The Indifference of Tumbleweed (16 page)

I had not prepared any sort of request or opening conversational remark, so I simply stood there with my hands behind my back and smiled shyly.

‘Just visiting, then,' said his wife. ‘And why not?' There was a sharp belligerence in her tone that made me glance at him in sympathy. She spoke as if he had said something foolish or impolite, which he had not.

I examined his straight black hair and narrow dark eyes, seeing him for the Indian he half was. And yet he wore ordinary clothes, like all the men in the train, and spoke the same. Here, amongst his mother's people – or so I imagined they must be – was
he reminded of her? Was he hiding himself away for fear that an uncle or cousin would claim him as their own? Considering that almost all the youngsters at the fort were half-breeds like him, I saw no reason for him to be reticent or self-conscious.

He climbed down and glanced at the children. ‘They are unwell,' he said softly. ‘Something they've eaten.'

When I looked more closely, the little ones did appear very pale and lethargic. ‘Is it bad?' I asked, thinking of the miscarried baby and Mrs Fields' inevitable panic if anything befell her children.

‘Impossible to know,' he admitted. ‘I was thinking perhaps your grandmother might help…' he tailed off unhappily.

‘We must go and ask her,' I said, with sudden briskness. ‘You ought to have called her sooner.'

My grandmother came willingly, pleased to be consulted. She felt the children's brows, one by one, then peered down their throats. ‘Not cholera,' she announced, as if in triumph. I was reasonably certain that nobody had ever suspected such a dreaded diagnosis. The very idea of cholera sent icy shivers through us all, with its terrifyingly rapid onset and consequence. There was a common saying –
fine at dawn, dead by midday
– which summed up the situation for anyone unlucky enough to contract the disease.

‘What have they been eating?' she asked.

‘Berries they found amongst the sagebrush,' admitted their stepfather.

She regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘I trust you showed them which they could eat, and which to avoid?'

He returned her look, like a mirror. ‘Madam, my mother was an Indian. Throughout my first ten years she took me out and showed me the wild foods. The children ate huckleberries and nothing else.'

‘Then they ate them unripe or in damaging quantities,' she concluded.

‘This was my presumption. I can get no sensible account from any of them, but I fancy there was a contest of some kind, the winner of which was the one who consumed the most berries.'

The boy groaned in self-blame and nodded. He clutched his belly and groaned again.

‘And that is all?' my grandmother demanded of him with a very stern face.

The child nodded, and she turned away, as if brought there under false pretences. ‘Give them bread and milk,' she said, ‘and let the lesson be well learned.'

‘Hear that, wife?' called the man. Mrs Fields was still inside the wagon, showing no interest in her suffering offspring.

‘I knew 'twas the case,' came an indistinct reply. ‘But milk there is none.'

‘You might ask Mr Bricewood,' I suggested. ‘His cows give a good yield.' Mr Bricewood had begun the journey with three cows, two in milk and one expected to calve any time. The birth of the calf had taken place on the 10
^th
June, a small excitement for the party. The leggy newcomer had black and brown markings, and a sweet face. He had been castrated by Luke Tennant at a few days of age, his frantic mother helpless to prevent the painful mutilation.

The Bricewood cows were herded with dozens of others, and milked twice a day by Letitia, Henry's sister, who was about Fanny's age. Henry had three sisters and two small brothers, including the dark-skinned Joel, who I had seldom had cause to notice, except to wonder about his relationship to the family. They treated him at times like a servant and at other times no differently from the other children. I had every intention of questioning Henry about his origins, but it had slipped my mind every time we spoke.

There had been a morning when I saw Henry's brother Benjamin, a person I had little liking for, giving the little boy a kick because he had been slow about something. It had stabbed me to see it, but I made no move to defend him. We had been taught thoroughly, from the first days of the journey, never to interfere in another family's private doings. Arguments, injustices and such were seldom what they appeared to an outsider, our father told us, and no good ever came from thinking we could change anything for the better when it came to domestic matters other than our own.

The Bricewoods sold milk to others in our party, on an unreliable basis, despite their three milking cows. Many days there was none to spare, but sometimes there was a pint or more for each family, except for the Fields. Mr Bricewood had havered for a few days after the incident of the turkey, and then come down against Mr Fields in respect of food supplies. As a result he did not offer him or his children any of his produce. My father once or twice quietly passed a cupful to them, as a gesture against the unreasonable animosity.

‘I think not,' Mr Fields said now, with a look that declared that this would be an affront to his dignity.

His children would recover, I supposed. I was itchy with curiosity about how life was for the Fields family, but had no words with which to draw answers from him. His wife was a shadowy creature, despite the constant sound of her voice and the disturbing sight of her suffering nakedness when she miscarried her child. Everyone knew what she did not like or want, but there was never a hint as to what her desires might be.

I found that I was following him, somewhat against his wishes. He had increased his pace, in a purposeful fashion, heading towards the fort, to my surprise. ‘You have business at the fort?' I asked.

He made a slight sound of assent but said nothing.

‘You need fresh provisions? If so, I must warn you there is little left now. All the goods were taken in the first day we were here.'

‘Yes,' he said, which told me nothing. I fell back, wary of being seen to accompany him for too long. There would be numerous members of the wagon train inside the fort, doing nothing but watching Indians or seeking out scouts who might offer information. It would be considered overly bold of me to walk alongside a married man as I had been doing. He was evidently more conscious of this than I was myself.

So I turned back, and strolled along a well-worn path between the wagons and the tents, seeking a friendly face. It was mid-day, very near, and the sun was strong. I detected knots of men, many of them party leaders, in earnest debate. Women were washing clothes in the river; children were running wild in and out of the water, or off into the sagebrush that stretched in all directions. A small hill rose a short way to the north, and boys were running to the top and rolling down again, in imitation of logs. I stood still and then turned slowly, assessing the lie of the land, and wondering what might come next in our travelling.

July 3
^rd
. Our first day out of Fort John (which many now call Fort Laramie, on account of the Laramie River) saw us journey seven miles, due to a late start. There are fewer parties now, with many pairing together, so two becomes one. We, however, remain the Tennant Party, and have no new additions except for a half-grown Indian bitch, which my sister Lizzie has taken without any permission. She calls it Bathsheba and says it will be a friend for Melchior when older. Melchior is slow and unhappy with his injuries, and has been favoured with a bed beneath the Bricewood wagon.

The land does have some trees, but it is very dry and mainly small bushes grow. We saw wild roses, with wonderful scent. The rocks are loose and small, some of them quite pretty. There are white cliffs in the distance, which Fanny said the wagons would have to scale, but of course that's not true. There are prairie dogs everywhere, funny little things.

My father kinked an eyebrow at all these details, which he said were not the sort of thing he expected to read. But I left them alone, thinking he would soon lose interest in reading my journal again. He only looked at it because it was the first of this next phase of our trek.

Lizzie's dog had remained undiscovered until the last hour before we stopped for the night. Then it began whining and she had to bring it out of its hiding place and confess what she had done. It had a shaggy black coat, with long ears and a ratty tail. Both our parents chastised her roundly for the theft and the deceit.

‘The Indians eat their dogs,' I said. ‘So Lizzie has perhaps saved its life.'

‘We can eat it if we finish all our provisions and get lost in the wilderness,' said Nam.

Lizzie fiercely hugged the animal to her and said that would never happen.

My father's interest had been snagged by the stones I mentioned in the journal. He said there were agates amongst them and gathered many examples into a cotton bag. They were mostly black in colour and had shapes embedded in them which were plainly tiny shells magically turned to stone. He kept one or two in his pockets and would rub them in an unconscious habit. ‘They can be using for smoothing leather,' he said. ‘I have seen it done.' But I think he kept them for their prettiness and the curiosity as to how they had been formed.

That first night out of the fort was a sweet one for our family. We were fresh from the rest, eager to exchange impressions of the past days and hopes for those to come. My mother had colour in her cheeks and a lightness that we seldom saw. Her clothes were clean and tidy, and she wore Indian moccasins which she said were a version of slipper, intended for the evening hours. Fanny also had a pair, but argued that they were made for walking, and used them all day long.

Our oxen had not been eager to resume their labours, which was part of the reason for the small distance covered that day. Without Reuben, it fell to me to take charge of them, which did not please me. They were a source of some worry to me, from that
time on. Up to the fort, they had not been shod, since the trail was mainly sandy and well trodden, and their feet were quite able to manage. But now they had metal shoes, for better grip and protection against the stonier ground. It had been a troublesome business, waiting for them to be shod by a blacksmith at the fort. We all lined up and watched as the carefully-shaped metal plates were nailed into place. It was a trickier job than shoeing a horse, with the cloven hooves more sensitive and with a narrower hard area to work on. If a nail went into the wrong part, the animal would become useless to us and our plans would collapse. It was also deeply unpleasant for the beasts, who had to be thrown onto their sides and their feet roped to keep them still. The smith's assistant spent all day sitting on the necks of scores of oxen, one after another, to prevent them from rising or thrashing about until finished. The oxen then had two days to accustom themselves to the strange heaviness and it was both comical and painful to watch them learning to adjust, with the exaggerated steps they took, lifting their feet high in puzzlement.

We all had an inevitable affection for the beasts, who we had between us named Cloud and Thunder, Dot and Seamus (named after Grandma's famous leprechaun). We were acutely conscious of how much we relied on them and the very first priority every evening was to find them water and pasture, lifting off the heavy yoke that formed callouses on their necks. They were entirely tame, following where we led them without question. Any hint of lameness or sickness was treated with prompt concern, but up to that point they had all maintained good health. They were slightly leaner after the months of exertion, and well muscled. They had wide horns, which they might toss at any moment, quite careless of whose eye they might catch as they did so. They were like two pairs of twins in size and colour, and remained close together even when turned loose.

When we forded rivers, after that alarming first experience, the oxen showed no hesitation before stepping into the water and dragging the wagon after them. The steadiness with which they pulled was a remarkable thing, as if they never doubted their strength would conquer any impediment. Back in Westport there had been plenty of talk about how horses were of little use on the kind of expedition we planned, and mules were prone to sickness and disobedience and were more demanding in what they ate. An ox would eat anything, we were assured, and never fell ill. Their advocates readily persuaded thousands of migrants, year after year, that the Oregon trail would tolerate no other draught animal.

Abel Tennant had no fewer than twelve oxen under his care, since the family continued with both their wagons, each with three yokes. There were fresh supplies of food filling almost every inch of space inside the vehicles, for all of us, leaving nowhere for anybody to sit and ride. Indeed, all but the most weak or idle chose to walk in preference to riding, in any case. The wagons were painfully jolting and there was nowhere soft to settle inside. Furthermore, there was a silent criticism directed at anyone choosing to ride unless they were ill. So long as there were no blistered feet or injured knees, walking was no hardship. The rhythm was tranquil, the pauses at noon and sunset forming a pattern that we had grown well accustomed to. Our bodies fell into the routine without protest, and there was a sociability to it that we had all come to value.

Abel and I were thrown into each other's company, thanks to the oxen. We collected them from their pasturing in the morning, yoked them and then unyoked them again, every day. He was helped by his Uncle Barty, since he could not hope to manage two teams alone. I would compete with them, without letting them know I was doing so, losing myself in the work, and striving to present the finest and most biddable beasts. It was a point of honour with me not to apply to my father for assistance, especially as he had little affinity with cattle and would alarm them needlessly. My father had always favoured horses over other animals and quickly lost patience with the slow manners of our draught animals. I took great pleasure in smoothing the soft hide below their necks, down to the place between their forelegs. They would stretch their heads forward, extending the area to be stroked, and making a sound not unlike the purr of a cat. Unlike horses, there was no real need for grooming or currying, but every creature enjoys contact and this slow warm attention each evening was their reward for a day of hard labour. In the early days, when they still had their winter coats, I would brush them simply for the pleasure of it, while Reuben tended to the harness.