by Alex Scarrow
‘Sam, I promise, I won’t tell anyone.’
‘You swear?’
Ben rested a hand on his. ‘I promise. Listen, I’m not that much of a Christian, Sam. I’m not that much of a believer in anything, to tell you the truth. If someone wants to mess around with a religious text, then that’s their business.’
Ben felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see Emily standing beside him. She showed him a wooden-peg doll. ‘It’s Anne-Marie’s, ’ she explained, pointing across the fire at McIntyre’s daughter. ‘She said I could keep her for the journey. Do you like her, Benjamin?’
He took it off her and looked it over with an appreciative frown. ‘She’s lovely. Do you have many dolls in your wagon, Emily?’
Emily shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘None,’ said Sam. ‘Momma doesn’t approve of the dresses they wear. Says they look like dirty ladies.’
‘Can I keep her, Sam?’
Sam looked down sadly at his sister. ‘Sorry, Em . . . if Momma sees it in the wagon, she’ll know we’ve been over.’
Emily nodded sadly, and turned to take it back.
‘I can look after her,’ said Ben. ‘I could keep her in my saddle bag. When we stop over for noon break, I could pull her out and let you play with her for a short while. Your mother needn’t know.’
Emily swung a small arm around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you very much.’
At that moment, they heard the collective murmur of prayers coming through the still night.
‘Prayer meeting will be finishing up soon,’ said Sam. ‘We should go back now.’
Emily reluctantly passed Ben the doll.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep her safe. You can play with her tomorrow.’
Sam smiled gratefully at him. ‘And thank you for the coffee, Benjamin.’ He grabbed his sister’s hand and they set off a few steps towards the other wagons before he stopped and turned. ‘Can I bring Emily over again?’
‘If you like. As long as you both don’t end up getting in trouble.’
Sam nodded, and then they were gone.
Ben finished his coffee as he watched them go, quickly fading into the darkness, soon no more than a flickering silhouette against the distant glow of the other campfire. He bid goodnight to those still gathered around theirs for warmth, and headed back to where his two ponies were tethered and his bedroll lay. He unscrewed the lid of his inkpot and dipped his pen carefully in.
The people we are travelling with - I know nothing about the tenets of their faith. It seems so strict and very much apart from the churches I know. The women folk of Preston’s curious style of Mormonism appear obliged to be bound head to foot in modest clothing, with only their faces revealed. The men are all compelled to wear beards, clipped from their mouths, but left untrimmed beneath their chin, long enough to hide a fist within.
And what a hold he appears to have on them. That he can throw away the Bible and their Mormon book and start over . . . and they will take whatever he decides to write, as gospel?
He looked up from his journal, across at the dark outlines of the Preston party’s wagons.
I find that disturbing.
CHAPTER 11
Saturday
Blue Valley, California
Rose studied a scanned page from the journal on her laptop. ‘It’s so weird.’
Julian looked up from the diner’s very short, single-sided menu. ‘What?’
‘He just seems so . . . I don’t know, so . . . it’s like this journal was written yesterday.’
‘Because it’s not all “yea” and “forsooth” and “verily”?’
Rose nodded. ‘I suppose so, yeah.’
‘Diaries and journals are informal. They’re usually the most intimate of historical records. No one writes a diary thinking it’s going to be read by anyone else, let alone some historian from the future. It’s personal, and a much closer and more reliable record of a person’s life than any census or public document.
‘When I was a researcher for the BBC - Christ - ten years ago now,’ Julian continued, looking down the menu once more, ‘I went through loads of unearthed correspondence from Roman soldiers, dug out along Hadrian’s wall - amazing stuff that could’ve been written by squaddies serving in Iraq; lads asking their mums for extra pairs of underwear, for soap. The language that normal people use and the things that fill their everyday lives, what concerns them . . . none of that ever really changes. I love that about history.’
The waitress came over with her pad flipped open and ready to go. ‘What’ll you have?’
Julian puffed and bit on his lip for a moment before looking up at her with a hopeful smile. ‘I don’t suppose you got anything along the lines of a lasagne or a—’
She sighed. ‘Just what’s on the menu, sir.’
He nodded, suitably chastened. ‘Oh. Then, um . . . a Ranch Burger, please.’
Rose waited until she’d finished scribbling. ‘And I suppose I better have the caesar salad,’ she said.
‘Another drink with yer meals?’
Julian looked at Rose. ‘Another couple of beers?’
‘Why not? The last lot went down easily.’
Rose watched her go before looking back at her laptop, perched on the small table between them in their cosy corner booth. ‘We’ve got all the pages digitised now?’
Julian nodded. ‘I flicked through and scanned them last night. The Lambert journal is now tucked safely away, sealed, dry and covered. Grace would approve, I’m sure. And very soon it’ll make a nice exhibit for some local museum.’
‘That’s a relief. Knowing how clumsy you can be, Jules, I had visions of you spilling coffee all over it, or something.’
Julian grinned. ‘The ole girl would skin me alive.’
Rose nodded. ‘She would that.’
Julian looked around the bar, empty except for a couple of young men shooting pool on the far side, away from the booths. A TV behind the counter was on FOX News. They were covering the Reagan Presidential Library debate; six candidate hopefuls for the Republicans were slugging it out between them.
‘I think he sounds really sweet.’
‘Who?’
‘This bloke, Benjamin Lambert.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re falling for a dead guy?’
She smiled. ‘He comes across as tender, sensitive. I like that.’
Rose had come across very few men in her life thus far that she could genuinely describe as tender and sensitive. None that had seen past her falsely confident cheeriness, and sensed the insecurity inside. Not even Julian, who seemed to know her so well; not even he sensed she felt like an ugly duckling amongst the glamorous production assistants and floor managers and other media muppets that swanned around their world.
Rose knew Julian thought highly of her. Respected her talent, trusted her judgement. In fact she was certain most of the male professionals she interacted with on a regular basis were quietly impressed with her techie talk and media savviness, but beyond that saw nothing more than a plain-Jane struggling to stay in a size twelve.
‘I’m no glamorous Paris Hilton,’ she’d moaned once.
‘Sod that. You’re the most talented filmmaker I’ve ever worked with,’ Julian had replied sincerely.
Just what an ugly duckling needs to hear.
The waitress returned with their food and drinks, deftly dealing them out with a cheerless smile. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she said in a flat tone, and was gone.
Rose speared a leaf of lettuce with her fork whilst looking at Julian’s plate. ‘God, I wish I could eat that sort of crap and stay whippet-thin like you.’
‘I’ve got a fast metabolism - nervous energy. Actually, I thought hitting my late thirties would slow me down a bit,’ he said and then swigged a mouthful of beer.
‘God. What were you like at my age?’
‘Twenty-five? Much the same, I suppose. Nature’s been kind so far. You wait till I hit my mid-for
ties, then I’ll age ten or fifteen years overnight.’ He picked up his Ranch Burger, which dripped melted cheese and bacon fat.
She shook her head and smiled wearily. ‘I guess I’ll stick to eating rabbit food, drinking decaf and drooling over my George Clooney screensaver.’ The only intimacy she shared these days was with things that came with an AC adaptor. Filming, editing, mixing. Filming, editing, mixing. And once in a blue moon she got lucky with a bloke wearing beer goggles. It always seemed to be a sound, lighting or camera guy, charmed more by her ability to talk kit than anything else.
They ate in silence for a while, both hungry after the afternoon’s hike out of the woods to the park’s camp site. Julian worked through his burger with his eyes on the TV over the bar, absent-mindedly regarding the suited, carefully groomed candidates slinging uninspired soundbites at each other.
‘So okay then, Rosie,’ said Julian, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘Down to business. We need to plan out what we’re going to do.’
‘You’re the boss,’ she said dryly.
He put down his burger, wiped his hands and frowned - deep in thought for a moment. ‘I think we could make something more out of this, much better than the usual docu-channel fodder. I think we could make a feature-length documentary, and we could try for something that’s good enough for a theatrical release. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t, frankly. What do you think?’
Her eyes widened as she chugged a mouthful of beer from her bottle.
‘There’s beautiful scenery up here,’ he continued. ‘It’s made for a larger screen. Those woods and peaks, swirling morning mist . . . the right background score?’
‘God, yes,’ she replied, grinning.
‘Something you and I could be proud of,’ he said, picking up his bottle and clinking it on hers. He finished it and wiped the suds from his lips. ‘Nice drop of lager, that.’
‘Jules, love. They call it beer here.’
He waved his hand. ‘Beer, shmeer. You want another?’
‘Go on then.’
He caught the waitress’s eye and ordered two more.
‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I need to head back to the UK. This was meant to be a quickie project, cheap and cheerful. Now it’s something altogether different, we’ll need a bigger budget and some investment partners. I want to pitch it to some more substantial players, not just the BBC.’
‘Oh, God. This could really make us!’
Julian felt a little light-headed. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline rush or the Budweiser.
‘What about me?’ asked Rose. ‘I need to get back to our studio to put everything we’ve got together.’
He looked at her. Her cheeks were pink with excitement.
‘Maybe you should stay here, Rose. I’ll be home for no more than a week, I guess, and then be right back to help. I just think someone needs to stick around and keep an eye on our turf, if you know what I mean.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’
‘What’s the broadband like at our motel? You tried it?’
‘I think it’s pretty good. Both our rooms have got a connection. ’
The waitress brought the beers over. ‘Get you guys anything else?’
Julian checked his watch. It was late and he knew he needed to be up early to make his way to Reno-Tahoe International airport to catch a flight to Denver and back to Heathrow. Once they had a few interested partners and some budget money to play around with, then he and Rose could celebrate properly.
‘Just the bill, please,’ he replied.
When the waitress had gone he turned back to Rose. ‘Whilst I’m in London, could you knock up a short, tasty showreel and send it over?’
‘Sure,’ she said, pushing her fringe back out of her face, ‘no problem.’
She realised he was looking at her for longer than was comfortable for either of them. Rose looked away awkwardly and started peeling the label off her beer bottle. Julian chugged another mouthful.
‘Reno’s about two or three hours’ drive. I’ll take our hire car there, if you can get another one arranged locally.’
She nodded as she finished the last of her beer, a careless trickle running down her chin as she set the bottle down on the table.
Julian leaned forward and wiped it away with his thumb. ‘Lush.’
Rose felt it. She wondered if Julian had.
A little frisson. A momentary fizz of excitement.
He looked awkward, slightly embarrassed and withdrew his hand.
‘We need to go to my room and check the bandwidth.’
Rose felt her cheeks colour. I can’t believe I just said that.
‘Sorry?’
‘Of the broadband connection?’ she quickly added.
The waitress came with the bill. He settled it and left a tip.
‘Maybe we should test it,’ said Rose quietly. ‘Before you go and it’s too late to know if it’s good enough to upload a showreel. ’
Julian smiled hesitantly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sensed something in the invitation, something that stepped outside of their tight professional partnership. They were both high on the excitement of the story, and several beers each was helping to leverage the mood . . . but he knew where this had the potential to go and that in the morning they’d both regret it.
‘Errr . . . I . . .’ he stammered.
Rose quickly looked down at her bottle and carried on peeling the label.
‘Or maybe not,’ she replied uncomfortably.
‘Maybe it’s just fine. Yeah, I’m sure it probably—’
‘Yeah, sure . . . it uhh . . . maybe . . . we should check it in the morning.’
‘Sure.’
They both smiled and fidgeted for a moment, before reaching for their coats.
CHAPTER 12
23 September, 1856
Ben shivered, despite being wrapped up in his thick woollen poncho. The snow was coming down lightly; a fine dusting right now, but it had been coming down like that all day. Enough of it had settled on the ground that the wheels were slipping perilously on the sloping track.
He watched as a knot of men, a mixture from both Preston’s and Keats’s parties, struggled together with the jury-rigged windlass at the top of the rugged incline. Stout rope was wound around the inner hub of the rear wheel of a large conestoga, secured firmly at the top, and several lengths ran down the short, steep track to a wagon that was midway up and double-teamed with straining oxen. The men pulled on the ropes in unison, working in concert with the oxen to ease the cumbersome vehicle up the slope.
Ben eagerly wanted to be back in amongst the scrum of men working the wheel, if only to build up a sweat again and get warm. But there were only so many men that could fit a helping hand on the spokes without getting in each other’s way. They pulled together with a synchronised grunt. With each twist of the wheel the wagon lurched upwards and the straining oxen staggered forward.
All but a few of the wagons had been manoeuvred to the top of this steep section of Keats’s trail - the shortcut. This was the route, the old man assured them all, that would get them through these wooded peaks to the pass faster than any other trail. It was a far quicker route but, he had cautioned, a much tougher one.
The process of winching the wagons up the side of the gulch had taken most of the day, slowed down by the increasing lack of purchase the wheels were having on the ground as the snow had begun to settle during the overcast and gloomy afternoon.
Mr Hussein stood beside him shivering too; his breath hung before him as he spoke. ‘Is being . . . uh . . . much coldness today, Mr Lambert. Yes?’
Ben nodded. ‘Very bloody cold. I can’t believe only two days ago I was walking on salt flats with my shirt-sleeves rolled up.’
Hussein’s face knotted with concentration for a moment as he translated and then he nodded and smiled. ‘Yes. Very sudden . . . is very coldness.’
The men heaved again and the wagon sud
denly lurched forward, slewing alarmingly to one side of the trail.
‘Shit!’ Ben hissed quietly, as the wagon continued its uncontrolled sideways drift.
Mr Hussein held his breath as they watched.
The trail up which they were attempting to winch the wagon was narrow, flanked on one side by a steep bank strewn with boulders and small bushes and trees clutching tightly to the ground. On the other side, the trail dropped away, descending steeply to a rocky gulch through which a stream gurgled noisily below.
My God, it’s going to go over.
The oxen were losing their footing, sliding in the churned-up slick of mud and powdered snow turning to slush. Ben recognised the woman aboard the wagon as the wife of one of Preston’s council of Elders, Mrs Zimmerman. She was perched anxiously on the edge of the jockey board, coaxing the oxen forward. She let out a shrill cry of alarm as the wagon continued its slide towards the edge. The wagon finally came to a rest, the left rear wheel slotting into a worn groove on the track, carved by the previous wagons. Mr Hussein’s breath gushed out, a plume of languid vapour that hung before him in the still air.
As it creaked ominously uphill, Ben realised it was the crippled wagon.
‘Oh no, it’s the jury-rigged one.’
‘Beg pardon?’ Hussein asked.
Ben’s eyes darted to the improvised wheel, the round oak table-top, just as it was beginning to buckle and splinter under the lateral weight of the wagon. The wagon suddenly lurched at an angle, and the wheel cracked loudly.
Ben, along with several other bystanders, called out to her to jump off.
Mrs Zimmerman, perched on the jockey board, stared down at the gulch beside the wagon, and then glanced behind her through the pursed canvas opening of the cover behind her, drawn tight with a puckering string.
What’s she doing? Jump, woman. Jump!
The wagon slowly slid in the mush, further over the edge, the fractured wheel creaking alarmingly. The oxen on the left-hand side of the doubled team, seeing the drop right next to them, began to panic, scrambling to the right, causing a spreading confusion amongst the others. The wagon canted still further and Ben could see there was an irretrievable momentum building up that was going to carry it over.