The Indifference of Tumbleweed (36 page)

‘Is it really only three or four days to the end?' I asked Mr Fields, that evening, thinking it would be a kindness to speak to him on his first day as a widower. He was sitting close to his wagon, smoking a pipe that smelled more like dried grass than tobacco. ‘I detect little sense amongst the people that the journey is almost done.'

He looked at me sideways, and I found myself doubting the wisdom of broaching a subject that bore no relation to his very recent loss. But then he nodded, as if in agreement with my choice of topic. ‘The scouts have gone ahead to check that the road can be traversed the entire way. You know, I presume, that for the past few hours we have been the first train to use this final stretch? Before now, the wagons had to be dragged through underbrush and over rocks, for these last miles.'

I had not realised. Since twenty or thirty wagons had gone before ours, there was little hint of newness to the surface of the road as we passed over it. ‘Could they not find a more level route?' I grumbled.

‘I guess not. They used ridges where they could, but a ridge does not go on for ever, but ends, more often than not, in a steep decline down to a lower plane. There were not many choices. And I can assure you that we have it far easier than those who were forced to use the Columbia, before this year. I can scarcely imagine the labour and danger involved.' He met my eyes and I understood that our words were of much less importance than the fact that I was offering him my company, and that he was thankful for it. His wife's dead body lay a few feet away, her children rolled in thick blankets and tucked into a small tent behind the wagon. All three were safe, giving no trouble, and needing no attention. And so we were free to exchange facts of immediate relevance to us. It was like the hour before dawn; the hour when wild
animals go hunting and death's cold breath is at its most close. We were alive and looking to the immediate future, when a new day would bring new experience, which the cold stiff Jane Fields would never know. Already the world was moving on without her, and there was no help for it.

I made no attempt to construct a detailed picture of the coming miles, content that we were very fortunate compared to those earlier migrants. Their wagons had been dismantled, and oxen led around sheer rock faces and forced repeatedly to cross the river in deep icy water.

‘It is a wilderness indeed,' I said, hearing the inadequacy of my own words. ‘But already humankind is conquering it.'

Mr Fields made no reply, but I found he was watching me with a faint smile that contained no mockery or impatience. As before, it was as if we were real friends, equals in everything. I looked at the other people – the Tennants clustered together, the Franklins arguing over something, Henry Bricewood examining the foot of one of the beasts – and had a strange sensation of alienation from them all, with only Mr Fields on the same side as myself. With Henry I was always fearing to seem foolish; with Abel I was acutely aware of uncontrolled bodily responses. With my own sisters I was too old, too different, to feel a genuine intimacy. Then I looked back at Moses Fields, and returned his smile.

It was dark and our evening meal had been consumed an hour since. It was not an auspicious time for illicit intimacy. ‘I must go,' I said. ‘Will you be all right?'

‘I have been alone for some weeks already,' he said, with a shift of his shoulders. ‘The sorrow is that poor Jane never saw Oregon City, after coming so far. I shall lie here, brooding on that, perhaps. But I am well, and thankful for the few mewrcies remaining to me.'

I left him then, my heart sore and thick inside me. That night I lay awake, listening to wild outdoor sounds and wondering what it really meant to be human. Night thoughts often seemed so wise at the time, only to dissolve into nonsense with the morning light.

As we all set to the everlasting harnessing and packing, Mr Fields appeared in our midst, carrying a small red box. He proffered it to me shyly, saying, ‘By rights this should go to Ellie, but she tells me she wants you to have it. It is a belated gift for your birthday.'

I opened it to discover a gold filigree choker, set with small diamonds that caught the dying firelight and sparkled like magic.

‘Oh, no!' I protested. ‘Why would you give me such a thing? It is too much.' Which was true. I was amazed that his wife had possessed an object of such value. For him to give it to me, for no better reason than a birthday, seemed almost violent.

‘Not me, but Ellie,' he corrected. ‘She tells me that you and she are friends.' He looked at me quickly, then down at the ground. I held the flashing jewels aloft. ‘And I would be glad if that were so,' he added, almost in a whisper.

‘Ellie has become fond of you,' he said, with a little duck of gratitude.

‘And I of her.'

‘I believe you have done her a great kindness, at the moment of greatest need.'

It was rare, if not unique, for me to hear my behaviour so described. I recalled Hope Gordon's remark as to how difficult it must be to live up to my name, and Fanny's accusation that I fell very far short of doing so. ‘Have I been charitable?' I asked, with a sideways grin. ‘As my name might demand?'

‘Better than charitable,' he said softly. ‘I have always believed that charity lacks feeling. There is a prickly sense of duty to it, which I find uncomfortable.'

The solace I experienced was out of all proportion to his words. I realised I had been harbouring resentment and a degree of self-loathing ever since Fanny's comments, and these feelings were finally loosening their hold. Somewhere there were warmer words hovering between us, which I hoped – even expected - to hear one day. Except, I remembered, we were shortly to reach Oregon City, where we would go our separate ways, and perhaps never meet again. ‘What will you do?' I blurted. ‘When we arrive?'

‘Arrive?' he repeated, still smiling. ‘Like a train pulling into its station.'

‘You have travelled by train?' I was surprised.

‘In Quebec,' he nodded. ‘Five years since. I lived there a twelvemonth.'

His life story was still a tale full of holes and apparent contradictions, but I had a suspicion that his experience of the world was vaster than I could grasp. I had seen trains on occasion, but never travelled on one. ‘Your plans?' I prompted him, still holding onto the main question.

‘Ah yes – when we
arrive.
Somehow, I fancy it will not feel quite like an arrival. It will be a great bustling dispersal of goods and beasts, with agents attempting to sell stock and seed corn, Indians offering their services and government officers hoping to
maintain order. With every wagon train, the population of the city increases prodigiously, and space must be found for all the newcomers. Chaos is inevitable.'

Again, I abandoned any attempt at imagining the scene, although his vivid words did leave a picture in my mind. ‘Much the same as Westport, then,' I summarised.

‘In reverse. Unloading instead of loading, and taking leave rather than meeting. Makes a tidy conclusion to the year, of course.'

‘You sound like Mr Tennant,' I told him. ‘I can almost see you on his thronelike chair and bidding everyone farewell.'

‘I shall not be sorry to bid that particular gentleman farewell,' he said with a sniff. ‘My tongue has been bitten too many times for comfort, when in his presence.'

A glance at his face confirmed his good humour. Regardless of the death of his wife, his poverty and inferior status, he was plainly anticipating the end of our trek with some pleasure. His pockmarks seemed to have faded and his hair was a healthy glossy black. Lean certainly, but he was well muscled from the months of hard work. He was a fine example to the two little children he had inherited.

In our tent that night, speaking in the low breathy whispers we had adopted to avoid being overheard by the people lying so close by, Fanny said, ‘I shouldn't wonder if Mr Fields proposes to Mrs Gordon in the next few days. It would be an excellent match for him, and not too bad for her. She needs a husband.'

The suggestion came as yet another shock inflicted on me by my sister. Would I never acquire the worldly wisdom she seemed to have been born with? I had never once seen Mr Fields and Hope Gordon together, never connected them in my mind for a second. I made no reply, speechless with surprise. His wife had not been dead two days and this girl was rematching him.

Fanny giggled. ‘I jest, Charity, waiting for you to cry “No! He's mine!” as you did once before. I see you in such earnest discussion with the man, almost every day. What in the world do you find to speak of with him?'

I hissed a wordless fury at her. ‘You vixen!' I managed. ‘You have no respect for a single soul, have you?'

‘Respect,' she jeered. ‘What good will that do me? How fiercely the women in this caravan have guarded their respectability, when no-one cared a plum for it. Who was there to notice, but other women of the same kind?'

‘We will not be in a caravan for ever. In three days' time we shall be settling again, carving a place in the new society.'

‘A little longer than that, I fancy,' she argued. ‘And my place in society is already planned. I choose to forfeit
respect
for something rather warmer.'

‘Be quiet,' I told her. ‘Let me sleep.'

The scouts returned next day to assure us that the road led directly to a large open valley where we might assemble ourselves into systematic groups, to be met and interviewed by government officials, allotted our acres and advised as to how best to proceed. The mood changed instantly to one of bustling anticipation. Clothes were brushed, but not washed, since we were a mile or so from a river at that point. The contents of the wagons were tidied and checked, with considerable comment on how little of the basic provisions remained. Mr Tennant enthroned himself in his chair and summoned everyone to a meeting.

‘Friends,' he began with an expansive smile. ‘You have all become my very dear friends since that day in May when we embarked on our travels. Now our journeying is almost done, and we can most heartily congratulate ourselves on the achievement. This whole train has been greatly blessed, from the very start. Yes, we have had our injuries, and the loss of poor Mrs Fields, so close to the end of our travels, was a cruel blow. However, I think we might justifiably compare ourselves to the great Lewis and Clark, who survived an even more gruelling adventure with very little mishap. It is tempting to assume that the idea of a manifest destiny is based on the most real and powerful truth.'

Sitting opposite me was Mr Fields, who repeatedly caught my eye, rolling his own skywards in a kind of satire. Only when our leader referred to Mrs Fields did my friend acknowledge his words directly, with a rueful grimace of pain.

‘And now our real adventure begins,' Mr Tennant continued. ‘We shall all disperse across this fertile region, taking up lives as settlers, opening businesses of every kind, setting down roots and increasing our families. We have a duty to establish civilisation and democracy out here on the western edge of this great land. We bring Christianity, too. We represent what is best in the American character; we, ladies and gentlemen, are the salt of the earth in the richest possible sense.'

It was a stirring speech, having the effect of puffing out several male chests and bringing smiles to many faces. The children were wide-eyed with a sense of importance. All along the train there were similar scenes, designed to gather everyone together in a final celebration of what we had accomplished. Once on the outskirts of Oregon City there would be no time for any such formalities. It would be impossible
to gather everyone together for a quiet address. Even I, with my limited imagination, could understand that.

Then Mr Tennant led us in a prayer, in which he repeated much of what he had said already, in the form of a thankful oration addressed to God. We sang ‘Joy to the World' and ‘God Bless our Native Land' which many of us did not know, but which we quickly learned. It had an obvious fittingness.

Although impromptu, this last gathering acquired great significance, if only because it was the first time we had all sung a hymn together in such a way. Individual families held Bible readings on the Sabbath, with prayers, but seldom adding any music. The only musical instrument I knew of in our party was a fiddle that had belonged to my grandfather, and had been brought with us by my sentimental grandmother. My father did not know how to play it, somewhat to his shame, I think.

The evenings were growing noticeably shorter, and it was turning dark by the time the assembly had finished. We ate quickly, using the last of such items as flour and rice, eager to shake out the empty sacks and looking forward to some more varied fare in the days to come. I was starting to gather myself for bed when Henry Bricewood approached me, suddenly looming through the shadows thrown by the flickering camp fires.

‘A word, Miss Charity?' he said, oddly formal.

I paused, thinking how easy it would be for a number of people to overhear us. The land was rocky with scrubby trees and bushes on all sides. The wagons were strung out for a good distance, ahead and behind. ‘We might walk down there,' I suggested, indicating a steep slope leading down to a valley floor strewn with great black boulders.

He frowned as if confused. ‘You would walk there after dark? Have you no fear of nocturnal creatures that could bite or sting you?'

‘What creatures? Snakes do perhaps come out at night, and I will risk any fearsome spiders. I see little reason to fear them if we tread sensibly.'

He shook his head and I sensed we had begun in a different place from his intention. I left him to speak his mind, as best he could.

‘We need take no special measures to evade detection, surely? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?'

‘For the Lord's sake, Henry. We have spoken together a score of times with no hint of censure from anyone. Surely tonight is no different. Whyever should I feel
ashamed? I merely thought you might welcome a chance for a little privacy, as we make our final adieux.'