by Earl Murray
“Can you step to that?” I asked Mr. Quincannon.
Without waiting for an answer, I pulled him onto the dance floor and, to my amazement, he was adept at the Irish reel, moving with grace while I followed his lead. When the song ended, we both clapped and moved to one side to catch our breath.
“How do you like my new dress?” I asked.
“It’s very nice,” he said. “But where is Sir Edward?”
“Asleep in his tent. He doesn’t appreciate a good time.”
“You’ve suddenly become less committed.”
“Please, Mr. Quincannon, don’t misunderstand. I just enjoy dancing, that’s all.”
“I would think your fiancé would oblige you,” he said.
“Edward is under a lot of pressure,” I told him. “He’ll be back to his old self soon.”
Mr. Quincannon smiled slightly. “Are you sure you really know his ‘old self’?”
The players began another tune and we watched the dancers as they weaved their way around atop the creaking boards, laughing and clapping their hands to the music.
“Even if he didn’t want to dance,” Mr. Quincannon said, “I would think he would be standing here with you.”
I told him that Edward didn’t like mingling with a lower class of people.
“I must say that these folks are polite, for the most part,” I said, “but they definitely lack social graces.”
Mr. Quincannon frowned. “Their lives have been hard,” he said. “They weren’t born with the proverbial silver spoon hanging from their lips.”
“Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?”
“Perhaps.”
“But why be upset with the facts? You seem an educated man.”
“There’s a number of ways to become educated.”
“I mean classroom study.”
“I’ve studied history and some law,” he said.
“Then why aren’t you making good use of it?” I asked.
“Who says I’m not?”
“Come, Mr. Quincannon. Tell me why you’re not a wealthy St. Louis lawyer with a wife and family, and high political aspirations.”
“I intend to utilize my expertise in Oregon. I will file on the land I choose for my trading venture and in the end there will be no question as to who owns it.”
“I hear a bitter note.”
“My father left my mother to go west before he had finished the legal work on his claim. She discovered his error when a group of land grabbers took it away from her. I was ten. My mother and I nearly starved to death.”
“What did she do to make ends meet?”
“Took in washing, mainly. In the end, she worked herself to death.”
I noticed the lean muscles in his face, the smooth lines knotting like twisted rope.
“Did your father ever come back?”
“Never.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Into the mountains. I never sought to find him and I don’t care to.”
“Perhaps it would be better for both of you…”
“Perhaps it would be better if we ended the discussion.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It is getting late. Perhaps there will be another dance, another place.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I’ll see you to your tent.”
Bom was waiting for us. He opened the flap for me, and before entering, I said to Mr. Quincannon, “You will be a success at whatever you want to do, I can tell. Thank you for escorting me and good night.”
ROUND GROVE
Quincannon’s Journal
10 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY
I walked with Bom away from Ella’s tent and toward Garr’s, asking him whether I had to worry about the nobleman charging out with his rifle.
In response, Bom edged the flap open and peered inside. “You don’t have to worry about Master Sir Edward. He is very much asleep, as are Walter and Avis in their tent. I can assure you, I won’t discuss your time with Miss Hall.” He motioned toward the dancing. “I would like to go watch for a while.”
Bom seemed comfortable, almost content, with his role as servant. I concluded that, like other slaves I had known, he had grown accustomed to his condition on some level. I don’t mean to say he was beaten down—there was too much sparkle in his eyes for that—but he held no rage, as I had so often seen.
While we walked, I asked him how he had come to be with Garr.
“Master Sir Edward bought me off the block the first day he came to St. Louis,” he said. “I guess Mr. Lawson had no more need for me.”
“I don’t know why you haven’t found a means of escape long ago,” I said.
His expression changed. “Do you know what they do to runaways?”
“If I’d been you, I would have taken the chance.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “They take you when you’re young and show you what they do to those who don’t please them. And I don’t mean just to our folks. I mean to anyone they own—black, white, or otherwise. When I first got off the boat, they made us all watch somebody butcher a white man who tried to help some slaves get away. When they got done with him, and they took their sweet time, he was in a lot of pieces, and they put his head on a pole for us to see. I can still hear his screams at night.”
I watched the dancing, remembering screams I had once heard. As Bom continued, I knew what he was going to tell me.
“Small kids were made to watch that, some as young as five years old, both black and white. Men with knives walked around and said that anyone who turned away would get their eyelids slit off. They wanted everyone to know what could happen.” He paused. “You say I should have run. I might have got away, but couldn’t have fallen asleep from then on and I would have had to do a lot of killing to stay free.”
Bom’s story left me hollow. I was reminded of the afternoon I had killed for the first time. Father had been gone for three or four years and my mother was having difficulty feeding me. I ran the streets of St. Louis with my friends, seeing things we couldn’t forget. The worst of it all was the capturing of street children for slavery.
Thugs would roam the alleys day and night looking for stray kids. I learned later that these men were paid well for them by merchants who dealt in child exploitation. I had found a flintlock pistol laying beside a drunken riverman and was toying with it when a greasy man in tattered clothes grabbed my best friend’s sister. She struggled free and ran for my friend and me, with the man close behind. I stepped in front of him, stuffed the barrel of the pistol into his stomach, and pulled the trigger.
I can still hear that sound plainly, a muffled explosion that doubled him over and burned my hand. The ignited powder clung to his filthy clothes and he rolled to the ground, his stomach ablaze and his pants soaked with blood and urine.
My friend tried to pull me away, but I waited to be certain that man never got up. I clung to the pistol in my trembling hand, even though my skin was scorched and swelling rapidly. I was ready to club him when two men came to rob him. When he tried to rise, one of them stabbed him about a dozen times. My friend pulled the pistol from my grip and flung it away, and we ran.
That day I decided that I would leave the city as soon as possible. I didn’t care about finding my father; I just wanted to get away. I never told my mother what had happened and she believed me when I said I had stuck my hand in a burning barrel trying to retrieve a scrap of meat.
After that I stayed clear of the alleys. My friend kept going back there, as if he knew no different, and I never saw him again.
“In some ways, you seem a slave yourself,” Bom said. “Your feelings are trapping you.”
Bom’s gift for seeing into me made me nervous and I stopped talking. We got to the dance floor and he watched with interest, saying that in his homeland, they celebrated all the time. “We dance and dance and dance, and we sing all the day long.” I remarked that he sounded as if he was still there. He pointed to his heart. “I’ve never left. I�
�ll always be there.”
“What about your family?”
“I’ll never see them again, I know that. It’s the same with you, isn’t it?”
“What makes you think you know so much about me?” I asked.
“A man without a family knows another like man,” he said. “But I know that for you, it’s hard to talk about.”
“So why do you think Edward Garr is any different from the others who’ve owned you?” I asked.
“When you get bought by someone who don’t crack the whip,” he said, “there’s just about nothing bad he can do to you.”
We watched the emigrants dancing and I thought about Miss Hall. When I turned and looked toward the tents, I noticed her flap was slightly parted.
“Yes, she’s watching you,” Bom said with a laugh. “I suppose she’s trying to understand her feelings.”
“They seem an odd couple, her and Edward Garr,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s natural that you would say that. It’s you that’s making her wonder about things.”
“She need not wonder,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to do and I don’t think a genteel English lady would fit in.”
“She’s some genteel and some not,” he said. “She’s a little of everything and can’t decide what she wants to keep and what she wants to throw away.”
“I don’t think Sir Edward is going to dictate terms to her.”
“He will have a difficult time.” We started back and Bom said, “I saw you on the hill with Lamar. You seem to know that kind of religion very well.”
“As well as any other.”
“That’s good. I’ve heard that you frontiersmen know the soul of the land like the natives. That’s what my people know, the soul of the land. I believe Miss Ella feels it, but cannot live it like she wants.”
“What do you think about Sir Edward?”
“He doesn’t want to take the time. Maybe he will get better, if he ever stops pacing.”
“You must see something in him that I don’t,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
I returned to the tent and found Lamar sitting up, waiting for me.
“We have some things to take care of,” he said, leading me out of the tent.
Quincannon’s Journal
11 APRIL 1846
The morning was as beautiful as any this entire spring. After breakfast, I told the men to make more axles and cart tongues from whatever hardwood they could find. We haven’t made near as many as we’ll need, owing to the fact that so many merchants and emigrants have the same idea in mind and have used up a great deal of the right-sized wood.
The mules and horses are grazing peacefully. They’ll need the extra fat when we get farther south along the Arkansas. I’ve heard the buffalo have trimmed off what grass the emigrant oxen and mules haven’t gotten to. And being this early in the year, the grass won’t be that high to begin with.
I find it interesting to discuss the vegetation with J. T. Landers. He’s collected a number of specimens already and checks his presses daily to be sure the plants are drying properly. He says he’ll be very interested to learn the various plants that we’ll run into as we travel, as he’s always wanted to do a study of Rocky Mountain plants and their uses, especially by the Indian tribes.
I combed dust from my buckskin’s coat and mane, getting him ready to turn out. I couldn’t stop thinking of the previous night and my dance with Miss Hall. It made me want to dance with her again, and soon. She had a sparkle to her eyes that reached deep into me. Maybe I shouldn’t have put her off when she asked me about my past.
It bothers me that she feels so committed to Garr; but she’s told him that she will be his wife and I have to respect her for standing by him. I don’t believe Garr feels the same closeness. His desire to control her is evident, but beyond that there’s little to show that he cares at all for her.
I worry now about how this trip is going to end. If there’s war with England, I’ll have to kill Edward Garr. It will be him or me.
Miss Hall would hate me for that. I know she doesn’t think the way Garr does, but she’s still British aristocracy and inclined toward their views.
It would be better if she ignored everything she’s been told and just concentrated on her artwork. She has alluded to her many dreams and how she’s going to accomplish them, which is good. A person has to have goals and the belief that he—or she—can reach them. What bothers me is how easy she believes it will be.
She seems more naive than even the young settlers, Sean and Annie Malone, chock-full of their own dreams and determination. Despite Martin McConnell’s arrow wound, they appear unafraid of warring Indians and whatever else lies in front of them, convinced that Oregon will change their lives. I’ll admit that I have a bit of that feeling myself. In fact, it’s what drives me. But I have no doubts about the sacrifices I’ll face in reaching that promise.
For a short time I entertained the idea of our traveling with the McConnells and the Malones, but quickly realized that it wouldn’t work. Heavily laden wagons drawn by oxen move a lot slower than mule-pulled carts. We would outdistance them by a good ten miles the first day. We couldn’t travel with anyone, so I’ve begun to consider an alternative route from the Platte Road.
When Lamar was waiting up for me last night, he said that Garr’s men were nervous about the Sioux and that Colville, the “lieutenant,” had approached him to suggest that they reconsider new travel plans. They wondered about another way of reaching Oregon.
I found it odd that one of Garr’s top men couldn’t even reveal his feelings to the nobleman himself, but had instead sought out someone he barely knew.
We went to Colville’s tent and after a short discussion, agreed to bring the matter to Garr’s attention at the first opportunity. I was thinking about that opportunity when Bom suddenly appeared and bowed.
“Master Sir Edward wishes to see you. Says it’s urgent.”
“Tell him I’ll be right over,” I said.
“He says it’s very urgent and that I bring you back with me.”
I stopped combing my pony and made it clear to him that I would be over when I was finished.
“Make some tea for him,” I said. “Keep him occupied until I’m through.”
Bom smiled. “Will you drink, also? I would like to see that, a mountain man with a teacup.” I agreed to have a cup and he said, “Good. That will go a long way in making you two friends.”
“Friends?” I said.
“It is important for all of us, every one, that you and Master Sir Edward become friends,” he told me. “If you do not, the journey will be fraught with bad omen.”
“My friendship with Sir Edward, or lack of it, won’t change the problems we’ll face on the trail,” I said.
“Oh, but you’re wrong, Master Quincannon. You see, where no animosity exists, there is a smoothness to everything.”
Bom hurried back to Garr and I led my buckskin out to graze. When I arrived at the tent, Sir Edward was pacing and puffing on the stub of a cigar.
Bom brought the tea. “Sit down, both of you, please. You can talk better that way.” He poured the cups full and stood back.
I sipped at the mixture of a black India blend and wild mint, finding it more than tolerable.
“I didn’t know your kind took tea,” Garr said. “Don’t mountain men drink liquor?”
“Among other things.”
Garr called Bom to him. “I want you to have Pierre Rivet sauté me some wild vegetables in butter,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Quincannon would like a plate as well.”
“Yes, I will join you. Thanks,” I said.
Bom bowed and hurried toward the cook tent. Garr threw the small cigar away and pulled a fresh one from his pocket.
“Regarding our journey to Oregon,” he said. “I hear you’re spreading the word that we’re taking a different trail.”
“I was discussing it with some of the men.”
“You were d
iscussing it with my men. Robert Colville, to be exact. He said you told him we shouldn’t go the Oregon route.”
“That’s true.”
“Why didn’t you discuss it with me first?”
“I’m the guide,” I said. “I know what’s best for us.”
“Our agreement is that we make decisions together,” Garr said. “I expect you to honor that.”
“Are you interested in risking your life and those of your men fighting Indians?”
“Isn’t it inevitable?”
“Not necessarily. Not if we avoid Sioux territory.”
“I didn’t know there was a trail that avoided the Sioux.”
“How much do you know about the Santa Fe Trail?”
“I certainly know it doesn’t lead to Oregon. Why should we veer off our intended course?”
“If you had been listening to the settlers the other night, you would know,” I said. “But you had domestic matters concerning you.”
The nobleman leaned toward me across the table and shook his cigar in my face.
“Gabriella is none of your concern. The sooner you understand that, the better.”
“If you’re continually angry with her,” I said, “then there’s little time left to discuss important matters with me.”
Garr sat back in his chair. “You’re right. Perhaps it is of greatest importance that I keep track, of what you’re doing. Who knows what decisions you’ll make if left on your own.”
Bom refilled our cups, smiling at me. “You’re doing very well with the tea,” he said.
“Don’t expect me to do this every day.”
Garr lit another cigar. “If we take the Santa Fe route, how will we reach Oregon?”
“We’ll head toward the mountains from Bent’s Fort, then cross over and work our way up toward Fort Hall and hit the main trail again.”
“Are there no hostile Indians in any of that region?”
“A few Cheyennes and Arapahoes. And Utes in the mountains. They should be on their spring hunts. They won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.”