Snowbound and Eclipse (3 page)

“Ah, yes, you're the one who wrote me. I'm glad you'll be with us,” I said, somehow concealing my thoughts. The Scot was simply larking his way west. “Captain, this is Mrs. Frémont,” I said.

She offered her hand and a curtsey.

“Honored indeed,” Cathcart said. “You're the toast of the regiment.”

Jessie did not smile.

I found myself shaking the hand of Ned Kern, my artist during the third expedition, and an officer in the California Battalion. A good hand. Kern introduced his brothers, Richard, also an artist, and Benjamin, a medical doctor, both the color of bread dough. I introduced them to Jessie, but without enthusiasm. These Philadelphians didn't look hardy enough to stand up to what was coming. Not even Edward, who had topped the Sierra Nevada with my company two years earlier, looked the part for this trip. Both Richard and Benjamin looked so pale I wondered if they had spent even an hour in the natural world. I decided to keep a sharp eye on them, and if they proved too fragile, I would dismiss them before we ascended the Rocky Mountains. Tough old Preuss could sketch if he had to.

We met the others one by one, even as other passengers
and freight drifted away from the levee, until at last only our own company remained. Several of the company had already slid our trunks into a spring wagon.

“Let's go, Godey. You're driving, I take it. Along the way, you can tell me what's here, what's missing, and what needs doing. I want to be off as soon as it can be managed. Also, you can rehearse what you know about these gentlemen. And don't mind Mrs. Frémont. Anything private for my ears are for hers also.”

The company drifted apart, mostly to the saddle mules that had been tied to a lengthy hitch rail. Westport had returned to its slumbers. It was plainly a town that woke itself up with the arrival of a wagon company or a riverboat, only to doze under the pewter skies.

“You'll take us first to Major Cummins's house, won't you now?”

“As you wish, Colonel.” He slapped the lines over the croups of the gray mules, and they sullenly pushed into their collars and started us rolling. I did not like the looks of these mules and wondered about the rest.

“Colonel is it, my friend? I'm an ordinary civilian now, Godey.” I said it with that certain quietness of voice I knew commanded respect.

“Always Colonel to me, sir, but I'm at your command even if you call yourself mister. It was a pity.”

Had Jessie not been sitting there, and her maid on the seat behind, Godey might have called it something stronger than a pity. I never used oaths or words that gave offense and rebuke such language uttered in my presence. And that is a part of the hold I have on my men. I have studied on it.

“We will install Mrs. Frémont there; by day she will occupy a tent I will raise for her at Boone Creek, whilst we put our company together. The major has generously offered to board my wife and her servant.”

Cummins was the old Indian agent there at Boone Creek, outside Westport, and had in his charge the Delaware nation. It would be a good thing; Jessie under a roof by night, in camp by day, where she would observe and take her impressions back to Saint Louis men who counted. I had brought her this distance for a purpose.

“Very good, sir.”

“And Alex. Mrs. Frémont is grieving the loss of her infant.”

The Creole tugged the lines, slowing the mules. “Loss, Colonel?”

“Our boy, Benton. On board.”

Godey hawed the mules forward. “I'm sorry, Colonel. That is a hard thing. It's a bad omen. Should the company be told? Maybe not a word?”

“I will, at the proper time,” I said.

“Then my lips are sealed.”

That was Godey, I thought. No man more reliable, and none more faithful to me.

The burdened wagon creaked through rain-softened lanes, past gloomy oak groves and sullen wet meadows. West of Westport little existed except those copses and creeks where the wagon companies fitted themselves for the great haul west. Ours would be entirely a pack-mule expedition once we reached the mountains, and we would need scores of them to carry ourselves and our truck. But where I was going no wagon could go. I would take a few horses but would trade them if possible. They were no good in the mountains and flighty on the plains.

I planned to take a good look at the men, several of whom were entirely new to me. I have good instincts. It is a gift. I know in an instant what a stranger thinks of me and am prepared for him even before he opens his mouth. Cathcart, now, he might be alright even if I didn't much care for him.
An officer in the Queen's hussars would understand command. But those Kerns. They would take some study. Ben's surgical tools might be a valuable asset, but the man hadn't the faintest idea what this trip would be about. Fine Pennsylvania family, privileged sons. Not a bit like their leader. I had never known a day of privilege.

I shifted uncomfortably on the seat. Would a day ever go by, in all my life, when I wasn't reminded of my origins? We drove through swelling hills clothed with tawny grass and copses of trees. The air was chill and more autumnal than it should be in October.

“Last night, Colonel, we were treated to northern lights. No one had ever seen them this far south,” Godey said.

“It is a good omen,” I replied. It was my habit to turn superstition to my advantage, lest it work against me. “Now, what is our condition, Alex? Are we ready?”

“Alors, non. A lot of green mules need to be broken to pack saddle, and only half of our equipment's come in. We're lacking tack, pack and riding saddles, those India rubber sheets you ordered, some kettles and kitchen goods. Most of the provisions are here. Flour, sugar, molasses, all of that. We're not ready, and it'll be a week or two.”

“That's fine. Winter passage is to our advantage.”

Godey eyed me sharply, but I meant it.

We reached Major Cummins's Delaware Agency mid-afternoon. It proved to be an odd assortment of shabby log structures, strung in a row on a flat devoid of trees, which had all been sacrificed to the woodstoves within. The gouty old agent greeted us effusively and set several nubile maidens to work settling Jessie and Kitty in an empty cabin. I saw at once how it was with the major, whose face bore the rosy hue of dissipation. He did not lack for comforts.

“Ah! Colonel, I'm at your service. We're all at your service
here,” the major announced. “Whatever you need, anything at all, any little thing, you have only to call on me.”

“Mrs. Frémont will be here nights only,” I said. “She'll be in camp by day.”

“A most admirable arrangement,” Cummins said. “We will entertain her accordingly. I'm available late afternoons for libations and devote myself to my duties at night.”

The man either had laryngitis or his tonsils were ruined.

We clambered to the ground while the Indian agent sent his charges scurrying about. Jessie and her servant found themselves in a primitive cabin with a puncheon floor, a fly-specked window, and a fireplace for heat. I examined it and thought it to be adequate for women.

I continued on, with Godey, to the Boone Creek camp a mile distant. It was spread through a cottonwood grove and showed signs of hard use. It had been a favorite marshaling place for wagon companies heading to Oregon or Santa Fe for years. But it was convenient to Westport; merchants could deliver the last of our equipment easily, within an hour after it was taken off the boats.

Now at last I could see what sort of company this would be. There would be no blue uniforms here; these were either civilians or else soldiers on leave, such as Cathcart. But still, many of my men were formerly enlisted, and this was a military camp, with tents formed in a square and the mule herd under guard. The men had divided themselves into four messes, each with its cook fire.

Even as Godey reined the mules to a stop, the company flocked to our side. It was grand. I am not one for displays of feeling, and these men knew it and greeted me courteously. But I could see they were pleased to receive me in camp. And with amiable handshakes we either resumed old ties or took the measure of one another. I was particularly anxious to meet the newcomers and assess their feeling for
me. It would not do to have dissenters and soreheads in the company, and it was important to me that my command be acceptable to them all. So I paid close attention as I met them one by one, at least those who had not come to the river's edge earlier. Take Micajah McGehee, for instance, a Mississippi man, more literate than some, son of a judge, gentle in nature. I was delighted to see evidence of his respect for the Pathfinder, as I had come to be called, and knew that if the man's health held up, he would be a good addition to the company.

In due course I gathered them close, because I never raise my voice.

“Mrs. Frémont will be here by day, whilst we organize ourselves,” I began. “She has recently suffered a most grievous loss, the death of her infant son Benton, and any courtesy extended to her at this time would be most welcome.”

My company fell into deep silence.

After a few moments, I smiled. “Now, then. We'll begin. I intend to reach the Pacific coast early in the spring, having found an easy way across the middle of the continent. I understand that last night you all witnessed northern lights, a great rarity here. That is a splendid omen. And all of you will share in my good fortune.”

CHAPTER THREE

Jessie Benton Frémont

He was so buoyant before the trial. He was certain the court-martial would come to nothing; the malice of General Kearny and his West Point cronies would be exposed and the charges dismissed. Was Frémont not the conqueror of California, a national hero? Had he not been
celebrated and fêted in every village and city from the frontier to Washington City?

He was buoyant then, eager for the trial to begin so he could clear himself and shame his accuser. My father, Old Bullion they called him, was already roaring in the Senate, buttonholing officials, lecturing the uninformed. Between my husband and my father, nothing bad would befall us.

When we finally reached Washington to await the trial, John and I slipped away from my family for an idyllic week I shall never forget. It was heaven. For five of our six and a half years of marriage, he had been away on his expeditions, but now he was there every evening, every dawn. We slept late each morning, breakfasted in bed, hiked through redbrick Georgetown, drove in the pearl moonlight, and returned to our rooms to share all the pleasures that can ever befall a happy husband and wife sharing a reunion.

And from our joy that week, we would bring a son into the world. But the trial did not proceed as we intended; that wall of stiff-backed officers in blue and gold and white glared malevolently at John and even more acidly at my father. And in the end, they won: they found John guilty on all three of the charges: mutiny, disobeying the commands of superiors, and conduct prejudicial to military discipline. And President Polk betrayed us by largely accepting the verdict, though he commuted the sentence. John resigned.

He has not held me in his arms since that hour. How often I held my arms open to him, invited him into the circle of my love, only to have him say in that polite, courteous way of his, that no, my illness forbade it; no, I was too tired and it would not be healthy or wise for me to surrender to my passions just then. How polite he always was, how much withdrawn from me, and how he had veneered it all with his innate courtesy. But the truth of it was that I yearned for my lover with all the hungers in my twenty-four-year-old
heart. Now, at Boone Creek, I yearned for one last embrace from my husband before he once again vanished from my presence.

But he always had a courteous answer. At first it simply was too soon—too soon after Benton's birth, too soon after Benton's death. And so my beloved husband seemed to grow distant and not to need me or want me. But all this I set aside. It was more important to help him and the fourth expedition in any way I could.

I was in the presence of my rivals. For I had come to understand that John enjoys the company of men, in wilderness, far more than the company of my sex, in cities. I had been slow to come to it, thinking only that his duties took him far afield and that soon he would return to the bosom of his family. But it has never happened in that fashion. No sooner is he back among us in Saint Louis or Washington City than he is restless, his gaze west, yearning for the campfires and wilds I could never share with him.

He grew a beard after the court-martial; the clean-shaven handsome man I had married now hid behind sandy and luxuriant facial hair that made him all the more distant from me. To be sure, a beard is a utility in cold and cruel weather, but there is more to it. For the beard is yet another layer between Mr. Frémont and me; between Mr. Frémont and his company of adventurers.

If I have been unwell, as has been my case ever since the trial, it has much to do with this deepening gulf between him and me. I sense at times I am losing him, only to enjoy other moments when his old warmth and love reappear, as if rising from some ocean bottom. I have not known how to cope with this. One moment I am desolate; the next I think I must do whatever I can to advance his life and career; and yet at other moments I feel I must pull a little free of him and return to the hearth of my own family. One thing I
know: Frémont has changed, and I wonder whether I play a role in his life.

But all these dark thoughts were only something to abolish from mind and heart and spirit as we settled in Boone Creek. I knew what I must do. I would help the colonel any way I could, and I would so master the nature of his company that I would make a good report of it to my father, and the colonel's Saint Louis backers.

I put Kitty to work settling us in the log cabin that the Indian agent, Major Richard Cummins, provided. She opened my trunks and set my clothing out to air, shook the brown bedclothes for bedbugs, and laid a small fire in the stone fireplace against the night's chill. There was a marital-sized bed with an iron bedframe and a narrow bunk for her across the room. It would have been Benton's, and Kitty would have made herself comfortable on the floor, but now it was hers.