This Road We Traveled, Page 3

  They had been leaving the Territory, but Orus told them all that he suspected the Indians knew they’d be back, bringing more white faces, wagons, cattle, sheep, who knew what all, unless the Indians could scare the hope and dream out of the Americans. That might be possible with some, but not with Orus Brown. “I decided then that if I survived, I’d be back to work the claim I made in Oregon Territory in the greenest country I’ve ever seen, with soil as black as that wagon-train woman.”

  And here he was. They would all be heading west. Tabby saw the dreaminess on all the faces. Maybe not Pherne’s, but all the rest of her family.

  “As we entered that village”—Orus lowered his voice, leaned in—“dogs scattered like ducks on a pond, and women and children hustled aside to watch us pass.” The children clustered forward. Tabby did herself, not wanting to miss a word. “I tried to make eye contact with everyone I could. Told White to do the same. We’d enter as brave men, nothing slovenly or cowardly in our demeanor.” He stood straight then to show how he took on that village. “If we were to survive, it would take courage. Creativity. Maybe even a little compassion.”

  He spoke of hearing White mumbling prayers behind him. “I’m not a praying man—I know, Marm, you were praying for me—and I didn’t mind someone putting up the request. But Papa always said that prayers demand action.”

  “And you’re such a man.” Virgil spoke those words. Pherne touched her hand to her husband’s arm, wary of his tone.

  “That I am, Brother. That I am. So I shouted, ‘I want to see the chief.’ I knew some Chinook, a trade language of the Indians. It’s a mix of French and English and Columbia River gab. I didn’t know the word for ‘chief.’ It hadn’t seemed critical when I was learning words to trade for food and shelter. Most of that trading was done with the women, and I knew none of them would be chiefs.

  “Those braves looked at each other. I couldn’t gesture with my hands behind my back so I made a stern face, stood straight as an arrow, and ignored the pain of the tight leather at my wrists. I nodded with my head toward a tall Arapaho with regal bearing leaving a hide teepee and striding toward us.” Orus kept his hands behind him, his chin held high, acting history out.

  “‘I’m Orus Brown and I’m leaving this country if you’ll set us free. If not, be on with what you’re going to do to us.’

  “‘You speak with brave words for one so bound.’

  “‘English? You speak English? Well, praise the Lord.’ That’s exactly what I said, Marm.”

  Tabby clapped her hands. “Something sunk into your brain after all. Gratitude is a good place to start.”

  “‘Only small words,’ this brave says. Then he talks to the Arapaho who brought us in. He spoke unintelligible things. White still mumbled, head bowed, a kind of murmuring moan, the backdrop to what sounded like an argument. I figured we’d been given a gift to meet up with an English speaker. All I had to do was turn that to our advantage. Maybe White and I would both get out alive.”

  “Were you afraid?” Virgilia asked her uncle.

  “Afraid? No, Niece. But I was mighty attuned to the moment. So long as I had a next step to take, I couldn’t let fear hold me from moving. We stumbled on into the circle of Arapaho, and that chief, the English speaker, set up a challenge. If we could run the gauntlet of slashes and lashes, they would let us go with open wounds and minus horses, tack, pack animals, and clothes.” Orus’s voice grew softer. “I was pretty sure I could do it, but White was emaciated already. And he’s old. I wasn’t certain he could. So I offered up myself, to run for both of us. I’d do it twice.”

  Tabby winced at the thought of her son facing whips and knives and who knew what all and doing it more than once. But she was pleased, too, that he would make the offer for another.

  “Your father would be proud, to lay down one’s life for a friend.”

  “Naked I made that run and naked I did it again. True to their word, they let us go, chased us out into the prairie, but they gave me my rifle and one round of ammunition ‘because I was a brave man.’ We wore old animal skins that stank, had no blankets. White carried water in his hand for me to drink and wash the wounds. We ate berries and then, as luck would have it, I shot a skunk. We didn’t dare start a fire so we ate it raw. White says, ‘We should ask the Lord’s blessing on this food.’ I tell him, ‘I’ll be d—sorry, Marm. I’ll be dunked in tar before I thank the Lord for a skunk.’ White says, ‘I will say thank you then.’ He asks the blessing and we ate.”

  Tabby frowned at her son’s cursing. Virgil led the laughter.

  Orus continued. “We’d been gifted earlier by meeting up with a botanist for the British Museum before we lost all to the Arapaho. We had supplies then that we shared with this learned man. He in turn gave us valuable information about what berries and nuts and other natural shrubs were safe to eat. Imagine that, way out there in the middle of nowhere. ‘We are lucky men,’ I told White. He says back, ‘There is no luck. Only God’s intention.’ He would say something like that. Later we came upon a laundry line snapping in the wind. We grabbed pantaloons, shirts, and when the woman of the house came to stop us and saw our exposed bodies, old hides, smelly and all, she let us keep the clothes, fed us, gave us each a pair of old moccasins, listened to our story—that’s a gift in itself—and after two days, set us on our way. I will always think more highly of a humble wife’s willingness to give to others. Just as you always did, Marm.” Orus saluted Tabby and then his wife. “The whole return was not as we had planned. White claimed it was his prayers that rescued us, and fine, I’ll give him what credit he wants to take or give to others, as the case may be. I’m here and that’s what matters.” He ended with a flourish, and his adoring family and neighbors applauded. “And you all survived without me.”

  Was that a shining in his eyes, tears perhaps? Not like her son to display such open emotion.

  “And despite that ordeal, you want to return?” Virgil spoke again.

  “I’ve built a cabin there on a little creek in the midst of a forest grove. It’s in fertile ground not far from a mighty north-flowing river called the Willamette. Will-am-et is how they say it. We can all thrive there.” He lowered his eyes, then turned to Tabby. “Well, maybe not all.”

  There it was again, that uneasy feeling that clutched at Tabby’s heart.

  Orus cleared his throat, and for the first time that afternoon Tabby heard no birdsong, no sounds of young children giggling. The world of sound had ceased. “Marm.” She heard the change in his voice, wanted him to join the silence. He came over to the chair she sat on and knelt beside her, his hand on her walking stick. “It will be an ordeal, as Virgil says. You’re lame. And getting on in years. I . . . I’ve thought this through. I don’t think you can survive.”

  “What?”

  “Excuse me, Gramo.” Sarelia tugged on her grandmother’s sleeve. “That’s what you’re supposed to say when you don’t understand what someone has said—instead of ‘what?’ you say ‘excuse me.’ Isn’t that so?”

  Tabby patted her hand. “Indeed. But I do know what your uncle means.” She swallowed back tears. “That I’m to be left behind.”

  5

  What He Didn’t Say

  “I’m thinking of what’s best for you.” Orus rose, no longer squatted next to her hickory rocker. “The journey is long and arduous. There will be Indian skirmishes or worse, as I’ve just described. And you, you’re sixty-five years old. And there’s your lameness.”

  Virgilia brought her a glass of sarsaparilla. She chewed on dried cherries Lavina had placed in bowls around the table. “What would you have me do?” Tabby’s heart pounded like a butter churn, thumping down both fear and betrayal.

  “I would have you stay here, in a safe and growing town. Or with Manthano. He left the sea because of you, Marm. We both did. And now we’ve moved on to new lives. He’ll look after you—if he doesn’t decide to go too.”

  Tabby didn’t like all this exploring of her fate with eye
s staring. Or looking away. They all knew about Orus’s plan. Why did Orus have to talk about it now? Why had he announced in front of the family and the neighbors his intention to go but leave her behind? He surely didn’t need the support of many when he put out his proposal of them all leaving for Oregon—all but her. And she’d been feeling so proud of him.

  “You still have purpose, Marm. But expressing it in the West, well, I’d be remiss if I took you into that at your age and in your condition.”

  “I’m too old to travel with you, yet you think I can stay on alone.” Orus could be as impulsive as his father.

  “You’ve got your old students here. Your home is secure. We’ll make sure you have resources. It’s what’s best for you. It is. Do it for us if not for your own safety. You wouldn’t want to hold us back, would you?”

  Virgilia intervened. “Gramo, wouldn’t you like a piece of my cake I baked for today, and the pies.”

  She had time to bake a cake? Orus must have been here for hours before coming to see her. Were they all aware of his plan and no one told her?

  “I’m not of a mood for cake, even one of yours. But bring it for the others. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of everyone else’s pleasure.”

  The girl’s eyes lit up like a flash fire, either with the heat or having a reason to leave the large gathering if only for a few moments. Tabby watched the girl take a quick look down the lane before swirling her skirts and swishing into the house, that bright facial light suddenly dimmed to low ember. She’s waiting for someone. Tabby’s granddaughter was of courting age, and now that Tabby thought of it, she was surprised no potential beau had been invited to this celebration.

  “Mama? You don’t want cake?”

  “Phernie, I think maybe this old woman should head on home and get some needed rest for her aging, weary, lame, fatigued, exhausted, drowsy, apparently worn-out bones.” She couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. “Surely don’t need cake. Don’t need anything as far as I can tell except gaining strength to watch my family disappear. Old as I am, I guess I’d better get started with that or I won’t be ready by the time you all leave Missouri and follow Orus west. Come on, Sarelia Lucia. Help your old somnolent granny.”

  “What’s som-no-lent, Gramo?”

  “Something until a few minutes ago I didn’t know I was.”

  She’d been knocked off her feet. Orus returned after nearly two years and lifted her up and swung her around as though she was a little stocking doll. So good to see him! And then, just when she imagined she’d be planning the move to Oregon—something she knew now she was ready for—he tells her, and everyone else, that it will be too dangerous. For her. She’d never felt her age before as she did at that moment. She was an old boot, too worn out for any foot. Useless, judged by her own son. She looked at her old feet and wondered if Orus might be right, but only for a moment. “Surely if I’m still here, the Lord has a plan for me and it wouldn’t be to be separated from my family, would it?” Tabby asked her chicken. She stroked the bird, head to tail feathers. Jeremiah was an old man too and he trusted that God had a plan for him, a good plan, not to harm but to bring a future purpose and a hope. Beatrice’s soft clucking acted as back music to Tabby’s thoughts.

  Stay with Manthano, Orus said. That her second son would want his mother close by after all these years apart was unlikely. That her daughter and her husband would remain that she might continue to be of help now and then to them and their children? Not likely either. “Have I no say in my own future?”

  “Is this the biggest challenge of your life, Gramo?” She’d forgotten the child lingered.

  “It could be. It just could be.” She put Beatrice down and watched her “beak” her way toward her cage and the corn there. “You’d best head back, Child. I’m fine.” Unharnessing Joey took the edge off her anger. Now it was sadness she had to put away.

  Sarelia hugged her, then left, and Tabby watched her disappear through the trees. A nine-year-old child they let walk miles on her own back to the gathering but this old woman couldn’t join them? Her heart ached at this first sign of the change, the great loss of her family so close to her. Had she been domineering and that was why her son didn’t want her? Was it really so dangerous, the road to Oregon? Women and children had left in droves this past spring. Was it for her own good that he said she couldn’t go?

  She remembered being separated from Clark when the children were young, as he preached and worked around the region. How she’d turned down his marriage proposal twice before accepting because she thought him too old for her, too “stuffy” when she was an outspoken soul, not good for a preacher’s wife. But he had seen through that façade to who she really was, and he told her that marrying him would be a good thing for her life. And so it had been. Was Orus merely following in his father’s footsteps? Was his telling her she could not go an act of protective love? Maybe she had to listen.

  Pherne rubbed Emma’s feet, tucked Sarelia in, and blew out the candle light. It had been a long day begun early with Orus’s arrival before dawn and ending with her mother harboring herself in her cabin, sulking. She did that sometimes, but this separation was considerable. And who could blame her? For her part, Pherne would be happy to remain in Missouri with her, and she’d tell her so in the morning. No reason for her to brood. They could go on as they had the past two years with Orus out west. She was glad Virgil hadn’t said much during Orus’s storytelling, and while they hadn’t discussed it, Virgil wasn’t an impulsive man and she imagined his wanting to stay right here too. She was a little disturbed that she hadn’t defended her mother earlier, but she didn’t want to take Orus on in front of everyone either.

  “Mrs. Brown didn’t take Orus’s proclamation all that well.” Virgil always called his mother-in-law by that formal name. He’d climbed into their four-poster bed while Pherne said prayers with the children, and he waited for her now as she sat on the bench before the mirror.

  “I can understand.” Pherne fiddled with her locket. “She’s been raving about Orus her whole life, forgiving him for any number of escapades, and now this. It must be a terrible disappointment. But it gives us a perfectly good reason to stay. I’m grateful for that.”

  Virgil cleared his throat. “Not to go? Why wouldn’t we?”

  She turned to her husband. “You want to leave all we have here?”

  “I helped fund Orus’s trip and kept things going, hoping he’d have good news of Oregon. And he did. Does.”

  “You did?” She raised her eyes to his in the mirror, saw him with his arms behind his head, leaned against the headboard. It had been Virgil’s parents’ bed. Mahogany, heavy, polished to a fine sheen. His parents had brought it all the way from Connecticut. His hair, the color of tar, glistened in the candlelight. “But we have a life here.”

  “It’ll be changing before long. I can feel that. Business slows. This slavery thing. It’s wrong, you know that. If we remain, we’ll be forced into it for commercial reasons, just as Manthano is. But in Oregon we can gain enough land—640 acres, Orus said—and it’s destined to be a free state. We’ll populate the Territory, and when enough of us are there, apply for statehood. Without slaves and with enough land to make a living. And keep that country for America, snatched from British hands.” He motioned to her to come and sit beside him on the bed.

  “We have enough now.” She stayed where she was and unwound her honey-colored braid. She began to brush at the kinks and curves, avoiding his eye in the mirror’s reflection. Finished in silence, she tugged at the hairbrush and put the soft strands into the porcelain hair container. She planned to add it to her collection of Oliver’s baby-fine hair, make a mourning weave she’d frame. But every time she set to work on it, her tears flowed, and instead she put the cover on the little pot, accumulating memories. Perhaps that was all she was capable of doing in grieving Oliver’s death. She couldn’t leave Oliver’s grave. And her own grandmother was buried in Missouri too. More reasons to stay. She brus
hed at the throat ribbon on her cotton nightdress, then moved around the room, tidying this and that. It amazed her that her mother wanted to leave her mother’s grave behind.

  “Come to bed,” Virgil told her. He lifted the light sheet so she could crawl in beside him. “We don’t have to decide now.”

  She relented. Moisture beaded above her lip. “This heat.” He lifted her hand and stroked it. “I didn’t think you’d want to go. I . . . I’ve liked not having my brother around all the time. I adore him, but he’s intense, driven, and he convinces people of things they don’t really want to do. He seems to know everything and badgers others into his . . . sphere of influence. He intends well, I know, but—”

  “He didn’t badger me into investing in his journey.”

  “I wish you’d told me you’d done that.” She moved to the bed.

  “He’s laid claim to a lot of land. There are hardly any people out there, and he says the ground is fresh and fertile and can grow anything. He planted a crop last year when he got there, and the grain grew all winter. No hard freeze at all.”

  “I heard all that.” She tucked her gown around her knees, lifted the sheet to cover them both. “But Orus exaggerates too. He can make things sound better than they are.”

  “He didn’t spread honey over his escape from the Arapaho.”

  “No. But it acted as fodder for telling Mother it would be too dangerous. And it ended with him as the hero. It always does. I’ve rarely heard him claim a mistake, so that makes me wonder if he learns from errors. And I wonder what Dr. White’s version of the story might be. Did my brother make their escape worse rather than better as he tells it?”