by Earl Murray
Garr chewed his cigar to shreds and I asked him why the rationale for changing routes was so hard to understand.
“I understand perfectly! I simply don’t like the diversion. You see, I have my reasons for wanting to travel the northern route, Mr. Quincannon, reasons I wouldn’t expect you to understand. However, I will concede to your plan, just as long as I reach Fort Vancouver before winter.”
He stood up and spat out the remains of his cigar, then ordered Bom and the other servants to gather around him. He barked orders, gestering wildly with his hands. Bom climbed into the carriage and began circling through camp, announcing immediate departure, while others began packing and taking the tents down.
I watched for a short time, very amused. Ella was out riding and Garr yelled wildly for her to come in. I don’t think she heard him. If she did, she didn’t pay any attention.
Her aunt and uncle had to move quickly to avoid the workers. Barton Strand, who had just returned from target practice, hurried to find J.T. Landers and help him with his botanical specimens.
Peter Rivet stood holding the plate of freshly cooked vegetables, which Garr promptly knocked from his hand.
“Can’t you see that we’re leaving?” he said. “I’ll expect you to clean those dishes and then carry them along with you until we stop again. Is that understood?”
Rivet appeared crestfallen, and then frightened. He nodded and picked up the dinnerware, realizing he had to wash and box the dishes before he was left too far behind. He would then have to catch up as best he could, for Garr would expect to eat off the same plates at the next meal.
Garr turned to me. “What are you waiting for? Lead the way.”
“We’re not going anywhere until tomorrow,” I said. “My men are working.”
Garr began pacing. “I want to leave now!”
“Leave if you want,” I told him. “We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
Garr threw up his hands and ordered the servants to erect the tents again, and for his chefs to prepare another meal. Everyone stared at him in disbelief. He ordered his stallion saddled and, taking his Whestley Richards rifle, rode off into the distance alone.
Gabriella’s Journal
11 APRIL 1846
We discovered three head of stray cattle, one a milch cow. Mr. Quincannon tells me she is a Brown Swiss and has recently lost her calf. He named her June and Mr. Quincannon is teaching the Rivet brothers how to milk her, as Edward now wants cream for making sauces.
I spent the entire day and much of the evening riding Whistler and getting to know the little horse. He’s as rugged and sturdy as they come, and can turn on a dime. Mr. Quincannon had mentioned that the pony had once been used exclusively for running buffalo, and I can see that he must have been highly prized.
After setting up logs and other obstacles, Mr. Quincannon had me ride the pony toward each one and turn him at the last second with my knee. I’m learning quickly to stay atop a swift-moving pony that can move in any direction with the slightest command.
Edward has said nothing to me about riding Whistler or consorting with Mr. Quincannon. It seems to me that his mind is elsewhere. Perhaps he is overly concerned about not taking the regular route along the Platte River. He has no doubt made secret plans that have been disrupted by the change.
I don’t much care about his secret plans and, frankly, I’m beginning to care less about him as time goes on. I’m beginning to believe that he’s the most selfish man I’ve ever met, which makes me think again of Mr. Quincannon’s remark about knowing the “true” Edward.
I must admit that I’ve been sheltered from most of the world and what goes on outside the higher classes of Europe. I have known no other people besides aristocrats and have been to no other lands. I’ve tended to believe what I’ve been told, that the British and their homelands are beyond compare. Now I’m beginning to think differently.
Europe is an old land and little fresh and new exists there. This journey has yet to really begin and I’m seeing that a different world exists here, one of a wild and free nature that I could never have dreamed of. Perhaps my belief in this fact has come about in part or in whole because of Owen Quincannon.
THE NARROWS
Gabriella’s Journal
13 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY
We’re now two days out since we made our camp at Round Grove and what an unusual time it’s been. I’ve been riding a great deal, getting more used to Whistler and gaining confidence that I’ll ride him well once we reach the open plains. The little horse lives to burst forth across the grasslands, stretching his legs out and surging ahead, never stopping until I rein him in.
I’ve grown used to turning him with my knees, a very simple means that leaves me astounded every time I do it. I’ve never ridden a horse so well trained. It will be an educational experience to see how the Indians accomplish such a feat.
I ride and come back to camp without concern about arguing with Edward. He and I haven’t spoken a dozen words between us since leaving Round Grove. He hasn’t given any indication of anger towards me, but there is no indication of anything else, either. He acts as if I simply do not exist.
Last night I did an unusual thing. I asked Mr. Quincannon if I might join him and Lamar for their evening prayers. I walked with them to the top of a rise bare of trees and listened to Lamar pray in a low chant. I had never heard anything like it and it seemed so natural and peaceful within the setting. A soft breeze whispered through the grass and the sounds of crickets mixed with the low pounding of the Indian’s small drum.
Mr. Quincannon later told me the song’s wording:
Hear me, Great Father.
I come to talk.
I come to talk.
I live with the earth and the sky,
and all the beings that are,
and I wish to know their truth,
for I want to be in harmony with all.
Hear me, Great Father.
I come to talk.
I come to talk.
After the ceremony we sat quietly, watching the sky change colors. The clouds turned pink overhead, and in the west, a streak of crimson colored the horizon. Mr. Quincannon kept his eye on a nighthawk, watching it soar and swoop far above us. Sitting there, I felt a bond unite the three of us—he and I and Lamar—a unity that can’t readily be explained until you rest in the twilight and listen to the low prayers of a native person.
Mr. Quincannon told me that Lamar prays every morning and evening, in clear or rainy skies, in cold or heat, without fail. Once he had to cover Lamar with a buffalo robe to keep him from frostbite. It angered the Delaware, but it was better that he live to pray another day than perish for the sake of a few hours of sacrifice.
I believe I will ask to accompany them again, though Mr. Quincannon says that there are certain ceremonies reserved for men only, as there are ceremonies only for women. Many prayers are for both sexes together and Lamar indicated that he would be happy to include me anytime I so desired.
Before we went to pray, we had a slight scare. Mr. Quincannon had to stop Edward from positioning his men for battle. A group of Osage Indians had appeared and were waiting for a signal to enter camp. They are a harmless tribe at this juncture in time, I learned, and only wanted to talk and trade for cloth.
Their heads were shaved except for a roach along the top from the forehead nearly to the neck. This ridge of hair stood straight up, plastered with animal oils and filled with hawk or turkey feathers. Many had painted their heads and faces in various combinations of red and black, but Mr. Quincannon assured everyone that the symbols were not those of war.
They came dressed in breechcloths and wrapped in trade blankets. Lamar and Mr. Quincannon smoked a pipe with them, and after a period of talking and sharing bowls of stew, they left. I wanted to inquire into painting a portrait of one or more of them, but decided I would do the work later and not interfere in their meeting. Edward had told me not to go anywhere near them and I suppose that entered sign
ificantly into my decision.
This morning we found ourselves facing bad weather. The dawn broke to a misty sky and clouds blanketed the land. The distance appeared to be without dimension, except for the hazy outlines of trees along the creeks. Mr. Quincannon advised Edward’s servants that they wrap all the spices and expensive foodstuffs in canvas and seal everything tightly, leaving just enough out for a midday meal. At first they protested, but when he suggested that all the provisions could be spoiled, they set to work immediately.
As we broke camp, a chill wind began to blow. I decided not to ride my pony but instead sat in the front seat of the carriage with Edward, while Walter and Avis huddled in the back. Edward began a discussion about firearms and the weapons he would choose once we reached buffalo country. He talked about finding a giant bull buffalo, so white in color as to stun the onlooker.
“Perhaps I shall find two,” he said.
I paid no attention to his conversation, simply nodding in acknowledgment whenever he looked my way. Just before noon we stopped for a meal, and by the time we had resumed travel, it was pouring with rain. The skies seemed to have broken apart, never to close again, and the wind grew to gale force. Sir Edward ordered his stallion caught and saddled, and charged into the weather, while I squeezed into the back seat of the carriage with Walter and Avis and wrapped myself in a Mackinaw blanket.
Even with the carriage cover up, the wind blew torrents of water in on us and Avis squealed constantly, crying out that before long, we would all be washed away.
Bom braved the ordeal without a word, urging the horses forward when all they wanted to do was turn around. In the caravan of carts, the mules also resisted pulling into the storm and the drivers’ loud cursing could be heard over the rain.
Mr. Quincannon and Lamar led the column. I don’t see how they were capable of finding the road ahead of them. Waiting the storm out was not possible, as the longer and harder it rained, the worse trail conditions became.
Nightfall arrived, changing the gray bleakness of the day into black. As we made camp along a small creek, the rain momentarily ended, but soon the skies were filled with lightning, and thunder echoed through the darkness. The servants laid canvas upon the ground and erected the tents as best they could. Edward complained continually, infuriated at the conditions.
Mr. Quincannon provided dried beef, while the expensive foodstuffs and spices remained wrapped and water-sealed. The shriveled meal was laid out on Aunt Avis’s fine china.
Jon and Pierre Rivet, having changed into new white cooking clothes, worked in their small tent. They told me later of their ordeal, trying to make the jerky suitable for Edward’s taste. They had a great deal of discussion regarding their situation, making a lot of faces and talking rapidly in French.
With Pierre’s help, Jon struggled to make a sauce, hoping to soothe Edward’s irritation. They had been working by lantern light and Pierre removed the chimney while Jon swirled butter in a small pan over the flame. He added cream and a pinch of flour and dried herbs, and stuck his finger in to taste it.
“We knew we had made something that, even under these conditions, would please Sir Edward,” Jon told me later.
Pierre jumped suddenly as thunder cracked overhead, dropping the lantern into the side of the tent. Flames rolled up the wall and he began frantically slapping puddled water with his shoes, coating his starched white trouser leg with mud.
Jon stood and watched, coaching Pierre to kick more water and to kick it faster. Finally the flames hissed away and the two stood coughing in the smoky darkness.
Jon then said, “To hell with it all,” and flung the sauce out into the rain.
All this time we sat in Edward’s tent, waiting, while he kept a cigar going and peered out into the storm, wondering where his cooks might be. I remained huddled in the blanket, sitting between Uncle Walter and Aunt Avis.
“A wonderful evening, indeed,” Walter said, rubbing his knee. “I’m having fun much sooner than I expected.”
“Will you stop complaining?” Avis said.
“I’ll shoot you in the knee,” Walter said, “and then we’ll see how you tolerate the damp.”
The Rivets finally arrived with a tray of beef jerky and set out the china. Edward stared at the bleak-looking meat and Avis began to moan.
The Rivets quickly hurried back into the rain before Edward could yell at them. I doubt they had any concerns about being fired on such a bleak night. After all, where would Edward find replacements?
I selected a chunk of meat and began to gnaw on it. Aunt Avis scowled.
“Isn’t it a bit dry?” she asked.
“More than a bit,” I said. “But we have no choice.”
“I can’t wait for breakfast,” Edward said.
Walter chewed methodically, encouraging Aunt Avis to eat. “Never mind the taste and texture, dear,” he said. “You need your strength.”
“Ah! It’s so horrible.”
Edward set his plate down after but a few bites and lit a cigar. Outside, the rain began easing up and soon stopped entirely, at which time he stood up and left without a word.
“It seems he doesn’t like our company,” Walter commented.
“Speak for yourself,” Avis said.
I left the tent, eager to avoid witnessing another conflict between my aunt and uncle. Clouds were swimming before a nearly full moon and shadows moved like flitting ghosts across the wet ground.
I held my dress up and found my way to a log near the stream, where I sat for a time listening to the thousands of frogs voicing their mating calls into the night and watching the stars glow in the vast heavens overhead. The scene was perfectly wonderful. The air was cool, the clarity of sight and sound heavenly.
Earlier, I had thought about my decision to come to America and the pursuit of wealth and fame, wishing I could bypass all this inconvenience and just get to the Indian lands and begin my work. Upon sitting on the log, feeling the serenity after the storm, I realized that the tempest had created the quiet and I couldn’t have truly enjoyed one without the other.
My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Quincannon, who was suddenly sitting on the log beside me.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “I thought you might be hungry.” He pulled a small parfleche from his pocket and opened it up to show me the contents inside.
I asked him what it was and he told me it was pemmican, a mixture of buffalo meat and berries that the Indians make for winter food.
“I’d just as soon not,” I said.
“You won’t even try it?”
“No, thank you.”
Mr. Quincannon placed the bag on the log beside me and stood up. “I’ll leave it here. You’ll need to eat something, as we’ll be leaving at first light and travel day and night until we get out of this rain.”
“That could be weeks, couldn’t it?”
“Not where we’re headed. Soon you’ll be praying for clouds to block the sun.” He pointed to the pemmican. “Consider my offer,” he said, and quickly disappeared into the night.
I picked up the bag and smelled its contents, then dipped my fingers in and found the mixture more than tolerable. At that moment Edward appeared, Bom beside him, holding a closed umbrella in case the rain resumed. I swallowed quickly.
“What are you doing out here?” Edward asked.
“I went for a walk,” I said.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I was worried.”
“I planned to return shortly.”
He noticed the bag in my hand. I had regretfully forgotten to hide it.
“What have you got there?” he asked.
“It’s called pemmican.”
“Did Quincannon give it to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but snatched it from me and threw it as far as he could across the creek. “I told you I don’t want you taking anything from him. Do you understand?”
“Edward, you had no right to do that.”
“Did you meet him out her
e secretly?”
“You know better than that.”
“I don’t know you anymore,” he said. “I thought I did once, but no longer.”
He wheeled around and with Bom struggling to keep pace, made his way back to his tent. I wondered what he meant by having once known me, but no longer. I can’t remember that we have ever actually known one another at all. Even when we were intimate, conversation was always superficial at best, and never lasted long.
Suddenly, Mr. Quincannon was beside me again. I wonder at times if he isn’t more Indian in nature than he is white, but his sophistication leaves no doubt that he lives in two worlds.
He handed me another bag of pemmican and asked me what I thought of it.
“I’ll have to admit, it was rather good,” I said.
He got up and started again for the shadows, turning quickly to say, “This time, take better care of it.”
Quincannon’s Journal
13 APRIL 1846
The dream has come again, twice in the past three days. The warriors get bigger and bigger with each recurring vision, their weapons crisper in image and more foreboding. Everything about the dream now seems massive. Either that or I’m diminishing in size.
If I’m worried about shrinking, I would like to know why. I’m feeling as well as I ever have physically and I don’t believe my mental makeup is defective. There may be some who would argue that, but I’ve yet to hear anyone say it.
So I have to conclude that my innermost thoughts themselves form the basis for my nighttime quandaries. Maybe I should think back on a few things that the Arapaho holy man, Elk Heart, told me some years back. He was ancient when he counseled me and now I wonder where he is, or if he’s crossed over to the Other Side Camp.
I think a lot about his grandson, Antelope, my best friend at one time. I wonder if Elk Heart passed the medicine on to him. There would be a lot of responsibility in taking over that kind of duty. I have forgotten much of the old man’s wisdom, or perhaps pushed it away from me because I chose to. The things he told me forced me to think about subjects I had long forgotten.