Gabriella Page 5

  Even though everything seems in order and Edward is using all precaution to forestall another disaster, I know Uncle Walter still worries. There have been several who have met death on Bloody Island over the years, but they have all been local businessmen or lawyers or judges, usually with high political aspirations, settling power grudges within the confines of their own system. Walter says that Edward has introduced a foreign element into the already controversial mix and that the locals feel threatened.

  Uncle Walter had warned Edward before that any kind of serious trouble could cost them dearly; but as usual, Edward didn’t listen. “As much as he desires many of the same things as me,” Uncle told me, “I can’t for the life of me understand the man’s behavior. He will affront anyone who might question his authority.”

  As an added worry, Uncle Walter doesn’t know what to make of Mr. Quincannon, whom he agrees is surprisingly well educated for a mountain man. He had once thought the two terms mutually exclusive, but is beholden to him for having rescued me from a dire situation that might have ended very badly. He also said that anyone who knows good brandy like Mr. Quincannon can’t be all bad.

  They had drunk together the night before, discussing the upcoming journey and what supplies needed replacing. Edward would not stay at the table, but retired early, and I had a chance to listen to some very interesting stories, some of them bad enough to make one reconsider crossing the plains.

  I asked Mr. Quincannon if that was his point, to talk us out of our journey. He assured me that it wasn’t, but he was merely describing the way it is. “You can’t get halfway out,” he said, “and decide to turn back.”

  I reminded him that we were committed to reaching Oregon, Fort Vancouver in particular, no matter the odds against us. We had already come through a great ordeal, I told him, and would press on. He did not seem impressed, reminding me that Edward’s wealth is the only thing allowing for our reoutfitting for the trip. I could not argue with him on that point. We had a great many items that had to be replaced.

  Though some of our belongings had remained at the hotel, the great majority of our clothes, and all of our trail gear, furniture, food supplies, and dinnerware, had been loaded onto the White Bull and lost, including a case of fine china Edward had brought over from England that once belonged to his mother.

  Aunt Avis quickly picked out a new set from a shop near the hotel and assured Edward that it was so similar in design to the original that he would barely be able to tell the difference. Whether he agreed with her or not, none of us had been able to determine. He merely stated that the china would do for our purposes.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief at having kept my sketchpads and other art supplies in my room. I had wanted to touch up the portrait of Walter and Avis before putting everything into boxes. Should I have lost that piece, plus all the sketches of St. Louis and its people, I would have been devastated.

  I have just shipped the completed work back home. Certainly it won’t suffer any worse fate en route than possible destruction on the trail. From what Mr. Quincannon says, all manner of disaster lurks behind every tree and bush. It seems almost laughable. But considering the destruction of the steamboat, I have decided to believe him—but only to a point.

  I cannot bring myself to swallow everything he says, especially regarding the Indians. If reports are to be believed, they have to be extremely dangerous and warlike. But, according to Mr. Quincannon, they are not savage. He avoids that word, maintaining that the native people have their own values, and even though they are different from those of the settlers, it doesn’t mean they are an inferior race.

  He told me that, in fact, the Indians believe themselves superior to the whites. “They can’t understand many of our customs and think them barbaric,” he said. “And they have no tolerance for farming the land.”

  I found the reference to agriculture interesting and perplexing. He explained that many tribes, especially the ones nearest the rivers, grow vegetable gardens to envy, but that the nomadic horse tribes, with the especially volatile warrior societies, find cutting down trees and disturbing the virgin sod a sacrilegious practice. The pursuit and consumption of buffalo, and the gathering of wild roots and herbs and berries, is the only respectable use of the natural resource.

  All this information makes me that much more eager to meet these people and see them in the flesh. I look forward to the test of capturing their essence on canvas. The challenge is beginning to dominate my thoughts night and day.

  The warriors Mr. Quincannon speaks of are not those seen loitering in the streets and back alleys of St. Louis, barefoot and wrapped in ragged blankets. These people were once members of proud nations but are now reduced to begging for food and liquor. According to Mr. Quincannon, those still living free will fight to the death rather than end up in a life of squalor.

  Mr. Quincannon made other valid points, including the fact that I will see a change in my life the likes of which I cannot begin to imagine. He says that I cannot hope to always sleep in a bed, to which I responded that I’ve never desired that form of rest exclusively. I’ve slept out-of-doors often, mainly during my formative years, but I can certainly adjust.

  I will have to admit that going without a regular bath will be very trying. Mr. Quincannon has said that there will be stretches where the only water available will come from holes in otherwise dry creekbeds, or by digging beneath the sand with our bare hands. “You’ll have to drink fast,” he said, “before the horses and mules stomp it to mud.” I cannot imagine taking a sponge bath under those circumstances.

  So here I am, ready to conquer the unknown, yet unwilling in part to leave my comfortable civilization behind. There are some habits I cannot and refuse to shake. I study myself in the mirror and admire my newest and most favorite apparel—a fine blue dress with matching hat and slippers.

  It is a wide-brimmed white hat with black velvet ribbons tied in bows, both front and back. The tails from the black ribbon flow halfway down my back. My dress also has black lace along the shoulders, and the bustline and a black velvet sash fit nicely, making me feel sleek and trim.

  I love both the hat and the dress, and all of their particular features, but it’s the matching pair of blue satin slippers that I truly adore. I admire the style and fit, the ribbon-bound topline with a larger, braided blue ribbon sewn into the lining near the arch, for use as a tie around the ankle, complete with a pleated satin ribbon rosette edged with a lace oval buckle and a velvet bow in the center.

  I could wear them all day, every day. I can’t get over their light but sturdy structure, and the curious way they caress my toes and make me want to dance. Nothing I have ever worn before has made me feel so good. And now I shall take them on the trail and perhaps we will discover a settlement somewhere with a hotel and a ballroom. There I will certainly move awkwardly with Edward as he struggles to feel the rhythm of the music, holding me in his stiff way until he tires of it, which won’t take long. Then I will see what Mr. Quincannon knows about waltzing, and if he can step as nimbly as he walks and talks.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  9 APRIL 1846

  We left St. Louis early yesterday morning and reached Independence by late this afternoon. The little log town rings with the sounds of blacksmiths’ hammers mixed with the yells of men hitching unruly mules and oxen to harness. The streets are filled with wagons and carriages, with children and dogs circling around and under them, and mothers shaking their fingers. The smell of leather and manure, mixed with fine dust, hangs like thick fog.

  According to Mr. Quincannon, the settlement was once the main jumping-off point for the westward movement, and before that a little burg named Franklin. Times changed and travelers wanted a location farther upriver from which to start. Westport and Kansas Landing have both grown quickly to suit that need.

  However, many still depart from Independence, as a hotel owned and operated by Smallwood Noland, affectionately referred to as Uncle Wood, can comfortabl
y house four hundred guests at a time. I now sit in my room, wonderfully accommodating for a facility near the frontier. I don’t know if I will get the opportunity to have Uncle Wood sit for me, but will draw a resemblance of him nevertheless. I am lucky to have the gift of remembering a subject’s every feature in my mind.

  This afternoon at the landing, Edward greeted Mr. Quincannon rather curtly. I don’t believe the two will ever be friends. Our new scout looked sharp in a new set of buckskins, lightweight and fringed along the arms and shoulders, and a new wide-brimmed hat. Edward wore a similar hat with a pair of stout corduroy breeches with buckskin leggings, and a cherry-red velveteen shooting jacket, complete with enormous pockets for carrying ammunition.

  In addition, he wore crossed bandoliers filled with bullets for his Purdey double-barreled rifle. His ever present dirk rested inside his belt, along with a brace of Joseph Manton pistols.

  It is nearly dark and the workers are still unloading the provisions from the boat. They are to have everything ready for packing the mules and filling the carts so that the journey might begin soon after dawn. I will have my own tent and will sleep in style and comfort, having a brass bed and feather tick, and a shag Persian carpet underneath. Edward is outfitted similarly in his own personal tent, as are Uncle Walter and Aunt Avis.

  Just prior to leaving St. Louis, Edward purchased for me a young mulatto woman named Jessie, barely fourteen years of age, who is separated from her mother for the first time. She held up remarkably well at our first meeting on the banks of the river near the boat, but I could see that she was devastated at her situation.

  She told me that she had been taught by her mother and would serve me well. I then said that I wouldn’t mind if she wanted to return to her mother, as I didn’t need a personal aide.

  “She was taken away by her new owners two nights ago,” she said, “and I don’t know where she’s gone.”

  Bom then spoke to me for the first time. I asked him if he wouldn’t look after Jessie and make her feel at home, as much as that was possible. “Yes, ma’am, I would be happy to,” he said. “I thank you for your kindness.”

  Jessie is to aid Uncle Walter and Aunt Avis as well, since another young woman whom Edward had acquired at the same time disappeared into the night. I have decided that I will allow Jessie to help Avis most of the time.

  Sir Edward has brought along his two French cooks, Jon and Pierre Rivet, inseparable brothers, to select the majority of the foodstuffs for the journey, including many spices and fine wines, as they are expected to provide cuisine up to the same exacting standards as at home. Edward believes there to be no finer chefs anywhere and will not tolerate for any reason a meal that is anything less than superb.

  The two Frenchmen scurry about, yelling at the workers to handle the goods carefully, as they will be held accountable by my fiancé for any loss or ruination of foodstuffs. I am fortunate to share a friendship with both of them. They are fine and talented men whom Edward takes for granted.

  Edward’s palate takes second place behind his attachment to firearms. He acquired the Purdey rifle and the ammunition in St. Louis, along with numerous shotguns and pistols, to supplant the collection lost on the White Bull. His mood has remained somewhat tolerable only because he kept his favorite piece in his room at the Planters’ Hotel, a Westley Richards pill-lock rifle, model 1821, made in Birmingham.

  His nephew confided in me that helping procure the new collection was both exhausting and boring in the extreme. Though not eager for the instruction, Barton accompanied Edward the entire time, quickly tiring at the endless flow of information that he is expected to remember. Edward told him, “I hope to see you shoot as well as I do someday, though I realize you have an almost hopelessly long way to go.”

  When able to escape Edward’s tutoring, Barton takes the opportunity to converse with Bom. I understand that the new servant is a fascinating individual. Though just a young man when he and his family were captured in northern Ghana and transported in a crowded ship to Louisiana, he had already learned the culture of his people inside and out, and it would always be a part of him.

  “He talks about things spiritual and difficult to understand,” Barton told me, “as if everybody lived that way.”

  When I questioned Barton as to what he meant, he told me that I would have to hear it all from Bom himself, as he didn’t feel comfortable telling me about things he could not relate to.

  Mr. Quincannon frowns upon the use of servants. He refrains from the political aspects, alluding to the supposition that he might have taken a life freeing some slaves from a compound not far from the city. Ethics notwithstanding, he maintains that too much luxury will slow the expedition down and cause serious setbacks at some point along the trail. He and Edward had a heated argument regarding the subject just before we left St. Louis and neither would back down. I believe it to be the first of many.

  Edward has, however, listened to some of Mr. Quincannon’s advice. We have procured a number of mosquito nets and Mackinaw blankets, to ensure comfort during the night and during grazing and watering stops along the way. We also purchased a large quantity of German-made Osnaburg canvas, a waterproof fabric of coarse linen that protects goods from driving rains.

  I cannot say if I will have dinner this evening or not. It makes no difference to me, for I’m not interested in dining with people who intend to run my every affair.

  Soon after reaching Independence, Edward dragged Barton out with him to hunt passenger pigeons. Bom accompanied them, as did Edward’s personal taxidermist, Norman Stiles, who will accompany us also. Early this afternoon J. T. Landers told me that he had entered heaven, as there are hundreds of spring wildflowers in bloom. He left with a load of plant presses and is still out, likely working by lantern light.

  While all this occurred, Mr. Quincannon took the liberty of talking to me as I sketched a scene of the river. He had been having a discussion with Lamar, who was alarmed at having to travel with Edward and his men.

  “He’s fought the British and doesn’t want to do it again,” Mr. Quincannon told me.

  “I don’t believe Edward wishes him harm,” I said.

  “After what happened on Bloody Island, you can see his concern,” Mr. Quincannon pointed out. He had a small red and white pinto with him and I stood up to pet its nose.

  “You have a pretty horse there,” I said. “What’s his name?”

  “Whistler. He’s noisy when he runs. But you can rename him if you want.”

  “Why would I want to rename your horse?”

  “He’s not mine. He’s yours.”

  Astonished, I said, “Are you serious? But why?”

  “He’s an Indian pony and has been on a lot of buffalo hunts. If you want to paint warriors, you’d better get to know their horses.”

  “He doesn’t seem so wild.”

  “He’s well trained. I got him from an old friend of mine near Franklin. He said there was no place for the horse to run and sold him to me for a good price.”

  “But surely you want to keep him. He’s so very pretty.”

  “I’m afraid Parker would get jealous.”

  I laughed. Parker is Mr. Quincannon’s buckskin gelding, a pony he has ridden for nearly five years. He invited me to ride the pinto and I couldn’t resist. I rode through town, as happy as I had been in a good while. Walter and Avis, sitting on the hotel balcony, stood up to watch.

  Sir Edward took that opportunity to arrive back from hunting. Mr. Quincannon saw him coming and left to avoid trouble. Edward gave the pigeons they had bagged to Barton for delivery to the cooks and rode over to the creek, where I was watering the pony.

  “He’s a present from Mr. Quincannon,” I said.

  Edward frowned. “Well, you can give him back.”

  “I don’t have a horse. I intend to keep him.”

  Edward then informed me that he insisted I have no interactions with Mr. Quincannon whatsoever. “I have reason to believe that in addition to be
coming a trader, he is also organizing an army of frontiersmen to drive the Hudson’s Bay Company out of Oregon,” he said. “I intend to see that he fails.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I asked.

  “I have means of learning things.”

  “You believe this, yet you are allowing him to guide us?” I said.

  “Certainly,” Edward replied with a smile. “What better way to keep track of him.”

  I insisted that he was merely jealous and had made it up.

  “Absolutely not!” he said quickly. “I knew about LaBruneue’s involvement but did not know that Mr. Quincannon had become his partner.”

  “So you killed Mr. LaBruneue because you believed he was going to fight the Hudson’s Bay Company?” I said. “Is it true that you’re a spy for Great Britain?”

  “You mustn’t get upset,” Edward said. “I forbid it.”

  “You forbid it? I came along thinking this was a holiday. Now I learn it’s a military expedition. I can’t believe it!”

  I left him, and after giving my pony over to one of the herdsmen, retired to my room, where I have been ever since. Though Edward and Walter, both, have knocked on the door, I have refused to come out. Avis has yet to try the door, though, which I find interesting. She’s usually the one most able to reach me in times like this.

  But I can’t remember ever having a time like this, far away from home, trapped in a circumstance not of my choosing. Perhaps I’m making too much of it, but I don’t think so. I believe the situation to be very serious. If we are on a path for Oregon, and war might come at any time, there can be no other way to see it but as a very dangerous proposition.

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