Gabriella Read online

  Lamar pulled him back. “She’s not part of this.”

  Latour said, “But of course she is! What is wrong with you? Are you all mad?”

  I looked to all of them, wondering what Edward had kept from me.

  Lamar spoke to Latour again. “Did you know Quincannon followed you into the city?”

  “I don’t care what Owen Quincannon did or whether he is angry with me. I am my own man.”

  A form emerged from the shadows and the men began to murmur. The frontiersman who had stared at me for so long on the island walked straight up to Latour, his strong features hard with anger.

  Latour stepped back. “You stay away from me, Quincannon. I did what I thought best.”

  “No. You cost us time and a lot of men. That’s not what’s best. I’m taking the woman back.”

  Latour protested and argued that Mr. LaBruneue was his commander and he needn’t take orders from anyone else. The frontiersman told him that Mr. LaBruneue was no longer with them. “He and I were equal partners,” he said, “and now everything belongs to me. If you want to stay employed, you will obey my commands. Understood?”

  Latour shuffled his feet. “Maybe I will lead these men. Not you.”

  Quincannon looked at me and turned to the men. “How many of you agree with kidnapping this woman?” No one spoke and he added, “How many of you want to leave my employ for Latour’s?”

  Again, no one spoke and no one stepped forward. Latour shouted that they were all cowards.

  “You decide right now,” Mr. Quincannon told Latour. “Obey my rules or leave.”

  “I will stay with you,” Latour said, “but I’m right in taking the woman. We need a way to make the Britisher go back to England.”

  “He won’t go back, no matter what,” Mr. Quincannon said. “He hasn’t even sent men out to find her.”

  I felt embarrassed at hearing that, but believed that Edward hadn’t yet been able to and would certainly do so before long.

  The men continued to argue, and finally Latour left for one of the tents, pulling the flap closed behind him. One of them told Mr. Quincannon that the Frenchman might be looking for a weapon. He responded that Latour wasn’t foolish enough to do that. “He doesn’t fight from the front,” he said.

  “What happened on the boat?” Lamar asked.

  “They sank it, but they’re gone—dead, badly wounded, or ran away.”

  “What are we going to do now?” one of the men asked.

  “Maybe we can find some others who will join us,” Mr. Quincannon said. “We’ll go to Oregon, one way or the other.”

  The men retired for the night and the frontiersman led me to a tent at the edge of camp. Inside, a lantern burned brightly, casting flickering shadows against the canvas. I shivered in the chill air and he threw me a Mackinaw blanket.

  “What about my fiancé?” I asked.

  “He was wounded in the explosion, but not seriously. I pulled him from the water.”

  “Were they holding him somewhere on the boat?”

  “Yes. They were going to hang him when it got dark, but then you showed up.”

  He told me that he had taken Edward back to the hotel, where his personal physician, Dr. Noel Marking, attended to him.

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  He retired to the opposite side of the tent and fixed his bed. “We’ll leave at first light, which isn’t far off,” he said.

  “This is a fine mess your men have caused,” I said.

  “Be thankful you’re alive,” he said, and blew out the lantern.

  I crawled under the blanket, shivering, and removed my wet dress in the darkness. I didn’t have the strength to protest sleeping in the same tent with him. He was right about my being ungrateful and I considered myself lucky to have been rescued by this man, who had been kind enough to allow me shelter and a blanket. My only other alternative would have been to sleep outside, and that held no attraction to me, for it had started raining once again.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  8 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY

  The canoe ride back downriver took little time compared to my ordeal of the night before. Though still fatigued, I enjoyed the bright morning and the thought of reuniting with Sir Edward, as well as Walter and Avis. Most of all I felt very fortunate that I had come to no relative harm.

  Owen Quincannon seemed a man given to introspection, alone within his own thoughts most of the time and not prone to discussion for discussion’s sake. He answered questions politely but asked none of his own. He had given me a heavy woolen shirt to wear over my dress, which was still damp, and had allowed me to share his breakfast of bacon and cornmeal.

  I didn’t feel at all comfortable until we had left camp. Though none of the others concerned me at all, I worried about Latour. He kept pestering Quincannon about what he was going to do with me, saying I could testify against them in court and spoil their plans. The frontiersman reminded the Frenchman in no uncertain terms that it was he who had already spoiled their plans.

  Once underway, I asked Mr. Quincannon why he had rescued me.

  “It would seem that you would desire the same revenge as Mr. Latour,” I said. “In fact, I might have thought you were behind it.”

  “My business is to reach Oregon,” he said. “Not burn boats and kidnap women.”

  “Mr. Latour is right, my fiancé is bound to demand restitution. He may want to pursue a legal course.”

  “He can pursue all he wants, but he won’t get anywhere.”

  I knew he was right. Alleged complaints by British aristocracy against Americans were not a priority in the court systems. A hearing might possibly be held, but there was no guarantee.

  “How will you make it right?” I asked.

  “Bringing you back will have to do.”

  “It seems to me,” I said, “that you could have avoided all this by stopping Mr. Latour from carrying out his plans.”

  “We could have avoided all this if Sir Edward Garr hadn’t insisted on killing François LaBruneue,” he said.

  I watched a pair of ducks fly past the canoe, their wing-tips skimming the water. Quincannon said they were teal and that every spring nesting pairs filled the bottoms along the river. He pointed out a small wildcat peering at us from the brush, only its face visible in the dense foliage.

  Though uncomfortable with the situation, I wasn’t concerned about my safety any longer. He studied me on occasion, but made no untoward remarks and asked more than once if I was comfortable. He was strong and defiant and in many ways just as wild as the others, but he seemed more educated, with higher goals in mind.

  “Have you always been a mountain man?” I asked.

  “I came back from the mountains four years ago,” he said. “I thought it was time to change. But I can’t, so I’m going back.”

  That was how he answered my question. He said nothing more, but worked the paddle effortlessly, maneuvering the canoe through floating debris and around downed trees.

  He may have thought I was prying, which I was, so I stuck to pertinent questions.

  “What are you going to say to Edward?” I asked.

  “I’m going to wish him good luck on the trail.”

  “We might not be going on the trail. Our guide was shot through the breast last night, right in front of me.”

  “Devon Machele is dead?”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Very well, but I thought the rumor that he was to lead you to Oregon was untrue.”

  He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he turned the canoe towards shore, suggesting we stop for a meal. He jumped into the shallows and after helping me out, pulled a bundle of dry wood from the canoe and started a small fire next to a cold-running spring that fed the river. There was evidence of past fires and he told me that he often camped there when traveling the river.

  He pulled a small bag from the water and skewered two squirrels on small willow branches. While they roasted, he asked me, “How man
y times have you traveled into the wilderness?”

  “This will be my first journey.”

  “How about your fiancé?”

  “He’s been on expeditions to Africa, but never to this country.”

  “Do you know what to expect?”

  “We were well prepared,” I said. “I assume that Edward will reoutfit us and find another guide.”

  He tested one of the squirrels with his knife and, finding the meat fully cooked, carved off pieces for me.

  “This is no dining-room atmosphere and our utensils are primitive,” he said, “but you’ll gain some strength back.”

  I took a small bite, finding it very tasty. “I take it that you’ve experienced fine dining,” I said.

  He laughed. “You’re very curious about me, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t seem anything like the others.”

  “I go to the mountains to make money for the fine dining,” he said. “I did well at one time, before the bottom fell out of the price of beaver.”

  “I don’t know much about that commerce,” I said, “but I do know that English gentlemen now prefer silk hats to those of beaver fur.”

  “There weren’t a lot of beaver left to trap anyway, but there’s a growing trade with the settlers moving west, and those already in Oregon.”

  “And that is what’s causing all the friction with the British government. Is that right?”

  “That’s right. The British want everyone under their control, and the settlers want them out.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” I said. “From what I understand, the British settled the country.”

  “No, they didn’t settle it, and they’ve said they don’t want it. But the Hudson’s Bay Company is not ready to give up.”

  “Do you think there will be war?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “What might stop it?”

  “If the Hudson’s Bay Company moves out.”

  I finished my meat and Mr. Quincannon offered me more, saying it would do no good to decline, as he knew that I must still be hungry. I accepted another cut and ate it with relish.

  “How will your fiancé find another guide at this late date?” he asked.

  “Surely there must be some left.”

  “The good ones have already left.”

  “I’m sure Edward has thought of something,” I said. “He’s not a man to give up.”

  He doused the fire, then rose and helped me into the canoe. He shoved off and began rowing methodically while I sat quietly, looking at the river. We spoke no more and suddenly St. Louis appeared, a beehive of activity. When we landed, I could hear everyone on the levee as they talked about the White Bull, now reduced to a few floating, blackened timbers that workers were pulling to shore with flatboats. Everyone stared at me, with my torn dress and disheveled and dirty hair.

  I offered to get myself to the hotel and he insisted on escorting me. He hailed a carriage, and at the Planters’ Hotel, the doorman helped me down. He stared at Mr. Quincannon with contempt and said, “Are you a guest here, sir?”

  “I soon will be,” he said, and tipped the man with a twenty-dollar gold piece.

  On the way up the stairs, Mr. Quincannon apologized for his appearance, saying that he had intended on getting new buckskins. In Uncle’s room, I hugged Walter and Avis tightly, explaining to them how I had been abducted and then rescued by Mr. Owen Quincannon. Avis said, “We feared the worst for you, dear.”

  Uncle Walter shook his hand. “We are deeply indebted to you, sir. How much for your trouble?”

  “I’ll not take your money, but would appreciate an introduction to Sir Edward Garr. I have a business proposition. I’m sure you can relate to that.”

  Walter’s eyebrows raised, as did mine. My uncle led us to the next room and knocked. Bom opened the door. Edward lay tossing fitfully on a bed against the wall, his head and back propped up by pillows, still dressed in his clothes from the night before, which were soiled and still damp. His right arm was supported by a sling. He held a glass of brandy with his good hand, his speech showing evidence that he had been drinking for some time.

  “Here’s a salute to strange fortune and impeccable bad luck,” he said to me.

  “Thank God you weren’t killed, or seriously injured,” I said. I started to hug him but noticed a look in his eye that kept me back.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “My physician says it’s but a sprain.”

  “Mr. Quincannon says that he helped you from the water,” I said.

  Walter turned to Edward. “Is that true?”

  “I suppose you could call it help,” Edward said. “I don’t ever remember being treated so roughly.”

  “You were drowning, sir,” Mr. Quincannon said. “Men in that condition are difficult to help.”

  Edward drained his glass and Bom refilled it. I had never seen him so anxious before.

  “So, am I to understand that you’ve some part in Gabriella’s return?” he asked Mr. Quincannon.

  “I told you last night that I would find her.”

  “Yes, I suppose you did. How did you know where to look?”

  “I know the river well.”

  “I’m sure you do. What do you want in compensation?”

  “A position as your new guide.”

  I must admit I hadn’t expected that. Edward pointed out how odd his request appeared, as he was a friend of LaBruneue.

  “Yes, but the circumstances of my travel plans haven’t changed,” he said. “And I can’t believe that you’ve made other arrangements.”

  “You are a curious sort, Mr. Quincannon,” Edward said. “I kill your friend and you offer your services to me as if we had much in common.”

  “We do, and I believe that we can serve each other very well. After all, a man who drinks Droulliard brandy is certainly able to make the best of unusual circumstances.”

  Edward rearranged himself on the bed, grimacing in pain. “If we were to even consider an arrangement,” he said, “then I would want it understood that you’ll be serving me. There’ll be nothing mutual about it.”

  “I would hope that you would respect my knowledge of the trails and conditions.”

  “I said that I will make the decisions.”

  “Very well. It doesn’t appear that you even need my services. Have a good journey.” Mr. Quincannon turned for the door.

  Uncle Walter stopped him. “Please, do not be hasty, sir. I believe what Sir Edward was trying to say is that he requires any decisions, even about the trail, be made mutually. Isn’t that correct, Sir Edward?”

  Edward sipped his brandy. “I know more about wilderness trails than one might think, but I will concede that Mr. Quincannon, having spent time out there, should surely know his way around.”

  “Very well, then,” Walter said. “I say we toast our arrangement.”

  Edward ordered Bom to get three glasses and open a new bottle for the toast.

  “Make that five glasses,” I said. “Aunt Avis and I would like to join the toast.” Avis declined and I said that four would do. Bom filled the glasses and Uncle Walter said, “Here’s to good health and the mountains.”

  INDEPENDENCE

  Quincannon’s Journal

  7 APRIL 1846

  I keep seeing Indians in my dreams. They ride at me, screaming and spitting blood, their lances and their bows raised high above their heads. I raise my rifle to fire but they ride right through me and onward to who knows where, night after night, ever since I made the decision to go to Oregon.

  I’ve fought them and lived among them, loved them and hated them. I realized within the first year in the settlements that their style of life had become my own and their values my values, and that sooner or later I would be back riding the plains and mountains.

  I have fond memories of sharing days on horseback with them. I believe in their ceremonies still and know they have a connection to the divine that is to be envied. Some of them accepted me; some of them did
n’t, and I’m certain a few would have loved to have cut my heart out.

  I’ll be going to Oregon and if I have to fight them again, so be it. Yet they are certainly less the enemy than Edward Garr. I never thought I’d be breaking trail for a man who killed a good friend, but it’s the best way I know to keep an eye on him.

  There will be nothing easy now. Before the duel, I could see making the trip rather handily and reaching the Columbia in late summer. If the show was to be war with the British, we’d already have front-row seats. I’d never heard of Sir Edward Garr and I certainly had no idea I would be traveling to Oregon with a spy.

  Lamar will accompany me and Latour will go on ahead and wait for us. I can see no reason to worry for my life, since Garr needs me to guide him. In addition, I don’t think he would kill someone who rescued his fiancée. So far she seems quite a woman. He did well in securing her hand, though I don’t know why she gave it to him.

  So, we’ll all be facing Indians together. I told them what to expect over drinks and I don’t know how much they believed. We’ll see if they heard me as time goes on.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  8 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY

  Avis and I spent nearly the entire day in front of the mirror, giggling and laughing while we tried on additional new clothes, more of the latest apparel from the shops. Dresses and hats and shoes laid scattered about while we refitted ourselves over and over, and told Walter not to turn around.

  Three days have passed and Edward says it will be just a few more until we depart. His arm appears to have healed nicely and he has arranged for another steamboat, this one leased, with the services of a captain. Uncle Walter, now sitting in the corner, puffing on a cigar, is looking out the window and scowling. I know he believes Edward is either daft or incredibly stubborn to be tempting fate that way. But Edward has tripled the guard on the new boat and has even stationed men on the levee to watch in all directions.

  His intent is to haul the newly acquired provisions up to a place called Kansas Landing, where it will all be transferred to the backs of mules and into small carts designed by Mr. Quincannon and made by craftsmen to order. The mountain man has insisted on mules instead of oxen, and carts instead of wagons, for the expressed reason of an easier haul over rough trails, saving both time and trouble. Many provisions will be secured at either Independence or Westport, two jumping-off points no longer used as much as in the past.