The Indifference of Tumbleweed (24 page)

Not cholera, then. Nobody was ever in doubt as to that diagnosis, and the smell alone would have identified it to me. This was a nameless sickness, the like of which generally passed with the right assistance. Warm drinks, thick blankets and an unshakeable faith in leeches would generally restore an adult person in previously fair condition to normality within a week or so. ‘I should fetch my grandmother,' I said. ‘Although I fear we have no leeches in our possession.'

She shivered. ‘I believe I need all my blood,' she whispered. ‘I feel deplete, as it is. I have had awful thick courses since the baby came away.'

‘I will get her now,' I said, and was gone before the woman could reply.

My grandmother listened impatiently to my report, gathered a half-loaf of bread and a cup of pork fat and followed me to the other wagon. ‘She should've called for me afore this,' she complained. ‘She said naught when I visited the child this day past.'

She climbed athletically up into the wagon and crouched beside the suffering woman. She questioned her about her bowels and stomach and nodded with the same instinctive relief that I had felt, on hearing there was nothing noteworthy in either department. ‘A simple fever, then. A grippe, in all likelihood. Severe, but we should have you back to health in a few days.'

Mrs Fields coughed and tried to smile. ‘No bleeding, then?'

‘No bleeding,' Grandma confirmed. ‘Good rich food and a quantity of water. Ale would be no bad thing. Keep well wrapped, and let the fever run its course. Where is your man?'

It was a question intended to convey a suggestion that Mr Fields would be the person to nurse her. ‘He is preparing the meal,' was the reply. ‘He has done everything possible for me. And the little Collins girl is playing with Jimmy and Ellie.'

‘Not so much Jimmy,' I muttered.

‘He ought to be helping his father, in any case,' said Grandma. ‘Great strapping lad like him.' Jimmy, at nine, was far from
strapping
. But she meant it kindly, and there were certainly tasks he would be equal to.

I jumped down from my perch on the towing bar and went to revisit the children. ‘Their mother is sick,' I told Nam. ‘She is grateful to you for distracting them.'

My sister sighed with undue drama. ‘I am sick, too,' she claimed. ‘Sick of this game and these two. Jimmy is a pest and Ellie is a fool.'

I had already been aware of the truth of these criticisms – the whole party had dismissed the Fields offspring as very unrewarding. Ellie was less obnoxious than her brother, but also less interested in society. She flitted between the wagons, now and then petting one of the dogs, or humming to herself, but scarcely ever speaking to anybody.

‘Mr Fields will have their meal ready soon,' I said, optimistically. ‘I should maybe go and help him.'

I went without saying more, aware that my initial reason for approaching their wagon had been a vague desire to speak with him. I had observed over the months of our journey that any such urge to seek out a particular person took root slowly and was even more slow in achieving. Knowing that there was so much time available to us had a strange unhurried effect, so that we were lazy in pursuing any plan or idea. My father might say, ‘It would be sensible to discuss this matter with Mr Tennant and elicit his opinion,' and a week later still have failed to propel himself the few yards required to effect the discussion. Thus it had been with me – not only in my wish to speak with Mr Fields, but also with Fanny and Abel, who I felt were subtly waiting for my next response to what had gone between us. A whole day might easily pass with a few brief sentences exchanged with three or four other party members at most. We had very few questions to ask each other; very few original comments to pass. We simply walked, and gave voice to sore feet or scratched arms or muddy hems.

But now was my chance, and I took it. ‘Can I assist you?' I asked the half-breed, who was dropping small dumplings into the oven, and stirring it much too rapidly. ‘It is a strange time for a hot meal.'

He groaned softly. ‘There was nothing last evening, and merely a bite of bread this morning. We are all in need of nourishment now.'

I nodded. ‘Stir it more slowly,' I told him.

‘Oh!' He dropped the wooden stick and stood back. ‘I think it could be ready now.'

I took the stick and dipped it into the stew. The meat was in large chunks, with roughly-chopped potatoes and onions with it, in a watery gravy. There was no sign that it had come close to boiling point since it had been set on the fire – which itself was unimpressive, giving off little heat. I withdrew the stick and tasted it carefully.

‘Not ready,' I judged. ‘And the meat smells rather bad. How long have you had it?'

He spread his hands to display his ignorance. I was surprised that someone of Indian origins could be so poor at preparing food. Somehow I had thought that the men in the
tribes not only hunted for meat, but also took a large part in its preparation. Why I should think this was obscure to me, on reflection.

‘It will poison you all,' I warned. ‘In such heat, you cannot keep food for long. Meat will go rotten in three days if unsalted. What else do you have?'

‘Flour.' He indicated his hands, still white from making the dumplings. ‘Potatoes. A little salt bacon. Hardtack. Still two big sacks of hardtack.' He sighed.

‘Why so much?'

‘We none of us likes it,' he admitted. ‘It is food fit only for the starving. We have not yet reached that sorry state.'

‘You brought it from Westport?'

He nodded ruefully, and I laughed.

‘I admit it was at my own insistence. Jane did say it would be left uneaten, so long as we could find fresh meat regularly.'

‘And you are skilled with the bow,' I said. ‘This meat is from the buck you shot, I suppose?'

‘Four weeks since,' he admitted. ‘It has served us well. Perhaps Mr Bricewood's dog would finish it for us.'

‘I think he might. He never refuses a contribution.' Melchior had grown stiff from his wounded shoulder, but received very little extra sustenance from his master. The whole party gave him secret meals which kept him in fair condition. He had finally endeared himself to Lizzie's Bathsheba and they would lope along side-by-side, her head barely level with his shoulder.

‘Salt bacon would serve your family better,' I suggested. ‘If it yields a good quantity of fat, you might try dipping the hardtack into it, to soften it a little.'

He rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing will do that. Our teeth are less hard than that stuff.'

He made no move to fetch the bacon, and I was hesitant to enter the wagon and start a search amongst their goods. Every family's wagon was their private sanctuary, where nobody would go without express invitation. ‘So…' I urged. ‘Perhaps you could find some?'

His head drooped wearily and I wondered whether he had the same grippe as his wife. ‘Are you also sick?' I asked.

‘A little,' he confessed. ‘My head pains me and I find movement disagreeable.'

His pockmarked face was a much better colour than his wife's, but his demeanour was not suggestive of healthy good cheer. His head hung heavy on his sinewy neck,
and his shoulders slumped. Sickness was a great inconvenience, and for the only two adults in a party to be afflicted at the same time was a disaster, greatly worsened by the needs of their injured little daughter. ‘Were you proposing to ask us for help?' I wondered. ‘I have only learned of your new trouble by happenstance. What were you thinking?'

‘That the oxen knew what was required of them by this time, and that we might well have to break out the hardtack within a day or so, if Jane and I were both so incapacitated as to be unable to carry the oven or build a fire. I have no doubt we would have managed well enough. It is hardly a matter of life and death. For Jane and me, at least,' he added sadly. ‘I fear there is scant hope for the little one. She is fading more and more each day.'

‘Your beasts must be harnessed and unharnessed, watered, fed, tethered. However obedient and eager to please, they can scarcely accomplish all that for themselves.'

‘Jimmy will have to see to it, then,' he said. ‘If that is what it comes to. But we are running ahead of ourselves. I am quite capable of simple tasks and believe I am unlikely to worsen. We have been in this state for more than two days already, and have most likely turned the corner.'

‘You perhaps. I would not vouch for your wife.'

He frowned at my directness. ‘She will soon be herself again,' he said.

‘With my grandmother's ministrations, perhaps she will,' I conceded.

Seeing that he showed little intention to continue to struggle to provide edible food for his family, I took over the work. It was a greasy business, but I successfully griddled some rashers of bacon over the embers of his reluctant fire, and found some rather stale bread that was nonetheless more palatable than the hardtack. I warily explored the contents of a few sacks halfway down one side of their wagon, finding nothing to tempt a feeble appetite. The barely-cooked potatoes in the oven were left for the dogs, along with the meat. Ellie joined me and fished for the onions, which she said were still raw, but not unpleasant. They had bought them at Fort Hall, from a trader with black and broken teeth and foul breath, who had been avoided by most of the migrants in their purchasing.

Mrs Fields ate almost nothing, but my grandmother forced a little bread smeared with fat down her throat, amidst protests. The bread we Collins made was second to none. It was a skill we all possessed, although we could not have quite said what our secret might be. Fanny swore by the use of tepid water in the mixture, while Grandma
insisted it was in the extra five minutes of kneading she gave it. My mother had the perfect method for proving, in a tin box close to the dying night-time fire, with a cloth over the open top. The baking was a regular twice-weekly event, using the Dutch oven, sometimes two or three batches in a single day. The loaves were kept in a cool corner of the wagon, wrapped in muslin and greased paper, so they remained fresh.

It fell to me to tend to Susanna. I quickly called on Mrs Tennant for some milk, which she gave with an unusually good grace. ‘God help the poor child,' she said piously. ‘How it must grieve her family, to see her so poorly.' I lifted the little head to the cup, and carefully poured in a little at a time. She swallowed willingly and I gave her high praise.

‘I be dying,' she said, in a small clear voice. ‘I shall see the angels.'

I knew I ought to contradict her. A person should not be permitted to anticipate their own end so starkly. It was deemed helpful to insist on improvement in the face of the most obvious imminence of death. It was also a natural instinct. But the blue eyes were fixed so openly on mine, with no sign of fear or pleading, that I could not prevaricate.

‘Perhaps you will,' I murmured. ‘You are such a good girl.'

She smiled and sank back and for a moment I thought she had died in my arms. But she breathed lightly and her hands moved a little. I left her with a sense of helplessness. The cold clutching hands of Death should be sent far away from her, and yet none of us knew how that might be achieved.

Mr Fields was not seriously ill, if I was any judge. He sat down with the two children and consumed a good quantity of bacon, despite claiming a sore throat. His affection for them was a matter-of-fact business, with a cuffed head to be expected by the boy if he made too much noise or was slow to obey an order. Ellie, who was perhaps six or seven, exchanged a smile with him now and then, and brought him a cup of ale without being asked. Nam had melted back to our own wagon and all around us were sounds indicative of an imminent resumption of our daily walk, with the nooning practically over. It had seemed longer than normal – an impression that was confirmed by Mr Fields. ‘No great hurry, seemingly,' he said, glancing up at the sun. ‘Fort Boise calls but softly, then.'

‘Forts are best when there is a month between them,' I said. ‘Two within ten days is more than we can stomach.'

But I had reason to revise my opinion, two days later.

1
^st
August

We spent two days at Fort Boise, where there are friendly Sandwich Islanders working as traders, as well as cultivating a small patch of land. The fort is well built, with tall poles making a stout palisade. Great rivers on all sides lead to good pasture, and our beasts have been well fed and rested.

Two letters awaited us from Reuben, who was well at the time of writing and learning the skills of soldiering. He had seen no action in battle when he wrote.

We have eaten salmon fish, prepared by the islanders in a delicious fashion. Fanny declares that it is food from heaven.

Mr Tennant is unwell. A large rock crushed his foot, three days since, and it has turned black and pains him enormously. This has been the second severe accident in our party, and we are all greatly concerned for him, since the child Susanna Fields is expected to expire at any moment. These calamities have knocked our confidence to withstand severe injuries. It is fortunate that we are at a fort, where there are medicines and a doctor, who has been working with Indians until recently.

The warm weather has deserted us, and there have been clouds overhead for some days now, with light rain at times.

My father no longer examined my journal entries, but I was aware that he would advise the deletion of the line concerning Fanny and the salmon. I had included it on a whim, perhaps thinking that future generations might not have otherwise understood the joy of such fresh flavoursome food after weeks of dreary stew, with bland bread and potatoes.

The cloudy weather was not unwelcome after weeks of uncomfortable heat, but it added a sense of urgency to our progress amongst the scouts and party leaders. We had another seven or eight weeks of travel, it was thought, and late September might bring a wide range of challenging conditions, from night-time frost to heavy thunderstorms.