Crow Mountain (4 page)

I
t had taken us another three days to do what did not seem like so very many miles. The staging posts had been tolerable, although I hadn't been able to manage much sleep and the arrangements often left a lot to be desired. Still, we were making progress. Mostly, the track that passed for a road was hard and reliable.

In Fort Shaw we slept in a military tent, but I had managed to find some new books and newspapers to pass the time, given to me by an Army captain's wife who had proved very kind and a welcome change from Miss Adams. There had also been a large family there, intending to settle in the area. Their clothing was plain but brightly coloured and the women wore pretty handkerchiefs on their hair, covered with dots. There were two girls around my age and I attempted to speak to
them; they would not talk to me, only turned away in silence without meeting my eyes. I learnt later that they were very religious and do not speak to people who are not like them.

As we set out from yet another staging post that morning, I opened my book, already vetted by my companion, and began to read. The day passed, sunny and fine. When I wasn't reading, I looked out of the window at the ever more dramatic scenery and attempted to draw in my sketchbook.

The air was thin and cool and I breathed in as much as I could. The ends of the steel stays of my long corsets, even though they were covered with padded material, were wearing red welts on my hip bones and the ribs of my back. I had worn, for most of my life, corsets stiffened with cane or whalebone, but Mama had taken a notion that a steel-strengthened corset was the way to proper posture. Underneath one shoulder blade, it had broken the skin. Miss Adams had applied a stinging salve to it the previous evening. I knew she could not fail to notice the other marks, but she said nothing and had laced me up just as tightly that morning. When I asked if I might travel in a looser, shorter set she refused. Apparently, Mama had told her that upon my arrival I should be straight into the smartest of San Franciscan society and I must not let myself down with a sloppy figure. Accustomed as I was to being constrained, the days had become very painful and more than once I had had to hide a tear whilst waiting to dress in the mornings, facing yet another day of imprisonment.

We met few people on the trail and the team had seen or
heard little regarding the whereabouts of the Indian tribes. Supposedly, it was common for bands of the young men, sometimes as few as two but other times as many as two dozen, to roam the country whilst the others stayed in one place. According to Mr Goldsmith, who had travelled this trail more than once, some of the local Indians were even farmers and did not use horses much, although others lived almost their entire lives on horseback.

The horseback tribes, Mr Goldsmith told me, were great hunters of the buffalo, of which we had seen so many on the plains on the way here. Thousands, in such multitudes it was hard to imagine before seeing them. I had smelt them from the train window. The bulls, as they were called, were gigantic, far more massive than even the largest of the London dray horses. Abundance seemed to be everywhere, here in America: once, the train had followed an astonishing migration of birds, pigeon Mr Goldsmith said, so many we were with them for hours and they darkened the sky above us.

And it was not only the animals that caught my attention: here and there, we had seen Indians, all on horseback, usually sitting stock-still and watching the train passing. Now we were heading through the country of the southern tribe whose name I could not spell towards the Blackfoot territory, before skirting the edge of the Flatheads' land. Part of me quaked in fear at the idea that we would encounter Indians, but now I know another part of me wanted an adventure before we reached San Francisco. I did not know at that moment, of course, what an adventure I would have.

My eyes stayed on the page but lost their focus as I thought about my new life. Before we had separated at Portsmouth, Mama had given Miss Adams a pamphlet that I was to read on the crossing, about wifely duties. I suspect she thought that, had I read it before leaving Portman Square, I may not have boarded that steamship.

It spoke only of duty and tolerance.
My
tolerance, that is. Tolerance towards what was expressed as my marital duties and my husband's natural physical needs. I had no knowledge of what form this ‘tolerance' was to take, or what ‘physical' part I might play in it. I regretted that Mama had not given me the pamphlet herself, so that I might have been able to ask her, but I also guessed that this was precisely what she had been trying to avoid. There were, I knew, issues of some delicacy surrounding private married life. I just wished I knew what they were. Mama and I had shared a bedroom all my life. Papa had suggested the year before that I might take one of the other six bedrooms, but Mama had refused, saying she required my company. He lived in a different wing of the house and the only ‘physical' thing I had ever seen my parents do together was walk into dinner, my mother's hand on my father's arm. Miss Adams proved herself, once again, no great help, by staunchly refusing to discuss the pamphlet's existence after handing it over to me.

The coach slowed. Mr Goldsmith leant down from his perch on the roof. ‘Bridge, ladies,' his disembodied voice said somewhere above the open window.

It was customary for the driver to halt the coach before a
bridge, whilst one of the team jumped down and inspected it for soundness. Then we would proceed, with some caution. Many of the bridges on this remote trail were over a decade old, and were wanting repair. I tried to see out of the window, but Miss Adams's look of reproach meant I sat back again in my seat and turned my eyes to my book. I listened though as the teamster returned and spoke to the driver in his American brogue.

‘Looks fine. Few planks out further along, but doesn't look like it'll cause any trouble. It's just a gulch. Run-off for the glacier.'

The man retook his position next to the driver and the coach lumbered forward. I studied my book. Despite my vague longing for adventure, the bridges often frightened me. Crossing them was perilous; most of them were only just wide enough for the coach and took all the skill of the driver to keep them on the rails. Fortunately, our team had come out of Chicago, and had over twenty years' experience – a Mr Pinkerton had recommended them to Papa personally.

My thoughts returned to you, and the long moment we had seen each other at the hotel. Your image remained fixed in my mind. The day had turned somewhat warm. I found my fan and opened it, directing cooler air on to my face as I read and drew, trying to ignore my aching hip bones and my sore back.

‘I do not know what you read that makes you so over-heated,' Miss Adams said sarcastically.

I looked at her, unable to keep the colour rising in my face. She knew well, after all, what I was reading. ‘It is some
poetry, of Mr Dryden's.'

‘Poetry is a waste of time, which no wife-to-be should meddle with.'

I thought about that, as the coach hauled itself on to the bridge and began the slow crawl forwards. ‘Mr Stanton has written to me particularly kindly regarding my own interests, which he is keen I should keep up,' I said at last.

Miss Adams raised an eyebrow. ‘You will learn, soon enough, Miss Forsythe, that what men say and what they intend, are two different things.'

‘What do you mean, please?' I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

Indiscretion, or passion, had clearly got the better of her: she was florid, her nose positively agitated. ‘Men are jades, Miss Forsythe. They will say and do anything to have their will satisfied. Liars and cheats all. You should no more expect to love than to hate your husband.'

‘Have you ever been married?' My voice was small, the fever in her voice was so hot.

‘No, and no more would I marry than I would fly to the moon,' she said, angry.

The coach came to a halt, and the silence hung heavily between us. The men were having a discussion.

‘Why not?' I asked at last.

‘Because I see no reason to put myself in harm's way more than absolutely necessary. And I prefer to get my own bread, than to put myself under a man's control. With their disgusting lechery and filthy habits.'

Papa was not a man of filthy habits. He was always immaculately dressed with a boiled and starched collar; a man came to shave him and make his hands elegant each weekday. And I wasn't sure what ‘lechery' meant – I had a dictionary, but Mama had inked out many words.

There was a huge bang. The coach lurched to one side, throwing us across the interior. The horses began to scream. I struggled into a sitting position on what had been the left-hand wall of the coach. Out of the window, I saw, far below us, the dry river bed. I could see the dusty boulders and stones there, in perfect detail. I could also see both teamsters lying broken amongst the rubble. From one of their heads, that of the younger one, spread a darkening pool.