Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (23 page)

He patted his coat pocket—a new habit since the discovery of the students’ gift—and then reached inside it for his watch. It was three minutes past one. A courier had arrived this morning, saying that one of their fur-trapping brigades was expected today with their first bounty of the season. Perhaps they would bring news of Doyle as well.

He glanced up at the folding front gates of the fort and wondered again about the woman resting inside the McLoughlins’ house. He hadn’t been back to visit her since she woke, but at dinner last night, the governor had said she was recovering quickly.

He wouldn’t tell a soul, but he admired the way Mrs. Waldron had put aside her own safety to get her son to a safe place. As a British
patriot, he should be pleased if Mrs. Waldron had to return home, but he couldn’t find himself feeling anything except esteem for someone who had struggled so hard to survive—and succeeded.

He scanned the river again for Doyle. He admired the man as well—and his determination to find the Waldron family. If Judith and her family were lost in the forest, Alex hoped he would search just as diligently until he found them. Men were supposed to protect their families—current or future.

When he returned to London, it would have been nearly five years since he’d seen the woman he intended to marry. He leaned back against one of the posts, his mind wandering across the oceans to the woman who would be his wife by next fall.

Would Judith appreciate the man he’d become since he’d left London? He’d grown to love the wilderness, and he knew the longing to return to it would be strong. But after they married, he and Judith could summer in the country at his uncle’s estate. Perhaps they could winter there as well.

Would Judith still have affection for him? Or had she promised herself to another man when he delayed his return last year?

When Simon suggested that Judith might change her mind, Alex became angry at the question of her loyalties. But the truth was, he wasn’t entirely certain that she would be faithful to their promise. She was a woman of integrity, but four years ago, she had also been a woman anxious to marry. Just not anxious enough to accompany him to the Columbia District.

He could not disparage her if she had already married another. But until he knew whether Judith had remained faithful to her promise, he would remain faithful to his.

Early the next morning, Aliyah led Jack back to the river and continued walking west with him. He thought she might turn back to her canyon, but she didn’t leave his side. He wanted her to come with him, not to help him so much as to keep him company. It was the first time in months that he’d enjoyed walking.

He kept glancing over at her as they hiked, admiring her confidence in the wilderness, her beautiful smile even when her life had been so hard. She’d lived through hell in her twenty-three years. The fires had burned her, scarred her, but they hadn’t consumed her. Instead, it seemed to him that she’d been molded into a woman whose beauty and courage wove through her entire being. She’d escaped her slavery and been living off the land for the past four years. Her son would be raised as his father had been, she said, but she hoped to one day have more children of her own. Children who would never be taken away.

The rain ceased as they walked through the gorge. The air was a crisp cool that reminded him of happy autumn days with Jenny, back in Indiana. After the harvest, life on their farm eased into a pleasant calm of activity, a buzz that lasted through winter. They would retreat to bed early and rise long before the sun to feed the animals and milk their cows. Then he and Jenny would laugh in the winter evenings while he’d played his harmonica, and they’d sing together late into the night.

Samantha never would sing with him.

Aliyah told him stories about her tribe, of leaving their earthen homes to roam for buffalo on the Great Plains each summer and how her mother had struggled to learn pieces of English so that she could speak with the handsome government man whenever he visited their tribe. Aliyah told him how her mother taught her the value of community and how her father’s legacy taught her the value of freedom.

That night, after he and Aliyah built their fire, he dug his harmonica out of his pack and played it.

Aliyah sang along.

* * * * *

Micah played on the floor with the wooden animals he carried in his knapsack. Samantha sat in her bed, propped up by three pillows. Through the window she could hear the sounds of the fort’s labor—anvils clanging, hammers pounding, the contents of carts banging, men calling to one another as they worked.

A fire blazed in the ornate fireplace, pumping warmth across the small room. The room was decorated with a simple sophistication. Her bed had four posters and green curtains tied back with ribbons—Madame McLoughlin had said the curtains were to keep out the bad air. At the base of the bed stood a washstand and a white basin that bore the blue Hudson’s Bay Company coat of arms. White wainscoting bordered the bottom of the room, and the walls above it were adorned with striped maroon wallpaper. Lace curtains draped over the window, which looked out on the piazza and the massive double doors of the fort’s front gate.

She’d expected roughly hewn cabins and Indian lodges inside the fort, like the ones she’d seen at Fort Laramie and Fort Hall, but Madame McLoughlin was a very elegant woman, demonstrated in her eye for the finest decor. And in the gentle yet firm way she cared for Samantha, like her mother cared for her before she became ill.

Madame had insisted that Samantha continue resting for several more days after her journey as Micah enjoyed his new playmates. Madame also assured her that Micah would never be allowed outside the fort’s gates without Samantha’s permission.

Samantha tried to enjoy the peace and security while she had it. All her money was gone, along with her clothing, but after she bathed in the washhouse, Madame McLoughlin supplied her with a burgundy calico dress. Then she sent her servant Annabelle to
her with steaming bowls of broth, fresh bread, and a promise for roasted meat and vegetables when Samantha’s stomach was ready.

While Samantha was anxious to be out of the bed, part of her didn’t want to leave this room. She knew she couldn’t rely on the McLoughlins’ hospitality forever, but she had no place to go and no money with which to buy land or tools to build a home. She didn’t even have anything left to trade for supplies.

She patted Boaz’s head. They’d made it this far; somehow they would continue on together. Once Jack returned, maybe he could help them settle in the valley. They would never marry, but perhaps he could help her and Micah build some sort of simple lean-to until she could build a cabin. She could work as a seamstress or wash clothes or even cook food for the bachelors like Lesley Duncan who’d traveled west. Or maybe the Kneedlers would take her in for a season. Madame McLoughlin said that Mrs. Kneedler had been in much better health when she left the fort.

Voices shouted outside her room, and she looked beyond the window. A crew of men on horses hauled big bundles through the front gate, and a good dozen children scampered behind them.

Micah ran to the window. “Those men are the trappers,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Alex told me.”

She leaned closer. “What else has Mr. Clarke been telling you?”

“All sorts of things.” He shrugged. “He thinks you’re my mother, you know.”

She nodded. “I suppose we should correct him.”

Micah paused. “I don’t remember much about Mama.”

She blinked, looking back at the fire. He wouldn’t have many memories of their mother. She’d become bedridden when Micah was three. Aside from their trip to the fair, when they all thought Mama was getting well again, she remained in the bed until she passed on.

“She was so kind, Micah. She loved to laugh, and she loved to make you laugh.”

He held up an elephant. “My animals and I used to play on her bed.”

She ruffled his hair. “There was nothing that made her happier than playing with you and your animals.”

His face grew serious. “Can I still pretend that you’re my mother?”

Most of their company was already in the Willamette, and no one at the fort knew that Micah was her brother. Perhaps it would be better if those at Fort Vancouver continued thinking he had a parent instead of a big sister watching over him.

“I won’t lie to Mr. Clarke or anyone else who asks,” she said. “But I won’t correct them now either.”

She slid off her bed and walked slowly to the window, looking outside. Mr. Clarke was among the men who welcomed the trappers back. He was an unusual man—dressed as a fine gentleman and yet comfortable with the rugged fur trappers who each seemed to need a good bath and shave.

The worlds between the wealthy and the workers—the three classes known as officers, tradesmen, and laborers, according to Madame McLoughlin—seemed quite convoluted here. Not only did everyone at the fort seem to need one another, but they seemed to recognize this need.

Just as the people in their company had done as they crossed into Oregon Country. Everyone had been treated as equals because they all needed one another to survive.

“It’s always a celebration when one of the trapping parties returns.”

Samantha turned to see Madame McLoughlin. She was a large, tan-skinned woman dressed in a navy-blue merino gown. Her graying black hair had been swept back under a blue cap. In her hands was a tray with two plates of thinly sliced meat, bread, and seasoned carrots. Two glasses with milk were beside it.

“I thought you might be ready for some real food tonight.”

Samantha smiled. “Very ready.”

She set the tray on Samantha’s bed. “You should still take it slow.”

The tantalizing aroma made her stomach growl. It would be hard to eat slowly.

Samantha set one of the plates on a small table for Micah, and then she thanked God for their meal. As Madame McLoughlin watched, Samantha took several small bites. The food tasted better than anything she’d had on the journey. Until this moment, she hadn’t remembered how good food could taste.

Madame McLoughlin sat on a chair. “You are feeling better.”

“Much better.”

“Where are you planning to go when you are well?”

“I’m hoping to go to the Willamette.”

Madame McLoughlin glanced down at Micah and then looked back to her. “What happened to the rest of your family?”

“My mother died before we came on this trip, and my father—” She choked for a moment on the words. “He died on the trail.”

“My father died when I was very young, too young to remember him.” Madame paused. “Are you planning to marry this Mr. Doyle when he returns?”

She shook her head.

“Some people say women have to marry to survive in this country, but I hope you’ll marry for affection as well, as most of the women here do.”

Samantha looked out the window again, at the buildings near the front gate. “Where are all the women?”

“Most of the native women stay in their apartments during the day and sew clothing or do laundry for the men, while others make nails for the company. Every adult is employed in some way.”

“Do you enjoy living at the fort?” Samantha asked.

“It is a good life, though sometimes my soul stirs to get beyond these walls and back onto the land.” Madame’s gaze moved toward the window. “My mother was Chippewa. I often want to be out in the woods that she loved.”

“I can imagine you love it like she did.”

The older woman nodded. “Do you have much wilderness where you come from?”

“I lived in an Ohio town with thousands of other people, but my father loved to hunt. When I was younger, I would go with him.”

“When you were older...did you go to school?”

She nodded.

Madame McLoughlin rubbed her thick hands together. “Every woman—every child, for that matter—should receive a good education.”

“I would agree with you.”

“We’ve had about ten teachers pass through here in the last five years.” Madame McLoughlin paused. “Or maybe it’s been a dozen; I’ve lost count.”

Samantha glanced down at Micah, suddenly worried about the children he’d been playing with each day. “What’s wrong with the children?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them. You just can’t pen them up—at least not for long. But then again, children were never made to be penned up, were they?”

“I suppose I never thought about it before.”

“You should think about it. There will be more Americans coming, and their children will want to be outside. The wilderness calls to us here, beckoning young and old alike to roam through it.”

Samantha took another bite of the carrots and savored it. “I do believe the vegetables taste better in Oregon.”

The woman laughed. “Everything tastes better here.”

Chapter Twenty

A knock jolted Samantha awake. She’d been sitting in a rocking chair near the window all morning, watching a team of laborers unload barrels from a parade of carts, and she must have fallen asleep. She glanced around the room, but neither Micah nor Boaz was there.

The person knocked again.

“Come in,” she said, and the door opened.