Gabriella

by Earl Murray

  “To reach the realm of Calm you must pass through the land of Truth,” he once told me. “There is no other road to take.”

  He made it clear that no man can grow old in peace until he makes the decision to purify himself.

  “There are many ways to make offerings to the Creator,” he said. “Each must find his own means. You are having trouble choosing and it will cost you in the end.”

  He told me something I already knew, but having it confirmed scared me all the more. After that I took part in numerous ceremonies and even fasted on a hill for four days and nights. It opened a world up to me that resulted in many more questions than answers.

  Gabriella Hall is also a puzzlement to me. She brings up feelings I haven’t felt for a long time. Some, I believe, I’ve never experienced before. The thought of letting these feelings have their way with me is terrifying. I remember telling Bom that I had no room for a genteel English lady, but I continue to think about her.

  All Edward Garr thinks about is Oregon. He must be headed to a very important rendezvous at Fort Vancouver. Certainly that would be the place where the British will convene should war break out. His traveling overland through the heart of America to hunt along the way suggests that his reasoning cannot be completely sound. Either that or he thinks himself totally invincible.

  I try not to be obsessed by the man, for there are far too many other concerns that take priority. We haven’t even reached Bent’s Fort yet. One day at a time. I learned that with my Indian friends, but have put it past me since going back to civilization and then deciding that I need to reach Oregon. I won’t get there but one day at a time.

  So far my journey toward Truth has been a desperate one. Certainly, as we travel ever closer to the mountains, I’ll think more about Elk Heart and his wisdom, and the treacherous journey through my fears to learn what he was saying to me. But there’s a lot I don’t care to know, and for that reason I fear I’ll be seeing huge Indians bearing down on me for some time to come.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  13 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY

  Much has happened of late and I believe it’s only the beginning of an experience I’ll look back on with wonder all the rest of my life. Owen Quincannon treads the edge of danger in his pursuit of me. Had Edward discovered us together it would have been a dire situation.

  Mr. Quincannon might think he’s just assisting me in getting used to the trail, but I believe it’s much more. It flatters me to consider that. But it also creates a predicament for me. I fear the test of who will live and who will die between him and Edward will come before long if I cannot pursuade Mr. Quincannon to remain at a distance.

  In order to take my mind off him, I have decided to concentrate entirely on my work. Upon returning from the creek, I discovered J. T. Landers pacing in front of his tent. He informed me that he is worried about the condition of some plant specimens that got wet in the storm. Apparently a mule dislodged them from its back during the storm, and in the fall, the presses burst open.

  He took me inside his tent and there, lying on a table in the light of a lantern, were a number of small plants he referred to as Nemastylis geminiflora. I asked him to speak English and he said they were prairie irises. Even in their rain-soaked condition they were beautiful, thin-leaved with light blue flowers that emerged from the stalks in clusters of two.

  “It is not really an iris as such,” he said, fingering them as if they would disintegrate. “I can’t go back and collect more, and I sincerely doubt if I will find more specimens ahead.”

  He explained that a botanist named Thomas Nuttall had journeyed through the West over thirty years earlier and had suggested in his notes that the prairie iris was not found anywhere west of Kansas City.

  “This proves new distribution,” he said. “If only I could preserve the specimens.”

  I suggested that he describe them in detail on paper, as I had often seen him do, and allow me to draw them in watercolor. Thus he would have a record of his findings no matter if the collection deteriorated.

  “I shall accept your kind offer,” he said, “even though I wish there was a way to save the plants themselves.”

  As I drew and he wrote, he asked if I might be interested in learning botany from him. I told him that I would enjoy short lessons from time to time, but nothing too intensive. He seemed disappointed. The poor man is a lonely sort who cannot share his passions with anyone other than another botanist.

  He perked up when I suggested that Mr. Quincannon had told me that he wished to exchange botanical information along the way, as he had learned a great deal from the Indians about dietary and medicinal plants.

  “I would enjoy that very much,” he said, “if he remains alive, that is.”

  “Do you know something that I don’t?” I asked.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Edward has said nothing to me about the matter, but anyone can read his face. He is aiming his rifle at your suitor every time he looks at him.”

  “Do you really see that much danger?” I asked.

  Mr. Landers had a thick magnifying glass with which he was studying the plants. He looked up at me and said that he feared the worst.

  “I have no right to say this, but perhaps you should approach your fiancé and make amends as much as possible.”

  “Make amends for what?”

  “What he perceives as your lack of concern for him.”

  I will never understand how it is that should a lady and a gentleman disagree about a matter, it is the lady who is always in the wrong. I had thought Mr. Landers to have a bit more perception about my situation with Edward.

  “You have been talking to him, haven’t you?” I said.

  “We’ve had but a few discussions,” he said. “He seems certain that one morning he will arise and find you and Mr. Quincannon gone.”

  “What nonsense!”

  “I’m only relating what he said, Miss Hall, and I would beg you not to repeat it.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But if he’s that concerned, why doesn’t he attempt to show me his feelings?”

  “His feelings come from the barrel of a gun,” he replied. “I believe that to be the only expression he knows.”

  PLEASANT VALLEY

  Gabriella’s Journal

  15 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY

  It has been a trying two days that I won’t soon forget. It makes me wonder what other trials lie ahead.

  Two mornings past, Mr. Quincannon rousted everyone well before dawn and his men fought the mules to get them into their traces. He told us that we had to be rolling by daylight, for the trail ahead passed through a marshy area called the Narrows and should the rain come too quickly, we could be deterred indefinitely.

  As the sky gradually lightened, Mr. Quincannon made his way through camp, hurrying everyone with breakfast and helping with the packing and loading. Edward laughed at him; in his mind, no respectable leader would be assisting servants. I told him that maybe he should take a lesson from our guide and thus gain the respect of his own men. He wasn’t pleased with my remark.

  Earlier, I had taken Mr. Landers’s advice regarding Edward’s jealousy over Mr. Quincannon. I told my fiancé that I would be willing to make an effort at communication if he would. He told me that there was nothing to communicate about until I made up my mind to agree with him on all points. “There’s no give-and-take in that solution,” I said, to which he replied, “I don’t expect there to be any give-and-take.”

  The incident made me wonder just how much the man really cares for me. Our situation does not seem to bother him in the least. I cannot see marriage under such conditions.

  Just prior to departure, everyone gathered in a circle to observe the Sabbath. Mr. Quincannon told me later that many of the emigrant wagon trains wouldn’t travel on Sunday, but that he felt a round of prayers would suffice and that the Good Lord held no grudges against those who sought to cross dangerous lands as quickly as possible. He said that he had promise
d his mother he would never forget the Lord’s day.

  While the sun rose we all stood in a group, the men holding their hats and caps, heads bowed. Edward was dressed in his corduroys, his broad hat, and his red hunting waistcoat. Frowning deeply, he and his soldiers waited impatiently for the service to begin. Bom stood beside him with his eyes closed, his lips moving.

  Lamar stood with his head bowed in reverence. Mr. Quincannon had told me before that his friend had no concerns about respecting the white man’s ceremonies, that he believed the Creator was the same to one and all, and however one chose to give thanks for life was good.

  When everyone was settled, J. T. Landers said a prayer for continued guidance and protection during the journey. The botanist has taken it upon himself to serve as clergyman for the group, stating that they needed one and that his father had been a minister.

  I wore the new clothes that Avis had purchased for me in St. Louis. I wiggled my toes in the beautiful blue slippers, remembering my dance with Mr. Quincannon, who watched me from nearby. Aunt Avis and Uncle Walter stood with me, both dressed in their finest as well.

  As the service ended, clouds rolled in, and within an hour of our departure the skies opened again, turning the morning into a blur of falling water. The trail through the Narrows proved to be nearly impassable. The ground turned to a quagmire and the carts, sinking to the axles, had to be pulled out of bogs with double teams of mules, with as many as six men pushing.

  I sat in the carriage and held my breath while the horses lurched through the muck. Avis gripped the support bars, nearly shaking them loose, while Walter tried to calm her.

  Mr. Quincannon rode up alongside and announced that we must get out and either ride horseback or walk.

  “The horses are tearing your carriage apart,” he said.

  Bom stopped the team and Avis protested. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  Edward rode up and demanded to know Mr. Quincannon’s motive. When he saw that the spokes of the wheels were loosening and the tongue was pulling away from the frame, he insisted we get out. I did my best to comfort Avis, who didn’t want to ride but thought it preferable to walking.

  “You can get on behind me,” I said.

  Edward brought up the red mare he had purchased for me. She was giddy and began sidestepping. When I requested my pinto, he broke into a rage.

  “If you as much as mention that animal again, I will shoot it myself,” he said.

  “Surely you’re joking,” I said.

  “I am not. I’m tired of your persistence. You will not ride that horse, and that’s final.”

  He tried to help me up on the chestnut, but I pushed him away. After mounting, I pulled Avis on behind. Walter struggled onto an older roan and grimaced in pain as he rode through the downpour.

  The mare proved hard to handle and I fought continually to keep her under control. She jerked first one way and then the other, disturbed at the weather and having to carry not one, but two people through the mud.

  All the while Avis yelled and wailed, making the horse more frantic. I felt the sleeves and neckline of my new dress ripping away as my aunt clutched at me in desperation.

  Finally, with a loud scream, she fell off the side, splatting in the mud. The mare jerked and tried to buck, but I held the horse’s head up and succeeded in calming her. Walter, sore knee and all, dismounted and tried to help Avis to her feet, but she dragged him down beside her.

  I jumped off the mare and she ran away into the storm. I plowed through mud up to my knees, and upon reaching Avis and Walter, helped them both up in turn. Edward watched from atop his horse.

  “Ella, why didn’t you handle that mare properly?” he asked.

  I scooped up a handful of mud and flung it at him, splattering his face and red waistcoat. When he saw me reaching for more, he quickly spurred his stallion out of range.

  In my rage, I had not noticed that I was missing both of my brand-new slippers. Not until I began raking the muck from my legs and clothing did I realize that they were lost somewhere deep in the ooze. I searched and scooped and dug with persistence, then discovered Mr. Quincannon standing alongside, holding them out to me.

  “If there was music, I’d ask for a dance,” he said.

  “How did you find them?”

  “I saw them slip off when you ran toward Sir Edward.”

  I thanked him and hoped he couldn’t tell the tears from the rain that washed down my face.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  15 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY

  Early this afternoon the skies turned blue and the sun shone brightly. We reached an area called Pleasant Valley and Mr. Quincannon stopped the column to rest and locate lost stock. I retired to the creek to rinse the mud from myself and what was left of my new dress. I refused to throw it away, as Avis suggested, but committed myself to either fixing it myself or finding someone who could.

  Edward kept himself at a safe distance from me. Uncle Walter told me that in conversing with him, he said he had no idea I was capable of such rage. He had come to complain to me that I had nearly ruined his favorite hunting waistcoat and I had told him that had I a rock, I would have ruined his head.

  Edward received little sympathy from Uncle Walter, who simply told him, “You’re lucky that she didn’t have a rock. Pray she cools off before we reach rocky country.”

  What bothered Edward the most, though, was my statement to him that henceforth, if I wanted to ride my pinto, I would. “If you have an inclination to shoot the pony, you had better shoot me as well,” I told him, “for your life will be worthless after that.”

  Avis was the only one who sided with him. She told me not to be so hard on the poor man and even suggested that I might be slipping mentally.

  “I worry that you’re putting too much pressure on yourself regarding your art,” she said. “You can’t let yourself go mad over the fact that your paintings of savages might not sell.”

  I asked her what my paintings had to do with Edward’s behavior and she told me that he was merely trying to account for my outbursts.

  “You must act more as though you want to be his wife,” she said. “Can’t you see that?”

  “Must a wife be the same as a servant?”

  “If that’s his desire.”

  I decided that discussing the matter was futile. In fact, I’ve concluded that it’s not a good idea to discuss much of anything with her. I told her that I preferred to limit our conversations to any topic other than Edward. “And if that’s not possible,” I said, “then we have nothing to talk about.”

  She didn’t seem at all shocked and acted as if estrangement would not bother her. Her reaction caused me some grief, but I have to admit I’ve felt lately that Aunt Avis is not the friend I once knew as a child.

  I diverted my thoughts elsewhere, discovering Mr. Quincannon’s mood to be even more foul than mine. He ranted and raved over lost supplies and damage due to poor packing. Everyone under his command busied themselves catching wayward mules or cleaning mud from tarps and guns and food supplies. The storm had caused more delays and difficulties than anyone had time for.

  The meals I had with Edward and my aunt and uncle were strained. I didn’t come to tea. Bom and Uncle Walter both tried to ease the tension, but nothing could be done.

  As Pleasant Valley had turned out to be less than pleasant, I welcomed the opportunity to travel on. Yesterday proved to be every bit as open and sunny as the previous day had been stormy. We reached the fabled Council Grove in late afternoon and set up camp along the creek.

  It is a beautiful area, with thick stands of hardwood trees bordering the stream and also growing in dense patches in low-lying regions. Mr. Quincannon dispatched his men to cut more limbs and shape them as axles and braces for the carts. Repairs were in order, as the gummy mud of the Narrows had popped more than one wheel spoke and cracked the axles and bodies of a few carts.

  It is said that the area got its name from a historic meeting betw
een road surveyors and Osage Indians in the year 1825, at which time a treaty was drawn up to allow the passage of travelers going to and from the Sante Fe region. The pact is said to have been sealed by the receipt of eight hundred dollars worth of merchandise to the Indians. Mr. Quincannon told Walter that the amount of goods freighted by the first caravan could have easily surpassed double that amount.

  I am beginning to see that the rightful ownership of lands will forever be in question here. I heard many times in St. Louis that the Indian doesn’t make the best use of the resource and that settlers should have priority in staking their claims. I don’t know what the best use of the resource might be, but the thought of right by might can only lead to a long line of fatalities.

  I wished to see what lay before us and rode Whistler to a hilltop. The trees diminished greatly toward the west, leaving open grassland ahead of us. The view gave me the chance to understand some of the defensive traveling strategies used by travelers, facts I learned from Mr. Quincannon back in St. Louis. There were a number of trade caravans in the vicinity and they were camped with their wagons in large circles, with their livestock corraled inside. We had reached the edge of hostile Indian country and raids could happen anytime.

  These caravans were all headed toward the Mexican settlements of Taos and Sante Fe, carrying supplies for trade to the Mexicans. Their journeys might be interrupted at any time should war with Mexico commence.

  After leaving the hill, I spent part of the day sketching various travelers, including a young Spanish couple and their family, returning home to their land grant in the Guadalupe Mountains. They were a joyous group who laughed and sang and danced in their festive style, giving me a great deal of grist for sketches and paintings. Had the rumors of war not been so strong, I might well have entertained the thought of going south as opposed to west.

  Such is my mood at this time. I feel like going anywhere that Edward isn’t going. I can only say that I would miss the company of Mr. Quincannon. But to keep matters from going further, I have decided to avoid direct contact with him. Instead, I have called upon Uncle Walter to act in my behalf and explain the reason I am remaining distant.