond father wished for you to flourish.

  O0ne last word: I don’t know on what terms you parted with Christopher; however, I have an idea that it was not only Edith’s rashly indecent behavior that has caused him distress. In the hours that followed, I begged Chris to tell me what happened prior to her elopement.

  A fortnight before my daughter disappeared, Christopher offered Astor a substantial sum “to disappear.” He did so without consulting me: I could never agree to extortion. Astor seemed prepared to agree to all of his stipulations, save one. According to Chris, Astor asked: “What about Millie? Is she off limits, too?” Chris said that he must never again contact you. Hearing this, the actor declined.

  Thus, Chris surrendered his last opportunity to save his sister from disaster because he would not—could not—betray his devoted concern for you.

  Millie, whatever your plans, think again! Book passage to Scotland! Do for Chris what you tried to do for Edith: heal him. Sacrificing oneself for the sake of others creates the greatest satisfaction that life can offer. In this matter and all else, let your affectionate heart, and a natural sense of what is good and right, guide you—

  With my esteem,

  Rev. Paul Mathieson

  So, even in his delirium, what Chris had said was true. The Reverend, in lieu of past wages, had put aside funds to send me to college. What’s more, inadvertently he communicated a detail that made the very idea of marriage to Hjalmer Henning—even for the sake of Annie and the children—unfathomable.

  Astor did care for me. Enough to refuse Christopher’s bribe. Enough to save his skin. But, if he did love me, then why elope with Edith?

  With one hand he caressed me, while with the other he tantalized her. I found it hard to believe her delicate manners suited a salty rogue like Astor. She was lovelier but I was more vivacious. Jealously I wondered: How could he choose her over me?

  From childhood I’d learned to perceive the world with two points of view at one time. In that case, could a person truly love two people at the same time? The flaming arrow I aimed at George in our scuffle at the top of the castle never hit its mark. Later that same night—I admit it here—I allowed the actor to explore unmapped, virgin territories. Let him? I cried out for it. Perhaps, like colonizing explorers, our passions are lawless. Our emotions lead us to adventure in various landscapes and climes. Maybe Astor loved us equally, but differently.

  I could understand Astor’s choice, but I could not forgive it.

  I crushed the Reverend’s epistle, and was about to launch it into to the Sound, when I spied this postscript:

  P.S. Lately I learned, the fugitive couple decided to try thei
r luck in San Francisco. The day they disappeared, two vessels—a brig and a schooner—departed from Port Townsend to the Bay City. 0ne vessel hit the sandbar at the mouth of the Columbia. All on board the schooner drowned. Pray, Millie, with all of your heart, that Edith and Astor boarded the brig.

  P.P.S. When I have news, I will write.

  Edith and Astor, drowned? Like a sand dollar in the sun, my heart cracked.

  Though it pained me to imagine Edith and Astor wound up in red satin in a dive hotel in San Francisco, it hurt me more to imagine their chilly embrace on the creeping floor of the Pacific Ocean.

  For my spirit to thrive, I needed them to survive, especially Edith.

  The Reverend was wrong: self-sacrifice was not the high mark of a woman’s life. His only daughter deserved to experience the bliss of this world before moving on to the next one. Wasn’t that precisely what she wished for me the day she packed me off to Alexander’s castle? I pressed my palms together, to pray to God to save, not their souls, but their bodies.

  That day, my affection for my two friends taught me to forgive.

  I folded the letter, returned it to my satchel, and breathed in the warm seedweed breeze. I was ready to go home.

  The Dungeness Massacre

  Excerpted from Mary Ann Lambert

  The blackened S’Klallams pounced upon the sleeping Tsimshians, killing all eighteen persons, or so they thought.

  In reality a young woman, Nusee-chus by name, was pursued and hit on the head with a club. She fell close to the side of one of the canoes where she lay feigning death, scarcely breathing for fear of detection while the awful shrieks and screams of her tribesmen penetrated the night.