Evan Hunter - The Chisholms - A novel of the journey West

“How do,” she said, “I’m Martha Hasty. I’ve heard of your misfortune, ma’m, and me and mine wish to offer our condolences.”

“Thank you,” Minerva said softly, and took Martha’s hand. “I’m Minerva Chisholm, this’s my daughter Bonnie Sue. I’m glad to see you up and about.”

“This here’s my husband Jeb...”

“Ma’m,” he said, and took off his hat.

“My daughters Mary Louise, Ellie Jean, and Josie...”

The girls curtsied.

“And my son Tom here.”

“Ma’m,” he said. Hair the color of Gideon’s, curly like his, too. Not as big. Grinning. Didn’t know what to do with his hands. Stuck them in his pockets at last.

“Mrs. Chisholm, might you care for some tea?” Martha said.

The two women sat in the kitchen of the fort, on stools at the huge table the cook used for chopping vegetables and carving meat. It was eight in the morning. He had long since finished with breakfast, and would not be starting the midday meal for hours yet. He listened as the women talked and sipped the tea they’d brewed on his stove. He could not understand a word they said, but he liked the lilt of their voices. He liked American women. They were skinny. He liked skinny women. Mais belles poitrines aussi. Skinny but soft. He liked that.

“We shouldn’t have come this far,” Martha said, and laughed. She had a laugh that jingled like silver, twinkled clear up into her blue eyes. There were freckles across her nose and on her cheeks; Minerva’d never before seen a woman her age with freckles. Always thought freckles were for young people. Liked this woman Martha Hasty. Liked her from the minute they shook hands, offering her sympathy, husband taking off his hat like a gent, little girls well-mannered, boy the image of Gideon. Pale, so pale, the lot of them. “Should’ve turned back when Mary Hutchison did...”

Hutchison’s wife. The tall spare woman in the sun-faded bonnet and dress. Minerva nodded.

“... just after her children took sick. But Jeb said we’d gone that far already, and we was with a big party, he figured it was safer. It was my thinkin if a party’s takin sick all around you, then best to leave the party, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d have left in a minute,” Minerva said.

“Cause when you get right to it, we’re head-in back anyway, ain’t we?” Martha said. “Them surveyors are leavin day after tomorrow, and we’re going with em, hell or high water. It’s six hundred miles to Independence, which ain’t just a walk in the park, but they’s eight armed men on horses, and another two drivin the army wagons, not countin Jeb and Tommy. That’s an even dozen men with guns; that ought to be enough t’discourage any Injuns between here and Independence, don’t you—”

Minerva burst into tears.

Martha blinked at her. The cook looked up at the sound of the weeping.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he asked. “Pourquoi pleut-elle?”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” Martha said. “Mrs. Chisholm? Are you all right?”

She blamed herself.

She should have been firmer with Hadley, should have insisted back there in Louisville, forced him to turn around right then and there. Or certainly at the Kansas, Ralph Hutchison telling them there was fever ahead, his own two children looking frail from the ordeal, the river raging besides. Should have told him there was no sense continuing, didn’t want to go on, just them and the Oateses, with her not speaking a word of English. Should have said, Hadley, let’s turn around with the others. Hadley, let’s go home. Kept her mouth shut instead. Knew there was no use saying another word. Stubborn as a mule once he made up his mind. Knew there was nothing she could say to get him to give up.

She blamed him.

Blamed him for whatever it was made him decide to quit Virginia. Wasn’t nothing wrong with Virginia. Had a good home there, a life . Wasn’t a life anymore, the minute they left. Blamed him for not telling his sons and daughters alike to just keep their mouths shut that time in Louisville. He was the father here, he was the head of this family; if he wanted to sell his whiskey dear and head back home, why then that was his business and never mind voting. That’s what he. should’ve done right then, taken a stand, told the young’uns they didn’t like the way this family was being run, why then they could just go find theirselves a better one. But no, he got himself bullied into continuing on. Blamed him for what happened at the river, too, when they were waiting to be ferried across and anybody with a grain of sense was turning around for home. Should’ve realized that once they missed the chance there at the Kansas, why there’d be no heading back ever again. They’d be left alone at the Coast of Nebraska, and Indians would find them sure as rain.

Blamed Bobbo, too.

Supposed to be standing guard that night, yelling instead all the time about wanting to kill the wolves, like he was on a hunting expedition instead of out in the wilderness with Indians creeping up. Yelling back and forth to his father, Hadley still drunk. Both of them probably drunk, the one supposed to be watching for trouble, and the one supposed to be his father. Pair of worthless... Why didn’t he shoot sooner? Why’d he shoot after the man had... Oh, Jesus. Couldn’t he see the man was... God, God. Should’ve shot him, killed him, killed him before he could, before he... Dear, dear God. Blamed Bobbo, and blamed Bonnie Sue for being so homesick and moody all the time; hadn’t been so involved with her own misery and with pining for Sean Cassada, she would’ve maybe been able to do something that night, help Bobbo, help her sister.

She blamed them all.

She blamed herself.

In their corner of the courtyard, with a buffalo robe beneath them and a light comforter covering them, they whispered in the coolness of the night.

“The Hastys are leaving for Independence in the morning,” Minerva said.

“I know that,” he said.

“Be going with Major Duggan and his people... What do you think of him, Hadley?”

“Loudmouth.”

“Aye, but of what he said.”

“He seemed to know.”

“Hadley, I want to go with them,” she said, and caught her breath, and waited. “We could be back in Independence before summer’s end,” she said, and again waited. “And if we chose to go all the way to Virginia—”

“Min, it’s—”

“—we could be through the Gap by November.”

Hadley was silent.

“I want an answer,” she said.

“Min,” he said, “it’s six hundred miles to Independence.”

“Aye, and five to Fort Hall.”

“We’re halfway between nothin and nowhere,” he said. “I’m scared, Min. I don’t want to go ahead, and I don’t want to go back where my little girl...” He fell silent again. Then he said, “Forgive me, Min, I thought I was doin right. I wanted to find us land we could plant and harvest, I wanted to make a better life than we had back home. Instead, I–I seem to have done everything all wrong. Sent my two sons off to God knows where, took my family into a wilderness where — where my daughter...” He could not utter the words, he choked them back. “Min,” he said, “I’m a man can’t move for fear and for sorrow. I don’t know what to do, Min. I never been scared of nothing in my life, I never grieved for nobody this way before. I miss her so much, I miss her to death.”

“What do you want to do, Had? Whatever you want to do...”

“I want to stay here, Min. At least through the winter and maybe longer. Maybe always.” She said nothing. He waited, but she said nothing.

“There’s land up by the river, timber enough to build us a fine cabin. We could clear a field for planting; the soil’s rich, Min, we could grow things here.”