Gabriella Read online

  While the men and other women sat talking, I roamed the castle, viewing paintings of warriors in full battle regalia, or on horseback, hunting buffalo, all work by an artist named Alfred Jacob Miller, who had journeyed into the American West with Captain Stewert. What I viewed on those castle walls had hopelessly captured my imagination.

  After the hunt, Edward and I plan to cross into Oregon and after a stay at Fort Vancouver, return to Lancashire, to be married and live in his castle. I had resisted his attempts, and those of my mother, to have us married before the journey. I have felt somewhat uncomfortable about the union of late and wanted the time to sort my feelings out. Edward was annoyed, but since we hadn’t yet declared a wedding date, he agreed to wait.

  At the landing, Bom threw a rope from the canoe to a worker who tied it to the dock. Sir Edward stepped out and hurried to the White Bull, roaring orders at the men, urging them to work faster. Bom assisted me onto the dock and escorted me, with Barton following, to a waiting carriage.

  “Thank you, Bom,” I said.

  He bowed slightly, without looking me in the eyes. I told him that this would be a good time to begin to get to know one another, since I was to become Sir Edward’s bride.

  He simply bowed again and turned to greet Edward, who was hurrying to the carriage.

  “I cannot come with you,” Edward told me. “There is much left to do.”

  I was sorely disappointed, as he promised to take me to the opera. He told me he would return to the hotel in time for a late dinner.

  “We will do a grand meal,” he promised, “as this is our last evening in this fair city.”

  “Aunt Avis and Uncle Walter will be equally disappointed about the opera,” I pointed out.

  Edward shrugged. “It cannot be helped. When you get back to the hotel, make sure they’re ready for departure early tomorrow. I want no more delays.”

  He abruptly turned and left, Bom right behind him. The driver started the horses in motion. The sleek black carriage had been custom-made to Sir Edward’s specifications and brought from England. The doors were scrimshawed and flaked with gold, and the seats were of red velvet. It held four people comfortably and was doubly reinforced for travel over rough terrain. The heavy canvas top, now down, could withstand extreme weather variations, which we were certain to face on the plains.

  As I passed along the cobblestoned streets, I tried to shake the vision of the duel from my mind. Beside me, Barton Strand continued to shake as badly as he had on Bloody Island.

  “The morning’s events are over now,” I said. “We can look forward to our journey.”

  “Yes, the journey.” He nodded to me blankly. “We can look forward to it.”

  I knew he was being facetious. Edward had taken his nephew along as a favor to his sister, Lady Clara Strand, who had married well and was looked upon with favor among her peers. Lady Clara believed her son had not been allowed the life a young man of stature should lead, even though her husband, well respected and from a family of lawyers, wanted Barton to follow in those footsteps. She had told Edward that she wished Barton to become well rounded and that he needed to experience other things besides libraries.

  Though he had spoken little to me about it, I knew Edward was a trifle miffed at having to nursemaid his nephew. Barton had no outdoor skills whatsoever and the first time he had fired a rifle, he had fallen backwards. Luckily, Edward had been able to react quickly enough to catch the weapon. Barton had continually balked at firearms after that, so Edward deemed it his duty to make the young man learn, at all costs, what was required of a hunter and a gentleman.

  As we rode through the streets, I felt deep concern for him. He was definitely at odds with his fate.

  “I have no business on this journey,” he told me. “I told Mother at the outset that the trip would do no good for anyone, but she has never listened to my wishes. This is going to be the worst experience of my life.”

  Quincannon’s Journal

  5 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY

  I stood at the entrance to the cathedral and listened to prayers said by LaBruneue’s men, Catholic rites they had learned as children from Jesuit priests. The French nobleman already lay at the foot of the altar, dressed in his finest suit. Though the burial was still two days away, the family wanted him in the presence of the crucified Christ for as long as possible.

  Though lost in the shock and sorrow of the occasion, I refused to give up on his goal of reaching Oregon on behalf of the American Fur Company. Owen James Quincannon, whose mother had never given up, even under the most dire of circumstances, would press forward ever harder. I would go on without my newly made friend, leading the once greatly anticipated expedition that would now be without its strongest partner.

  I thought back on the morning, wondering at the strangely brutal behavior of the English nobleman. He had wanted LaBruneue dead, of that there could be no question. The reason why remains obscure. I must not linger on it, but put it behind me and move quickly or lose the jump on the numerous emigrant and trading parties that will leave the city for the West.

  I had spent many long hours with LaBruneue, planning the journey and deciding on the best of all possible locations to establish our initial trading post. It was to be a large facility, located somewhere near present Fort Vancouver, where the emigrants would be rejoicing after their long ordeal. They would welcome an American to trade with, and not the hated Hudson’s Bay Company.

  LaBruneue had worked for the company at Fort Vancouver but had defected in January, after John McLoughlin, the Chief Factor, had announced his departure. “He was a great man and the only good thing about the Company,” LaBruneue had said. “When he decided to go, it was time for me, also.”

  François LaBruneue had come to St. Louis, bringing many Hudson’s Bay defectors with him, hoping to sign on with a company of American traders. I once worked for Ramsey Crooks and the American Fur Company, formerly powerful and now, like the others, only a distant memory of the earlier days of glory. When Crooks left the trade, I quit the mountains, resigned to give up the only life I had ever known, until I met LaBruneue and learned of the possibilities in Oregon.

  The Frenchman informed me that the settlers who first arrived there had started their own government, in a land initially held under joint ownership. Because of Hudson’s Bay holdings, the British now claimed first rights. The Americans, by reason of total land usage, wanted full jurisdiction. Tensions were continuing to mount.

  “There are many Americans already there and more going all the time,” he told me. “They will need provisions. And there are still the Indians to trade with. We will do very well.”

  He had sold me on the idea immediately. After a meeting with old Ramsey Crooks, retired but still interested in profits, I knew we could count on backing for the venture.

  Then Edward Garr entered the picture. I’m still puzzled over the incident that precipitated the duel. I was looking over a flatboat, deciding if it was fit for purchase and use in moving goods upriver to Kansas Landing, when LaBruneue arrived from the Planters’ House and announced that he was to duel a British nobleman named Sir Edward Garr.

  LaBruneue, who had always been an intense man, had fire in his eyes. He informed me that he knew Garr to be a spy for the British. When I asked if he accused the nobleman, he said, “No, it was Garr who provoked me, so much so that I couldn’t let it pass.”

  “You should have let it pass,” I said. “We haven’t got time for this.”

  Of course there was no way to talk him out of the duel and the result was his death and the deep anger of all his men.

  At the cathedral, I left them to pray and walked slowly down the steps. It was a beautiful afternoon and I couldn’t believe all that had happened since sunrise.

  I continued down the street to where Lamar, my friend and longtime associate, stood waiting for me. A Delaware Indian, large and powerful, with two decades of experience on the frontier, he would not go near a church, nor any symbol o
f the white man’s religion. “Wherever you see the Blackrobes, you find death,” he always said. “The Blackrobes carry bad medicine.”

  When I approached him, he was quiet for a time, then asked me how the men were doing. I told him they were grieving hard.

  “It seems the Britisher has won,” he said. “He has taken LaBruneue’s life and now many of the men are talking about quitting. Latour has told me this.”

  Jean-Claude Latour, LaBruneue’s close friend from the days with Hudson’s Bay, was volatile and unpredictable. I knew that had LaBruneue chosen him as his second, he would have shot Garr without hesitation. Anyone who met Latour, especially when he was angry, invariably took a step back. His hair hung long and loose, and seashells dangled from both ears. A scar traced the left side of his unshaven face and a gold ring hung free from a stud that pierced his lower lip. Many said he looked more like a river pirate than a fur trader.

  “Maybe Latour can talk some of them into coming back,” I suggested.

  Lamar said Latour had told him that anyone who quit was a coward, and that he didn’t want them. “He wants only men who aren’t afraid to fight. He cares about nothing now but fighting the British.”

  “Has he given up on our plans for a trading company in Oregon?”

  “I think he wants to go to Oregon,” Lamar said, “but not for trading. Only to drive Hudson’s Bay out. He says the Britisher knew about our plans and deliberately called LaBruneue a coward, so that he would fight. It might be true.”

  “Garr can’t reach Oregon on his dueling skills,” I said. “Who’s guiding him?”

  “Devon Machele,” Lamar replied. Known as the “Big Frenchie,” a large man with dark red hair, Machele was widely known in the trade business. He had seemingly disappeared two years previously and the rumor was he had joined the Hudson’s Bay Company.

  As Lamar said his name, we heard yelling and turned to see the men descending the steps of the cathedral.

  “There is going to be a lot of trouble now,” Lamar said.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  5 APRIL 1846, 3RD ENTRY

  I’ve always cared for my uncle Walter a great deal. It was he, more than my father, who looked after me as a child and saw to it that I didn’t get myself into more trouble than I could handle. He owned the finest horses in Lancashire and taught me to appreciate them, not just for riding but for their noble character as well.

  He and Aunt Avis took a room next to mine on the third floor of the Planters’ Hotel. He finds St. Louis far too busy for his liking, but has deemed it necessary to be on the trip when he would much rather be back in Lancashire, resting his sore leg.

  As a young man he made lieutenant in the British army, receiving a ball in the knee at Waterloo. The wound never healed properly and being on the go so much has taken its toll on his physical well-being as well as his sanity.

  I’ve always known that Aunt Avis, thirty-one years his junior, adds to his mental discomfort. I find it unfortunate that they have so much trouble with their marriage, as she is but five years my senior and has been my closest friend from childhood on.

  We rode horseback together many times in our youth, before we both became sophisticated ladies of elite society with more important matters consuming our time. Now we often talk about our early days in the Lancashire countryside, where we ranged far and wide, riding the windy seacoast, without rule or constraint. We took those days for granted and I believe Avis now sees this trip with me into the American West as her chance to relive lost memories, and gather many new ones.

  She insisted on accompanying Walter as my chaperone, as she deems it not proper to allow me to travel with Sir Edward on my own. Walter tried to persuade her to remain in England, but she would not hear of it. Disease and inclement weather and warring Indians notwithstanding, she wanted to be part of the adventure.

  Uncle Walter has just passed his sixtieth birthday. He knows that even in good health, the journey will present him with a severe challenge. He has never wanted to show his lack of enthusiasm to Avis and says that he has always wanted to visit the American Rocky Mountains and see what everyone is so enamored with. He also wants to be there when I begin my portraits of the wild Indians, something that seems very exciting in itself.

  Earlier in the week I set up an easel in one corner of the room and insisted on painting a portrait of him and Aunt Avis. He couldn’t get over how quickly I had completed the watercolor and said that I had captured their essence perfectly, complimenting me as a very gifted artist.

  While in St. Louis, I wanted to pursue some extraordinary subjects, so I sketched various inhabitants of the city, from the French aristocracy sipping cherry liquor on their balconies to drunken rivermen lying senseless in the streets. Avis continuously worried for my safety and warned me against excursions into the infamous Battle Row, near the levee, where the worst of the rowdies and ruffians congregated.

  “You need not worry,” I told her repeatedly. “If ever they come for me, I’ll throw paint in their eye.”

  She saw no humor in my lack of concern and was even more appalled by my interest in the ladies of the evening and their gaudy poses. On the occasions when I pursued safer sojourns, she would accompany me and J. T. Landers, a botanist from London. We visited the many and magnificent Creole gardens of the city, while Mr. Landers, who had been commissioned by Edward to study the flora of the mountains and plains, marveled at the multitudes of roses, touch-me-nots, poppies, and hollyhocks, among others, that graced the courtyards and terraces of the luxurious homes.

  I occasionally sketched Mr. Landers, a small man with a shrill voice, as he excitedly examined a specimen, detailing its taxonomy and botanical name, placing it in a plant press for drying and future reference. Many of the flowers had originated in Europe, the seeds having been brought over on the boats of the early settlers. He knew the history of each and every species, and spoke at length about wanting to compare these varieties to their wild cousins of the American West.

  Uncle Walter never questioned my trips throughout St. Louis and environs, but I think he still worried about me in his own way. The city was not the open country of my childhood, where the hills and seashore were my friends. In fact, I believe he hated to see me grow up, wishing instead that I remain forever the young girl with light freckles and deep red hair.

  My freckles have now departed and my hair has turned a mature auburn. I have gone from Gabby, my childhood name, to Ella or in the case of my mother, Gabriella, my full name. Uncle Walter still calls me Gabby at times, but more often Ella, and in more somber moods will say, “Gabriella Hall will someday be a name associated with masterpieces of art.”

  He has always maintained that I needn’t marry again until I’m ready, and then to think about it a very long time. I must admit, the thought scares me since I was literally abandoned after three years of marriage by one Sir Richard Mann, who disappeared, never to reappear. I’ve never learned the reason why, though I suspected he had not been killed, as some said, but had simply moved to another part of England. I cared not to pursue him, for I hated the thought of him. And though I suspected that Mother knew the reason he had left, she wouldn’t think of admitting it. After that, no other suitors arrived until Sir Edward came calling.

  Uncle Walter once asked openly why I had so hastily agreed to accept Sir Edward’s proposal. His being fifteen years my senior was nothing exceptional; but according to Uncle, he didn’t seem at all my sort of man. I will admit I had to agree with him on some counts, as I believe horses are for showing affection to while he cares little for them except to ride and draw carriages. I’ve always enjoyed hours spent in the open country, listening to birds and watching the animals, while he believes such activities a total waste of time. In fact, he often seems to have little patience with any form of life: he has specifically forbade the accompaniment of dogs on the trip, thinking them a bother, even though he realizes that greyhounds could offer valuable capabilities and locate game for him at long d
istances.

  I will confess that I’ve tried to overlook all of those traits, including some new ones that have left me wondering of late if he even cares to have me with him anymore. Walter, in his impish way, told me not long ago that he had no idea why there would even be need of a chaperone. He told me that it appeared that Sir Edward always had better things to do than spend time with me and that I was more gracious than I ought to be at his behavior. He made the point that I would never tolerate rudeness from strangers and had little patience for people of lower class, but that I seemed all too eager to accept whatever lack of courtesy my fiancé offered me.

  During my first meeting with Edward, he seemed an entirely different person, walking and talking with me, sitting atop the hills overlooking the ocean. There were evenings when we got back quite late, having made love in the grassy woods. Perhaps I believe that he’ll return to that earlier man of adventure who swayed me to his affections. Until then I will have to content myself with believing, as he says, that he loves me, whether he shows it or not.

  In all truthfulness, I had decided never to marry again. I had at times wanted to prove myself worthy of someone, but in the end had decided that I had value, whether or not I was married. Then, upon meeting Sir Edward, something within me changed. I had been alone long enough to think again of marriage, and he said and did so many gracious things that I believed I had met someone who loved and understood me.

  Mother advised me against rushing into anything. She pointed out that we had no financial concerns of any kind, as Father had left us very well off, with two estates in Lancashire and property in Liverpool. She is now living with her sister and has no plans for ever marrying again. “Of course I wish for your happiness,” she told me, “but be very certain of your feelings.”