Boston Jane (19 page)

“But how do we know when to harvest the oysters?” I asked.

M’Carty spit a wad of tobacco. He had the same disgusting habit as most of the men who congregated in Mr. Russell’s cabin.

“Chief Toke will know when it’s best to harvest. Seeing as we’ve got to use his men to help, we may as well go ask him.”

“It’s that simple?” I asked.

Mr. Swan grinned. “M’Carty is married to one of Toke’s daughters and is a favorite of the chief.”

“You’re married to an Indian?” I asked. I must confess I was shocked. It was one thing to have acquaintances who were Indians, but to marry one!

M’Carty nodded. “That I am.” He did not seem the least bit embarrassed. “Come over for supper sometime.”

That evening M’Carty, Mr. Swan, and I went to see Chief Toke.

Suis greeted us with a gracious smile and we sat down at the fire in the center of the lodge. The tablecloth, I noticed, was lying across a bunk. Sootie ran over and hugged me around the legs.

Chief Toke was in very good humor. It soon became clear that he already had a bargain in mind for their services on the oyster beds.

“
Lumpechuck
,” Chief Toke said.

“Blankets and molasses?” M’Carty countered.

Chief Toke shook his head. “
Lumpechuck
.”

“What is
lumpechuck
?” I whispered to Mr. Swan.

Mr. Swan leaned over to me. “I’m afraid, my dear, that it is rum and water. Grog,” he whispered. “The white men introduced
it to the Indians, and while it is now illegal some of them haven’t lost the taste for the spirit.”

The Indians weren’t the only ones, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue.

“
Lumpechuck
,” Chief Toke repeated.

Suis sighed heavily. I thought of all the men in Philadelphia that Papa had treated and of Mr. Swan’s latest trouble, and it seemed a shame that the pioneers had brought their bad habits to the Indians. Suis’s eyes met mine across the fire, and I could tell she had the very same opinion.

M’Carty and Chief Toke argued back and forth for some time. Finally Suis suggested they gamble to settle the dispute. M’Carty agreed.

“They’re going to gamble?” I asked. It hardly seemed a proper way to conduct business.

“Toke and M’Carty are great gamblers,” Mr. Swan said, and he chuckled. “It’s quite commonplace for people around here to settle disputes this way, my dear.”

“What is the game?”

“They’re going to play
la-hull
,” Mr. Swan said. “It’s a game of chance.”

M’Carty and Chief Toke went at it with a vengeance, using discs with colored edges made from cedar. As they shuffled them around skillfully, Mr. Swan attempted to explain the complicated rules to me. In no time the lodge was filled to capacity with spectators, who cheered on the men with raucous shouts. The men’s hands flew so quickly that I couldn’t follow who was winning. It
was hard not to be swept along in the excitement. It was a heady feeling, the notion that my future would be determined by a game of chance. But the whole oyster venture was one big gamble, was it not? As much of a gamble as a young pie-stained girl learning how to become a proper lady. It was, I realized abruptly, a gamble worth taking. Then a thought struck me like a rotten apple.

What would William say? Would he want his future wife working? How could I even consider such a thing?

I took a deep breath, considering the possibilities. I needed money. It was hardly proper, but if I had learned anything in this wilderness, it was that the rules must be bent on occasion. After all, I reasoned, if William had been here in the first place I would not be in such a predicament.

It grew late, and I fought to keep my eyes open. Smoke hung in the air from the pipes. And suddenly, I cannot say why, I was back in our parlor on Walnut Street and I smelled Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie. I heard Papa’s low voice reading “Rip Van Winkle.” Oh, Papa —

“Time to go to bed, Janey,” Papa said, his eyes smiling.

I blinked. Papa’s face blurred, and before me was Mr. Swan, his hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake.

“Time to go home now, Jane,” Mr. Swan said gently.

“Who won?” I asked, wiping the sleep out of my eyes.

Mr. Swan grinned jubilantly. “Our man.”

The three of us walked back to Mr. Russell’s cabin through the still, dark night.

“My father-in-law felt that we ought to wait several weeks before harvesting the oysters,” M’Carty said.

I was still amazed that M’Carty had beat Chief Toke at a Chinook game.

“Why did Suis suggest that the men gamble? Chief Toke could have easily won,” I said.

Mr. Swan cleared his throat. “I fear it was Toke who was outfoxed. Suis intended from the start to get provisions for her people, not liquor, and in order to do that she had to let her husband keep his dignity. You might say she
knew
M’Carty was the better player.”

“You cheated?” I asked M’Carty.

“Not exactly. Let’s just say my wife taught me some of the same tricks her father taught her,” he said wryly.

“It worked out in the end for everyone,” Mr. Swan said happily. “Suis got provisions, and we secured help.”

At last—help for me to supervise! Although Miss Hepplewhite had given no hints on running an oyster business.

The next morning M’Carty sent word to the schooner
Hetty
to be in Shoalwater Bay on July fifteenth.

The Fourth of July
arrived with a cry and a shout, and also with every filthy, foulmouthed, buckskin-clad pioneer in the territory. Mr. Russell had spread the word that there was to be a huge celebration at the encampment and all were welcome, pioneer and Indian alike.

I’d been up since dawn laying out food, with Suis and Dolly lending a hand.

“Perhaps your William will show up,” Mr. Swan said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

“Do you really think so?” I hadn’t even considered that William might attend the celebration.

“Word of your salmonberry pies has spread through the territory.” He winked. “Food is a great attraction to all men.”

The day was hot and beautiful, and people started to arrive immediately. Mr. Russell and several other men had spent the week before the celebration constructing large, rough tables which
had been set up in the clearing in front of the cabin. In no time at all, they were loaded with food brought by the pioneer men and Indians: smoked salmon, geese, boiled ham, bread, roast chicken, potatoes, salted fish, oyster pies, and, of course, barrels of whiskey. As the only young lady present, I received more proposals of marriage by more men in need of a good bath than I care to remember.

I was slicing a ham when I saw the unmistakable nose ring.

I could scarcely believe my eyes.

It was Yelloh. And he was eating a chicken leg.

“What are you doing here? Where is William?” I demanded.

He paused mid-bite, looking a little shamefaced.

“Mr. Swan!” I shouted.

Mr. Swan wandered over. “Is something wrong, my dear?”

“Would you please ask Yelloh here what he is doing eating a chicken leg when he is supposed to be looking for William?”

Yelloh spoke to Mr. Swan.

“It seems he came back for the party,” Mr. Swan said, bemused.

“He came back for the—the—party?” What was the matter with this young man? Did he have no good sense?

“It is a great occasion every year, my dear.”

Great occasion or not, I was exasperated. I grabbed the chicken leg from Yelloh’s hand and waved it furiously at him.

“What about William?”

Mr. Swan turned to Yelloh and asked him a question.

“He says that William is now somewhere east of here, not far away from all accounts, and he will go and look for him tomorrow.”

“Does he expect further payment?”

Swan translated, and Yelloh shook his head.

“Of course not. He’ll honor your agreement.” He paused. “And I do believe he told you it would take two months,” Mr. Swan said, a gentle rebuke in his voice.

Still, he ought to be looking for William—not attending a party! I stared at Mr. Swan mutinously.

Mr. Swan smiled soothingly. “Really, you must have a little faith, my dear. He’ll have your William back in no time at all. Don’t worry. Yelloh is a man of his word.”

I reluctantly handed back the chicken leg and looked hard at Yelloh, entirely disgusted.

“Word or not, if he doesn’t return with William I believe I shall be driven to rip out his nose ring!” I shouted, and stormed off.

In their typical fashion, the men proceeded to drink every drop of liquor in sight.

By the time it was dark, they were quite rowdy. One clever fellow insisted on dragging everyone out to the cliff near the forest on the north part of the bay, where they constructed an immense bonfire. Mr. Swan was then called upon to give a speech. He stood on a rock, his plump belly outlined by the flickering light of the bonfire, and proclaimed in a booming voice, “Men of Shoalwater Bay, you are making history, forging a new destiny for our great nation!”

The men applauded with boisterous shouts, firing their rifles thunderously. I thought it most unlikely that anything but noise
was being made—and certainly not history. No doubt every beast in all creation had fled the territory to escape the racket.

Someone broke out a fiddle and struck up a lively tune, and soon pioneer men were swinging Indian women about in wild dances. How I envied them! The sight of Yelloh eating that chicken leg had finished the holiday for me. Truly I had had enough of celebrating. No doubt William would never be found. I would be a spinster forever, as Sally Biddle had predicted.

“Enjoying the festivities, I see.”

I looked up at the sound of a familiar voice. William?

“Expecting someone else?” Jehu asked, cradling a slice of pie. He took a bite. “Yours?”

I nodded. “You’re back?”

“Got in today. Heard you’ve gone into business with the old man,” he said. There were crumbs on his mouth, which he didn’t bother to brush away, and I had to control my own impulse to reach up and wipe them off.

“Yes. Oysters.”

“Good for you! You’re full of surprises.” His hair had grown in the month he’d been gone. Dark curls brushed the nape of his neck.

I felt suddenly unsure of myself and said in a rush, “It’s just that I need to get fabric for new dresses and—”

“You don’t have to explain to me.” He rummaged in his sack. “This is for you.”

He held out a bottle of New England rum.

“I don’t drink,” I said.

“It’s not for drinking. It’s for your hair, remember?”

“Oh.” I took the bottle from him awkwardly.

The sound of the fiddle seemed to rise above the crowd, singing through the dark night. Brandywine howled and ran in tight circles, chasing his tail.

“Dog likes the fiddle,” Jehu said, laughing. His warm laughter tickled along my spine.

“So it seems.”

“It’s a catchy tune. Want to dance?”

My stomach flipped in a way that felt very much like seasickness.

“Dance? I couldn’t possibly.” Respectable young ladies didn’t dance at such wild gatherings … did they?

Jehu gave a hint of a smile. “Sure you could!” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the crowd.

“But but …”—my mind worked furiously—”but I’m not wearing proper dancing shoes!”

“You’ll survive,” he said, and I swear he sounded just like Papa.

Before I knew it, he had put his other hand about my waist—my waist!—and was whirling me about. The fiddle sang faster. Jehu was twirling me in circles, and the music was singing through me, the night air tangling in my hair, the world spinning spinning spinning, and I could not stop.

Jehu smiled at me, and his eyes were like blue sparks in the night.

He swung me around and around, and I felt a sudden rush of pleasure to be here, under this dark starry sky, dancing. How had I lived my entire life and never felt this dizzying feeling? It was as if I was being swept along, a canoe in the river, plunging
headlong into the swift currents, not knowing where the next bend would take me.

“Having fun?” Jehu yelled.

Despite myself, I smiled.

He twirled me again, and as we danced I saw a woman across the crowd being swung about by a burly pioneer. Something about her looked familiar and I struggled to see her through the mass of people, but she kept disappearing in the crowd. And then suddenly she was right in front of me, her dark, grim eyes boring into mine.

Mary.

I stumbled.

“Easy there,” Jehu said, catching me and pulling me up. “You all right?”

I looked up, but Mary was gone. A dark-eyed Indian woman was in her place.

“You look pale. Let’s take a rest,” Jehu said, pulling me from the crowd. His arm was warm and comforting.

He sat me down on a fallen log.

“What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

I laughed shakily.

Father Joseph walked by and shook his head, his face a mask of disapproval. It was clear he had seen me dancing with Jehu.

I buried my face in my hands and groaned.

“Ignore the man, Jane,” Jehu said.

“How can I? How can I when it’s so obvious that he’s right?”

“Right about what?”

“Look at me! Wearing this skirt. Going into business. And now this. Dancing! What is William going to think when he finally arrives?”

“If he doesn’t love you, he’s a fool,” he said, his voice thick.

“But he thinks he’s marrying a proper young lady and here I am behaving no better than a common trollop!”

Jehu grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “This is the frontier. Look around,” he said urgently. “Just look!”

I took in the sight in a blink: men in various states of intoxication singing bawdy songs, pioneers swinging Indian women in wild dance steps, the flickering flames of the bonfire dancing against the inky night sky, painting the forest in a blazing glow.

“This isn’t Philadelphia.”

“But young ladies ought to be ladies no matter the circumstances,” I protested weakly.

“There’s no drawing rooms here, and no place for proper young ladies. But there’s plenty of room for gals with grit and courage,” Jehu said. He paused, as if taking my measure. “And you’ve got both.”