The Indifference of Tumbleweed (32 page)

I had difficulty in selecting suitable details to record from that day. The road was at first a triumph, but after a few miles it became narrow, steep and twisting. It went around large obstacles, and was crudely laid without any digging. A constant refrain developed, to the effect that it had to be better than using the river would have been, especially as there remained a stretch of wild country somehow to be crossed between the river and Oregon City. I learned that the great mountain ahead was Mount Hood, and the road was officially entitled the Mount Hood Toll Road, although nobody used that name for it.

From The Dalles to the end of the new road was a considerable distance o over one hundred miles - which we would traverse before payment of the toll. Plainly, there could be no turning back at any point, which justified placing the toll gate so far along the road. The weather remained benign and we saw numerous snakes and lizards, still unused to the presence of humankind, lazing in the sunshine on the warm black rocks. There was scant grazing for the stock, a factor that Mr Sam Barlow appeared to have overlooked in his road construction. On either side of us was dense forest, and the beasts were forced to adopt a diet comprising more leaves and creepers than grass.

We crossed five small rivers in those final days of September and into October. The way ran alongside them as far as possible, just as it had done for the great bulk of our trek, but there was no avoiding the crossings, since our way ran southwards and the waterways rushed eastwards down the hillsides. ‘Why?' asked Lizzie. ‘When the ocean is to the west?' The answers were inconclusive and vague. The habits of rivers were mysterious at times. It was supposed that these small examples all joined the great Columbia or Snake and did eventually empty into the Pacific.

There was some forage growing at the waterside, which proved very welcome to the oxen, but more often it was rocky and inaccessible.

My birthday had been gratifying, on the whole. I was unsure as to whether it would be remembered at all. Lizzie had turned fourteen three weeks before and expressed herself cheated of the usual celebrations. My mother was not given to making a great fuss about such anniversaries, but my father enjoyed a party and insisted on a special meal and small gifts.

That day we walked beside the wagon just as always, all the usual chores performed and nobody else in the party interested in a birthday. In the afternoon we came to a steep decline, the roadway a close-packed surface of branches cut from the surrounding trees, which kept it dry and not too slippery. But it dived straight down, with no pauses for breath possible. We had learned from the start that the wagons could not handle tight bends. Nor could they be allowed to tilt sideways, because the way the weight was distributed made it all too easy to tip over. Thus we had to simply take the plunge, sometimes dragging a large tree trunk behind to slow us down. It was a most alarming procedure, and we had striven to avoid the necessity as far as possible. Each wagon had to go down unimpeded, those ahead moving well out of the way, and those behind hanging back to await their turn. It was harder and slower work than crossing a river.

‘We should have Reuben here,' wailed my mother, and everyone had to agree with her. Not just our wagon, but those of almost everyone, could have used the muscle power of our lost sons and brothers. We unharnessed the oxen and let them make their own way down the slope, while a group of people lowered the heavy wagon with ropes, a painful foot at a time. The danger was manifest, both to the goods and their owners. Henry's paean to cooperation was vindicated magnificently when men from other families pitched in and hung their weight on the rope, like a village tug o' war team. Once the wagon had reached the bottom, men would walk back up to another vehicle and perform the whole exercise again.

My mother fretted gently about her possessions inside the wagon, but nowhere near as much as Mrs Gordon or Mrs Bricewood did. ‘To come so far without discarding anything, only to see it all smashed now!' wailed the latter. The few losses in the river crossings had been forgotten, or at least accepted. In general, there had been a remarkable retention of the most precious items.

‘Nonsense, woman,' chided Mrs Luke Tennant. ‘Nothing will be smashed. Whatever are you thinking?'

Their wagon went down immediately before ours, and my father hung on the rope, along with Henry, Abel, Mr Bricewood and Mr Fields. We women were given the dangerous task of holding the wagon upright, two or three of us to each side, as it slowly descended the hill. We leaned our shoulders to the wooden sides, effectively steering it at the same time. The younger girls were at the foot of the slope with the oxen, and children skittered up and down, in and out of the dense forest bordering the road, shouting and laughing as always.

It was accomplished eventually, and the oxen were reyoked, to draw the wagon a little way along the road, to make space for those coming behind. But we did not move forward until the whole caravan was at the bottom of the slope. I decided to walk back up a little way, and watch the progress at its most interesting point. I told myself I would offer my assistance to any family in difficulty.

Walking on the rough ground beside the road, I caught sight of Ellie Fields, standing on her own beneath a tall cottonwood tree. She was watching me so intently that I was startled. ‘Ellie!' I gasped. ‘What is it?'

She said nothing, shaking her head and withdrawing behind the tree. Ordinarily I would have left her, quickly forgetting the moment, but something in her look had snagged my curiosity. It was as if she had seen some invisible threat or glimpsed my future, as I half-believed that children might do now and then. I followed her, where she was waiting for me, crouching bonelessly on the dry ground.

‘Ellie? Are you all right?'

‘I want my mumma,' she said, in a flat tone. ‘She never speaks to us, but just sleeps all the time.'

I was disappointed. There was nothing I could do to solve that particular need, and the trouble had nothing to do with me. ‘You have managed well without her attentions. Can you not wait a while longer for her to get well again?'

She made a gesture that was almost insolent, as if I had uttered some foolishness not worth considering. ‘No place to lay my head,' she muttered. ‘In the night, when it's cold.'

‘But your father…Mr Fields. He is a warm man, is he not?'

Her little face met mine. ‘He is a man. A man is hard.' She sighed. ‘He has no warmth for me.'

My helplessness was a tangible sensation in my arms and legs. They seemed to flop uselessly, unable to supply anything that could help the child. Ellie was a little younger than my sister Nam, who seldom accepted the hugs that my father offered her. One by one, his daughters had drawn away from him, cautiously maintaining a distance from the big male body. Even the depraved Fanny never went too close. We would offer our cheeks for his goodnight kiss, and would chatter and laugh easily with him. But without ever voicing a hint of it, we knew we must avoid undue intimacy. In this, our mother cooperated fully. She would always be there, smiling faintly, willingly taking Nam onto her lap, brushing Lizzie's hair off her face, fastening hooks and tending to small injuries. She taught us by degrees that for any physical needs we must go to her, not Dadda. And Reuben, the boy, must do vice versa. It was a right and natural pattern, which gave rise to a gentle melancholy in my father, as he released us to our female maturity.

But for Ellie, this was bound to become more and more difficult. Who would wash her neck or ensure that her clothes fitted properly if, as expected, her mother never did recover? Mr Fields was not her natural father, which I understood was not a desirable situation. She had no sister, either. Almost, I invited her to come and join our family, before recalling myself to sense.

‘He is worn out from his labours,' she went on. ‘The oxen are so much work, and I must do all the food for us.' She looked at her hands, which were scratched and blotched. I leaned closer. There were dark red patches, mostly at the base of her thumbs. ‘Burns,' she said. ‘The pot is so heavy, and I drop hot gravy on myself.'

Here was something I could help with, I realised. ‘Ellie, you poor little thing. This is not right at all. I will come to your wagon and help you get the food ready.'

‘On your birthday?' she said, with a sceptical look worthy of a much older girl.

‘Well…perhaps I can persuade Fanny or Lizzie to come today. But after that, I shall do it. I promise you.'

It was not well said. My birthday ought not to have made a difference. I ought not to make promises of that sort without mentioning the matter to my parents – as well as to Mr Fields. He might feel it as a reproach.

‘Thank you,' said the child tonelessly.

‘You must come to me if you have trouble,' I persisted. ‘We shall be friends, you and I. In Oregon City, perhaps we shall be neighbours. We are so close to the end, and have so much to look forward to in our new lives.'

‘Oh yes.' She made no attempt to share my optimism, which should not have surprised me. The uncertainty over the future was just one more thing she could not hope to convey to anyone else. Mr Fields would have to find work for himself, even if he was the recipient of a parcel of land, as we all anticipated we would be. The rule as I understood it, however, was that a man must have a wife before he could claim the square mile that had been promised. If Jane Fields died, this might easily disqualify him – leaving him to fend for himself as a hired labourer, or else a salesman of some kind. But even if he did acquire land, without another pair of adult hands, it might prove beyond his capacity to make a living. Whilst a family as small as his might survive on whatever potatoes or apples or corn they could grow on a few rough acres (which he might manage to acquire), they were unlikely to produce enough surplus to raise money for clothes, sugar, furniture and all the things that made human life worth living. Hard cash would be needed for those items, and Moses Fields was already known to possess none of that commodity.

Down the hill, the line of wagons was growing, while those waiting to descend dwindled to a handful. ‘It is almost done,' I said. ‘Without mishap, thank God.'

‘It is a wild road,' said Ellie, with a spark of animation. ‘We are the first people to use it. What must the creatures in the forest think of us?'

‘I wonder that myself,' I admitted. ‘And what will they witness next?'

She frowned a silent question.

‘I mean – how many more wagons will pass this way? Will Oregon become as busy and crowded as Boston or New York, in the years ahead? Do you ever think of our place in history, Ellie?'

She exhaled, a breath of impatience, and shook her head.

‘You will, when you grow older,' I assured her. ‘You will grasp hold of your life and fashion it into something of significance.' I heard the voice of Henry Bricewood in my ear, speaking such pomposities, and laughed at myself. ‘Or so I should hope,' I finished.

‘You mean – like your sister Fanny? My father says she is a feckless girl, seizing life by the throat, and likely to be sorry for it very soon.'

The temptation to pursue this line was strong, but I resisted. The child was too young and too obviously quoting words she barely understood. ‘Fanny and I are very different,' was all I said.

‘Yes, but…' she blinked and seemed to go blank. ‘It is of no matter,' she tailed off.

‘My own mother died when I was very small,' I blurted, striving for a shared experience, finding a way to voice the expectation that Jane could not survive much longer.

‘And your father married again,' she nodded.

‘You knew?' I was painfully deflated by the realisation that this child was gaining in knowledge and wisdom with every passing hour.

‘It is the way of the world. Mr Tennant has a second wife, and perhaps Mr Franklin too?' She tilted her head questioningly.

‘I think not. But it is common, I agree.'

‘And husbands,' she said without any great show of interest. ‘As in my mother's case.'

‘Indeed. She was fortunate in her choice, I hope?'

‘Mr Fields is strong and sober,' agreed the little girl.

I thought of the pockmarks and uncertain temper and meagre finances and gave little for his chances of success in his new life if Jane did indeed expire. Unmarried women in the western fringes of the country had a wide choice of potential husbands, after all, so he would be left a single man in charge of two youngsters.

‘Our wagons are moving,' I said, squinting into the distance. ‘We must catch them up.'

The road was following a valley floor, having descended from the earlier ridge, which inconveniently brought us to a messy scattering of boulders and abrupt cliffs. Ahead, I supposed, the valley too would come to an end, and we would most likely be forced to make an arduous climb up again. The road was a restless creature, it seemed, never finding a settled level track to follow for more than a day or two at a time.

The evening of my birthday progressed pleasantly, with some delightful surprises. Mrs Luke Tennant joined us, with a large bouquet of wild flowers that she and her little girls had gathered for me. My grandmother had spun and knitted me a shawl, somehow without my noticing. Nam had fashioned a neat little woven basket from long slender twigs, and Lizzie offered me a choice of pup to keep as my very own dog.

27
^th
September

We progress slowly towards the point where we are to pay the toll for the road. The land is covered with virgin forest, with small trails used by trappers and Indians, impossible for wagons. Mr Barlow's road is rough for the oxen, and they find it slippery. Lizzie's pups are restless, and will soon be wanting to run free and getting into danger. Fanny and Abel have suffered a rift and no longer speak of an engagement.