The Spoils of Sin (10 page)

Fanny had already visited the livery stables and agreed to hire a horse and buggy for three weeks, at a price of fifteen dollars. The horse was a bay gelding with a crooked flash down its nose. ‘Bring him back in good fettle and I shall refund ye five dollars,' said the man.

It was a while before the question of Hugo forced itself onto their attention. ‘He must come too,' insisted Fanny. ‘There is no other possibility.'

‘Can his soft feet bear such a long distance?' Carola had never conceived much liking for the animal, citing his delicate pads as one of many reasons to doubt his prowess.

Fanny had assumed without thinking that the dog would ride with them in the trap. With closer attention, she understood that this was never going to happen. While Carola tolerated him, she was averse to his touch. His size ordained that there would be a crush in the vehicle, and additional weight on the gelding. ‘He will have to use his legs,' Fanny decided. ‘The ground is softer now and his feet are hardened.'

Carola simply rolled her eyes as if to say there had never been the slightest doubt that the animal must travel under his own powers.

And so they set out, with bundles containing fresh garments and sufficient food and drink for a long day. A trail had been created alongside the Willamette river, leading to Oregon City. It was generally well enough used to ensure company along the way. But five or six miles before the town, it was necessary to take a right-hand fork, and from there the trails and trackways dwindled to near invisibility. Signposts had been erected, and Fanny remembered well enough how to find the Collins homestead.

Everywhere there was plain evidence of the arrival of many thousands of white migrants, with their habits of dominance over nature in all its forms. Fields were marked out with fences and quickly-growing hedges. Acres of fruit trees had been planted on gentle hillsides. Forest had been cleared, leaving small patches of woodland for aesthetic purposes, Fanny supposed. They would also break the wind, perhaps, which could be strong enough to damage new crops. It came from the west or northwest, finding the gaps in the mountains. Buildings were visible at almost every point of their journey. Barns, stables and linheys to shelter cattle outnumbered human homes. Hugo chased after occasional wild creatures, in short bursts, never catching anything. The horse trotted steadily along, sure-footed and willing, the dog effortlessly keeping pace, evidently enjoying the change of routine.

Here and there people were working the fields, using horses in most instances. ‘I have just realised what's so odd,' said Carola. ‘All these workers are white-skinned. Where I come from, they would be of a far darker colour.'

‘Slaves,' nodded Fanny. She had heard her share of horror stories as to the treatment of the human cattle in the southern states. ‘You are well rid of that way of life.'

‘It will never change, you know.' Carola spoke thoughtfully. ‘It is woven into the very fabric of the plantations themselves. And my father always said that freedom can be very over-rated.' She gave a short laugh. ‘Most of us have little idea how to use it when we have it.'

‘The people working in these fields would perhaps say they can at least keep the product of their labours. Or at least the proceeds from the sale of it.'

Carola sighed. ‘It is not a debate I am eager to engage in. We are both imbued with ideas gained in infancy and therefore deep in our bones. Tell me more about your sisters, instead. I forget the name of the littlest one.'

‘Nam, we call her. She is officially Naomi. My father was tired of daughters by the time she arrived, and so he has always treated her more as a boy. She is slim and agile as a monkey. She makes friends easily.' Fanny paused, unable to provide any further detail. ‘The dog Melchior mistakenly bit her hand, one time. I told you about Melchior, I think.'

‘You did. And the others? Lizzie and Charity. And your brother? Tell me everything. We have several hours yet to travel.'

‘The horse will need to rest soon. We might think of stopping at that copse up ahead.'

‘Fanny Collins, I believe you have forgotten everything about your family. Why else so loathe to inform me of their characters?'

‘I am not loath. Nor have I forgotten. But it is a close to a year since I saw them. Most likely much has changed in that time. Besides, you met them more than once yourself. Why ask me so intently, when you must recall Reuben and Lizzie well enough?'

‘I seldom exchanged more than a word or two with them. I know little of their natures.'

Fanny examined her inner workings, wondering whether Carola might have good reason to draw remembered details from her. The truth appeared to be that she had no desire to contemplate her relatives in advance of meeting them again. It brought about a tightness in her chest, which was akin to apprehension. Whether or not they had changed,
she
undoubtedly had. Could Carola perhaps see that for herself and understand the consequences?

They drew up on the edge of the copse, and let the horse feed on the spring grass that was only just appearing. Their own nooning was brief and insubstantial. A slice or two of cold meat with bread and pickles, followed by beer, was enough to satisfy them for a while. ‘It puts me in mind of the Trail,' said Fanny. ‘All the families had their own dutch oven, full of meat stew, dumplings and potatoes. It was the same, day after day. By the end, we were almost mad with the tedium of it.'

‘Indeed, I remember it only too well,' agreed Carola. ‘Meat cooked on an open fire, supplied by our hunter menfolk, killing buffalo and elk. Such romance!'

Her ironic tone made Fanny laugh. ‘More often turkey and pigeon, or one of our own steers. Precious few of our men were capable of hunting. Most of them never fired a gun in their lives. There was one who killed his own boy when the firearm discharged by mistake.'

The reminiscences continued, the girls exchanging anecdotes from their long trek. In neither case had there been any real disasters. A few old people had died. There were accidents that had almost always been the result of folly or ignorance. The food had become unbearably monotonous. One of Carola's brothers had almost drowned at a river crossing. As they talked, Fanny found herself relaxing somewhat, until she began to look forward to seeing her parents again. ‘My father is a real Irishman. Singing, joking, always seeing the brighter side of things. He has a good heart.'

‘My father too. He treats the workers well, I think. He is fond of his food and drink, and fine clothes. The horses are the best in the county. He has an excellent eye for a good breeder.'

‘Will you ever see him again?'

‘Who can say? It seems unlikely. But my brothers are very much closer at hand.'

Fanny had almost forgotten her friend's brothers, so seldom did she mention them. Their fate as they settled into Oregon ways was unknown. ‘We could maybe visit them sometime?' she suggested.

Carola shuddered. ‘I think not. Their views on the behaviour of women would ensure that I was lynched like a runaway slave if they ever learned of my activities. I must warn you, Fanny, that if I suddenly bolt into the trees or behind the nearest rock, it is because I have caught sight of one of the Beaumont boys, and am running for my life.'

Fanny laughed, but there was something altogether sad in her friend's words.

It would be necessary to break their journey for the night, for which they had made only the vaguest plans. ‘We can fashion a shelter under a tree,' said Fanny, ‘if no-one will offer us a bed,' and had added a canvas sheet to the contents of the trap.

But in the event it turned wet towards the end of the day, and neither girl felt equal to a night in the open with nothing but a sheet to keep them dry. ‘We must beg hospitality from a homesteader,' said Carola. She seemed entirely comfortable with the proposition that two young women and a large dog might find accommodation with strangers selected at random along the way.

Fanny was less inclined to adopt the idea. ‘How would we explain ourselves?' she wondered. ‘Travelling unchaperoned, as we are.'

‘We are returning to our family after a visit to the city. Perhaps we have a dying grandmother. Or perhaps nobody but the two of us has survived cholera and we are orphaned and seeking new lives. Or it might be…'

‘Stop!' laughed Fanny. ‘We are sisters, then? With such different accents and appearance?'

‘Cousins. Stepsisters. One of us is adopted.' Carola's eyes twinkled. ‘Let your imagination run free,' she urged. ‘We shall become whatever we can invent for ourselves.'

Fanny smiled doubtfully. ‘We tell them anything but the truth – is that it?'

‘Exactly so.'

Two miles further on the horse was entirely willing to turn off the road and head for a low wooden building set back amongst trees. Hugo loped ahead, until Fanny whistled him back. ‘Might alarm the people,' she told him with a smile.

She need not have worried. A woman was already waiting in the doorway as they approached. Of middle height and perhaps forty years in age, she had pale hair pulled back from her face and a shrewd expression. Before Fanny or Carola could climb down from their vehicle, she was fondling Hugo's ears as if she'd always known him.

‘Good day, ladies,' she said calmly, her accent a pure unsullied English that Fanny had not heard since leaving Rhode Island. ‘Jeremy!' she called over her shoulder. ‘We have company.'

The two girls stood a short distance from her, uncertain of their next move. After half a minute or so, a man in shirt sleeves appeared, standing behind his woman. Clean-shaven, with a high balding brow and a long nose above a small receding chin, he was an odd-looking character. ‘Welcome,' he said in the same accent.

‘We are Jeremy and Matilda Hastings,' said the woman. ‘From Buckinghamshire, England.' She raised one eyebrow in clear invitation.

‘Oh – I am Fanny Collins, and this is Carola Beaumont. We have come from Chemeketa. This is Hugo,' she added. ‘He is very gentle.'

‘So I see. I am inordinately fond of dogs of every sort,' said Matilda Hastings. She spoke carelessly, as if her thoughts were on some other track altogether. ‘Are we to understand that you seek a bed for the night?'

‘If you would be so very kind,' said Carola, nudging forward. ‘It is a great imposition.'

The woman laughed. ‘But out here in the wilderness, such impositions have become quite usual. Until enough men of enterprise find their way here, and build inns and hotels and suchlike, travellers are forced to throw themselves on ordinary homesteaders. It is a regular occurrence. Since coming here two years ago, we have accommodated no fewer than eight. But it must be admitted that not one of them has been a female person.'

‘Did you come in a wagon train?' Fanny asked.

Matilda shook her head, and flung her arms wide. ‘Time enough for such exchanges when we have you settled. There is scarcely an hour of daylight remaining, and we must seize it while we can. Our resources do not permit very much lamplight, and I have a horror of naked candle flame.'

The man Jeremy patted her shoulder and went towards the horse. ‘Let me take him into the barn and find some oats,' he said. ‘I can promise him a comfortable night.'

The barn was a building somewhat larger than the house, with a wide door and a loft opening above. A new-looking plough stood outside it, with a four-wheeled wagon not far off. ‘How many acres have you here?' asked Fanny.

‘The same number as all the settlers,' said the man, as if the question were a foolish one. ‘Many more than two people can readily work unaided. We are still wondering where to start.' He rubbed his sparse-covered head ruefully. ‘The agricultural life does not come easily to us. All we can think of is to plant orchards. There is a great need for livestock, but cattle and sheep are almost impossible to obtain.'

Inside, the house was a great surprise. Divided into three rooms, the largest was a living room boasting an iron stove and a whole wall of books on sturdy shelves. A large chart occupied half of another wall, depicting a hairless skull divided into sections. The smallest room contained a bed and a washstand and very little else. ‘You can sleep in here,' said Matilda.

‘It's wonderful!' gasped Fanny.

Matilda seemed puzzled. ‘In what way? Did you expect a hovel, with nothing but a few wolf skins on the dirt floor?'

Fanny hesitated, not knowing what to reply. It struck her that she had entertained no notions of how these people lived, as she and Carola had driven up to the house. Chemeketa was developing into a town with recognisable facilities and institutions – but those who chose to live in isolation, scattered along a little-used track that could scarcely be termed a road, were entirely mysterious to her. The enormity of creating a settlement with all its various needs and procedures, still defied her understanding. ‘How did the books get here?' she asked.

‘In a very large and very strong trunk,' said the woman. ‘It now stands empty at the back of the barn.'

‘So you came here by ship,' Carola said.

‘We came here by ship, indeed. Down the endless coast to the cold southern tip of the continent, and then slowly northwards on the western side. It took eleven long months to bring us here from Boston.' Matilda shuddered. ‘A barbarous business it was too.'

Fanny thought of her own long migration by land, walking with her family alongside a laden wagon, and considered herself fortunate. Then she recalled a young man named Henry and his regret at not being permitted to bring a chest full of books on the journey. ‘We had to carry our own provisions,' she said. ‘There was no space for fripperies.'

‘Fripperies?' echoed a male voice from the doorway. ‘You consider the thoughts and experiences of scientists and philosophers to be
fripperies
?'

The word sounded more ridiculous with each utterance. ‘N-no. Of course not. I meant…' she trailed off. ‘Please accept my apologies.'