The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (16 page)

“No, Jamie. At least not all the Mormons. They’re just people trying to worship God the way they see fit. If they’re a little different from the rest of us, well, that’s what America and the new territories are supposed to be about. Giving people a little room to think as they wish.’’

“Oh.’’ Jamie digested the words and moved on to more critical concerns for a seven-year-old. “Well, then, may I go out now, please?’’

“It’s mighty wet out, son, and likely to get wetter as the logs take on water.’’

Nonplussed, Jamie bent over and pulled off his treasured moccasins, throwing them up on his bunk. Johnny’s hand still held him back.

“I know you’re tethered in, but that still won’t keep you from getting a very cold bath if you fall off the edge. It might take some doing to haul you back in if that happens. You be careful now, understand?’’

Jamie nodded, and was finally allowed out. Maggie strapped Charlotte into her hammock and followed. As she stepped down onto the rough deck, she gasped. Johnny hadn’t been joking. The water was already ankle deep over most of the deck. She hiked up her skirts and turned to her husband.

“Will it hold? We won’t just continue to sink deeper into the river?’’

“Not to worry. These are thick logs, and they’ve an incredible buoyancy. It’s just going to be a damp trip.’’ He took her arm and carefully led her to the front of the raft.

“Max took the first shift steering, so we can enjoy for awhile. Here’s the bend now, where the Columbia turns from north and goes straight west to the Pacific. Isn’t it magnificent? Look how dry the hills are around us. Not a speck of moisture, and here we are~’’

“As moist as you could please,’’ finished Maggie. She was trying very hard to keep thoughts of Jack Gentry from her mind, to concentrate on the raft. There was no way Gentry could catch up with them before Fort Vancouver. None. She kept repeating that thought to herself, like a litany. She bent to wring out her wet skirts, finally turning to her husband, under control once more.

“I do believe you planned this all strictly for the scenery. Try to tell me that isn’t so, Johnny Stuart!’’

He grinned, the heavy wind from the river sending his curls streaming out behind him. “What if I did? A journey such as ours should have a suitable ending. Suitably majestic.’’

Maggie smiled. “It is majestic. Pray God it remains only that.’’

Gentry was back at Fort Walla Walla, arguing with the Factor over the price of his transport.

“Sir, if you don’t care for our price, you may take your horses over the mountains and negotiate with McLoughlin’s people at Fort Vancouver.’’

“I won’t need a boat at Fort Vancouver!’’

“There you have it.’’ The Factor gave a tight-lipped smile. He didn’t care much for these hot-blooded men who had just swept down upon his domain, acting as though they owned the world. They would just have to learn about the facts of life in the Territory the hard way.

“It’s all supply and demand, Mr. Gentry. I have the bateaux. If you choose to purchase one you’ll have to accept my price. I have a board of directors to report to in London each year.’’

Gentry had met others like this Factor in England. Uptight, unmoving sons-of-bitches, all of them. No wonder they’d lost the colonies. In the New World one had to adapt. He’d probably remain at this god-forsaken outpost of sand for the rest of his career.

“We’ll meet your price. Which one may we have?’’

The Factor pointed unerringly to a dilapidated hunk of wood sitting in solitude near the river.

“Sir, you test my patience!’’ roared Gentry.

“It is quite river worthy, I assure you. It needs but a bit of caulking.’’

“What about those others?’’ Gentry pointed to several boats that were obviously better maintained.

“They are the personal property of the Hudson Bay Company. For our own necessary transport.’’ He was smiling superiorly now.

Gentry gave in. There wasn’t much choice in the matter. “All right. How do we caulk a boat?’’

“I’ll be happy to sell you the tar and wadding for an extra fee.’’

Gentry grudgingly counted over the money he’d won at Fort Bridger. He’d get this Factor on his return. See if he didn’t. He’d get a full return on his investment, and then some. He’d teach the Hudson Bay Company to deal more generously with Brigham Young’s Danites in the future. Gentry turned to his brothers.

“We’ve lost enough time. Haul out the tar and let’s get to work!’’

By the next morning Maggie had found her sea legs, but the little Franklin stove in the book wagon had not. It sputtered and fumed as she tried to stoke it up. She’d spent a restless night, unused to actually covering miles while doing nothing. She’d tossed and turned with thoughts of being added to Gentry’s harem. That’s what his `collection of precious things’ must be, after all. The man must be worse than a slaveholder to consider his wives as mere
things
.

Maggie gave her stove a futile shake. Adding to the claustrophobic feeling of the wagon was Jamie, already beginning to tire of the constrictions of the raft. Charlotte, understanding none of it, just wanted out. And then the rains had come. It had not rained for so long that at first the sounds on the roof had been a welcome novelty. But now it was coming down hard, at an angle. Water was entering the little stovepipe atop their wagon, keeping the fire from catching. Her family needed something warm~at least some coffee~to keep the suddenly wintry, damp chills away. How quickly one could forget the excruciating heat of the past few months.

Maggie glanced out the tiny window by the stove. Jamie was monopolizing the other one. The blues and browns of yesterday were gone. The river was a vast, gray mass of sullen fury. The hills that closed in around them had grown larger, almost magically, overnight. They were cliffs now, with a scattering of spruce trees upon their ridges. The greens blended into the gray of the hills, the gray of the sky, the gray of the water.

The wagon shifted and creaked in its unaccustomed mooring, making Maggie grasp at anything to keep her footing. The dampness came at them from everywhere. From the floor, from the walls, spluttering out of her stove. Maggie was frightened. They’d come too far to succumb to a watery death. Yet she was not allowed to show her fright. The children would know instantly, and then they would become frightened.

The only sensible member of the family was Bacon. He hadn’t taken to this wet world, either. From the moment the raft had hit the river he’d climbed into the nearest bunk and refused to be cajoled out of it. He just lay there, his head half hidden under a blanket, letting out occasional piteous howls. There was a sensible animal. He knew he’d been born to the land, and he wasn’t about to be talked into liking the water. Maggie wished she could join him under the blanket.

Johnny took to the new adventure like a buccaneer. Maybe Maggie had been wrong about her assessment of her husband and the sea. Perhaps if the lands stopped he’d take on the oceans. It was another frightening thought, and chilled Maggie more than the weather. Pray God there would be enough to keep Johnny busy on dry land at the end of this journey.

As if privy to her very thoughts, Johnny stormed into the cabin, wet and alive.

“What? No coffee yet?’’ But he was smiling.

“You try fighting the stove in this weather, Johnny Stuart. I’d rather take on the rudder. Maybe even the Danites!’’

He brushed her lips with his sparkling wet ones. “No matter. We’d just have to put it out again. We’ve come to our first portage!’’

Maggie rushed back to the window to peer out. The water ahead was even choppier, and the rafts before them were all being directed to the south bank of the river.

“Is it the Chutes?’’

“Yes! And a glorious sight it will be. A pity the weather isn’t a bit more felicitous, though. We’ll have to unload everything, remember, and carry it all for half a mile to the calmer water beyond.’’

Maggie squared her shoulders. What must be must be. At least they’d be getting sopping wet on land. And if they did it quickly, that would be one more natural defense between themselves and Gentry.

Soon they were heading for the banks themselves, their ropes being caught by the hands of many Indian helpers. On land again Maggie and the children were shooed aside as the wagons were unstrapped and wheels set back in place. The Indians had a few horses with them, but it only dawned slowly on Maggie that they meant to haul the wagons with their own brute strength.

The portage took most of the day. The gray skies were growing even dimmer when each raft had been reloaded once more. Johnny oversaw the payment of their Indian assistants~the negotiated twist of tobacco for each man, and a few beads and trinkets~then looked at the skies and decided to camp on the shore till morning. His decision was accepted with great relief by all save his wife. Johnny gave her a shrug of understanding from across the camp, as if saying he’d rather not, but there was really no other choice. Fires were begun in the misty air.

Gentry and his men got their bateau into the water that same miserable morning. They’d worked half the night finishing repairs on the long, narrow craft by campfire light. The Factor had suggested they take an Indian guide with them to help negotiate various falls. Gentry had sneered. He was not about to fork over more of his dwindling supply of cash so that Mr. Bloody Superior Factor Samuel Saltworth could receive his cut. They’d manage just fine on their own.

Gentry took the forward position in the prow. He watched as the others maneuvered the craft into the river and jumped after it. They were on their way at last. With their extra speed they should make short work of catching their prey.

The Stuart Party came to their second portage at the Dalles midmorning the following day. Here their passage through the river was stopped by several immense boulders which channeled the river between it with great fury. The detour was to be almost three miles. The weather had improved, and Maggie and the other women found themselves with a holiday. They must only look after their children and walk the distance to where the rafts would be lowered by ropes over the falls to be once more reloaded.

The blessed sun was on her face once more and Maggie examined with interest the occasional green of spruce about them, and the situation of the small missionary and Indian village on the cliffs above the Columbia. She began to see again, and the children helped.

“Ma! Look!’’

“What is it, Jamie?’’

“Over by those Indian shacks.’’

“The Whitmans said there would be any number of Indians here, Jamie. It’s some sort of rendezvous point for them. For the fishing. There’s supposed to be a small Methodist mission, too. Perhaps those buildings off towards the hills?’’

“Never mind that, Ma,’’ said Jamie impatiently. “There’s something strange about these Indians. Look at their heads!’’

Maggie looked. She felt almost impolite staring over the distance.

“Good gracious! They’ve been
flattened
!’’ These must be more of the Flatheads that they’d seen only from a distance at Fort Hall.

“Were they born that way, Ma?’’

“I hardly think so!’’

“Could we walk over, please, to see?’’

“How would you like people staring at your head?’’

“Maybe if we took them a present? We’ve still got lots of beads left.’’

Maggie was as intrigued as her son. And she knew she’d need a diversion to keep herself from rushing to the edge of the cliffs bordering the Columbia and peering upstream like an idiot for signs of Gentry. He must be well on his way in pursuit of them. Nothing could shake that certainty from her mind. He wouldn’t have stopped to build a raft, though. He would have squandered Mormon funds on one of those expensive bateaux from the fort.

“All right. Just one handful, though. There’s no telling what they’ll be good for in the Willamette Valley.’’

Jamie raced off to their wagons. He returned in short order with a bulging pocket and a broad smile.

“I told Pa what we were up to. He says to tell you to keep Charley away from
flattening boards
. What did he mean?’’

“I think we’re about to find out.’’

Taking a child firmly in each hand, Maggie set off for the grouping of hovels nearby. From all appearances these Flatheads were even poorer than the Pawnee. But there ought to be plenty of fish to keep them healthy. Maybe they were camping for the fish, and had sturdier dwellings elsewhere. She hoped so. Her pace slackened as she drew nearer.

Off behind the closest shack an Indian woman sat smoking fish over a fire. Her head had been flattened back to a point, leaving her with a long, sloping forehead liberally incised with symbolic tattoos. Beside her lay her papoose~arms, legs and feet tightly strapped into a device that would have looked dangerous during the Inquisition.

Maggie groaned with pity. She suddenly realized what a flattening board was. Making an effort, Maggie smiled tremulously at the woman. The woman smiled back out of eyes heavy and dull. Maggie pointed at the baby. Charlotte began to whimper. Jamie dug into his pocket and presented his trove of beads, his own eyes wide.

The woman accepted their offering graciously. As if accustomed to the curiosity of white travellers, she began to show off her baby within its apparatus. She picked up the pressing board and slowly eased the tension, freeing the child from the upper and lower boards that were clamped at a tight angle over its head. She pointed out the soft squirrel skin tacked onto the board above the head position, as if that made everything all right. Next she removed her baby and pointed to its forming point with pride. The back of the head was purple and bruised from the unnatural strain. The baby let out a yelp of relief with the constraints removed, but seemed unsure how to move its limbs. They had been strapped down for too long.

Maggie blanched. She managed a quick `Thank you’ and tore her children away from the show. Jamie hung back, still fascinated.

“Can’t we watch her put the baby back in, Ma?’’

“No!’’ Maggie hauled him along, almost running, till they had removed themselves from the Indians and their own people, too.

She finally collapsed upon a great black boulder near to the cliff’s edge. Her breath came in heaves. Her stomach seemed ready to dispose of breakfast. Below them were the rocks of the Columbia. Indian men scampering over them, unafraid, beginning to ease the first of the rafts down the terrifying incline.

It would have been a fascinating show if Maggie hadn’t had flattening boards behind her, and Gentry problems ahead. She assayed a quick glance upstream. Nothing yet.

The Flathead baby returned to haunt her. Would she ever understand the thinking of an Indian? She had learned from Flower Blossom~even from Red Eagle and his people~that Indians could love and see beauty in the world just as a white man could. It was just that an Indian’s concept of beauty was often so
alien
to her own way of thinking.

Each tribe they’d encountered had interpreted the beautiful differently. Would it be the same with the ocean tribes they were sure to meet at the end of their journey? How would those tribes accept the new people coming,
her
people? Maggie’s people were not just passing through, either. They meant to stay. They meant to use the same lands, the same resources as the native Indians themselves.

Would there truly be enough lands for all, or would she and Johnny and the others in their train be stealing from the red man, the same as earlier tribes encountered had tried to steal horses, even herself, from the emigrant’s train? The thought was fresh. It was sobering. Where did morality begin and end? Where did one person’s freedom begin and another’s end?

Maggie pulled herself out of her reverie long enough to notice Charlotte tottering dangerously close to the precipice before them. Jamie was on his hands and knees nearby, absorbed in a carved fishing lure he’d found. Maggie jumped up.

“Charlotte!’’ She caught the child by one arm, and dragged her from the edge of the abyss, her heart in her mouth. She plunked her daughter down beside herself on the same boulder, out of harm’s way.

“Jamie! Can’t you keep an eye out for your sister for one moment?’’

The boy sat back on his haunches to study his mother.

“You were right there, Ma. I didn’t know you were still upset about those Flatheads. What was so awful about them, anyway? Pa said as how we all have different customs.’’